Only The Broken - AuthentiKait (2024)

Chapter 1: 1

Chapter Text

The New York Ghost, 28/12/1926

'Genuine Graves Forced to Go to Ground By Grindelwald'

By Alma Crickett

The discovery of Gellert Grindelwald masquerading within the high ranks of the Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) shocked our nation's wizarding community. The notorious and highly dangerous European wizard, who was apprehended by MACUSA officials just last Wednesday, sought to strike a foothold of control within the western wizarding world, hoping to mimic the his rigid reign of his conquered continent, Europe.

Porpentina Goldstein, an Auror from MACUSA's ranks, was available for comment. "It was very fortunate that Grindelwald was captured when he was," she said. "If it hadn't been for Newt and his creatures, [Grindelwald] may have gone unnoticed for some time, and more havoc may have been caused."

Ms Goldstein is of course referring to Newt Scamander, who illegally transported a magical menagerie of creatures into the heart of New York, in order to 'buy an Appoloosa Puffskein', within complete disregard for New York's strict ban on magical fauna. However, Mr Scamander, who has since returned to his native Britain, played a crucial role in the capture of Grindelwald, using a variety of his pets to subdue the dark wizard.

It was Mr Scamander's stern insistence that his menagerie were innocent of the destruction being wrought in No-maj areas of New York that allowed MACUSA to suspect a crooked insider within their midst. And upon Grindelwald's capture, MACUSA discovered that the dark wizard was masquerading as Auror, Director of Magical Security and head of MACUSA's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Percival Graves, a well respected member of New York's tight-knit wizarding community. It is sinisterly unclear just how long Grindelwald had impersonated Graves, and his intentions within MACUSA remain unknown.

Following this scandalous discovery, and Grindelwald's extradition to Nurmengard to await trial by the International Confederation of Wizards, Department of Magical Law Enforcement officials began the process of combing the original Graves' house yesterday, which Grindelwald had been inhabiting to avert suspicion. The investigators had hopes of uncovering more evidence against Grindelwald and the extensive list of crimes committed whilst impersonating Graves, as well as potential hints to the latter's whereabouts. Or, more sinisterly, where his remains may have been deposited. However, earlier today during the investigation, a case was found, not unalike the one toted by Mr Scamander. But rather than housing a variety of exotic beasts, this case held a extensively weakened, barely conscious Percival Graves.

Kept under the Imperius curse, and emotionally and physically traumatized, Graves was transported immediately to MACUSA's infirmary. A Department of Magical Law Enforcement colleague, while reluctant to comment over the holiday season, reported that Graves is under constant observation, and is receiving the highest standard of care from the institution's top Healers. A potential discharge date has not yet been decided.

More details on page 12: 'Credence Barebone: The Sad Story of an Obscurial Squib'.

********

Voices growing louder above him, muffled, the sound of objects thumping and scraping the wooden floor. It's dark, always so dark, and he tries to stir. The enchantment doesn't stop him, no threads of it binding his limbs, around his mouth, keeping him still and silent. It's gone...gone.

He had to try. Who knew when He would be back. If He was above, rooting around, maybe if he could try to go for the wizard's wand... Feebly, he flexes his fingers, mouth open in surprise. His leg spikes with excruciating pain when he attempts to move it, a strangled hiss escaping him as he looks up into the darkness, up and up towards the noise.

The locks on the closet whir open, and daylight blinds him, searing his vision bright white. Cringing back against the filthy confines, pulling himself more tightly into a ball, despite his injured leg, he hears their voices. Gasps of shock, a muttered swear word or two, urgent orders to contact others. His name. So long, all alone, apart from visits from Him....

A spell is uttered softly, and he feels his body lift up from his prison, as tears run down his face. Up and up towards the light that sears through his eyelids.

"Help," Percival Graves croaks, voice faint from disuse. "Help me."

*****

The apple gleams at him from the market stall basket, perched on top of less grand fellows, red skin a tantalising shade of ruby red.

Credence's mouth fills with saliva as he contemplates the memory of biting into an apple, the feeling of the crisp flesh, the taste of the sweet juice. Ma had permitted them apples on special occasions, like the adoption of a new child. Or the catching of a witch.

His hands tremble as the memory of Ma and her unwavering cruelty freezes him in place. She's gone. You killed her. Tears course down his cheeks and he stiffly turns on his heel and walks back down the alleyway, away from the delicious smells of the market stalls, despite the hunger clawing at his belly.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

Not here as in the alleyway- well, really he shouldn't be lurking, looking to steal, stealing was a sin- but alive. Breathing. When he'd been hit by at least thirteen of those shining lights that emerged from the wizards' and witches' wands in the train tunnel. He'd been in pain, so much pain- like his very soul was being ripped apart within him. And suddenly Credence was floating, up and up, out of the hole in the subway ceiling, and flying through the busy streets of New York as his vision faded.

Then he woke up and it was raining. He was propped against this very alley's wall, sitting in the filth, and water was soaking through the hole in his left shoe and into his sock. And the heaviness that had always beseiged his chest and shoulders, crushing him, weighing him down- gone. The shadow, the thing inside him that wanted to destroy, to kill, was obliterated by the spells of the wizards.

But Credence had learned. He had learned how to survive, alone. And turning to look over his shoulder back the way he came, back towards the stall packed with fresh produce, he gave a twitch of his fingers.

The stallholder, caught up in packing an old lady's basket with beets, saw nothing as the apple zoomed off its stack and across the road. The automobiles and civilians that packed the busy city road took no notice as the delicious apple flew through the air, down into the alleyway, and into Credence's outstretched hand.

Inhaling the sweet, mouthwatering smell before taking a large, indulgent bite, Credence veered out of the alleyway and down a street set with shop windows.

At first, Credence had been lost without the shadow. Accustomed to the heavy burden of it, he had wandered New York night and day, numb and solitary. No bed to go home to. It had been a freezing winter; Christmas night a few days prior had been particularly chilly, despite the holiday lights. But by some miracle, he hadn't frozen to death just yet.

Day by day after the train station, he had recovered his wits. Ten days of homelessness later, he had learned to keep an eye out for wizards and witches, though they all thought him dead. He could spot them now in the crowd, like some new kind of sense. Some gave him odd looks in the street should he come across them, though he desperately tried to avoid them. One day, he thought he saw his own face staring back at him from the front of a newspaper held by a moustached wizard, who peered across the street at Credence suspiciously until he fled. He found the safest places to sleep when one had nowhere were dark corners of alleyways, or the occasional needy shelter, though he tried to avoid human contact. People asked too many questions he didn't have the answers to.

And of course he had learned of this new, life changing ability. Credence hadn't meant to do it, the first time. But four days ago he was starving, and surely the bakery wouldn't miss one loaf of bread in the pile stacked haphazardly by the shop door. He hadn't even reached for it. Just longingly wanted and wished- and before he knew it had happened, a loaf of bread had deposited itself into his arms from six feet away, and Credence had the baker hot on his heels as he sped away. By some miracle, he made into into the maze-like confines of another alleyway, and had stared, with shaky hands, at the warm, fresh bread. That had flown, with invisible wings, into his arms. He had fallen to his knees and prayed for forgiveness, sobbing, before ravenousness won and he gobbled the food down. And then he had walked nonstop, terrified that it was all a good dream, too good, and he would awake to find the void once more. But after collapsing beneath the sturdy boughs of a tree in Central Park, Credence woke, and with bated breath, found that he could summon sticks on the ground to him by simply crooking his finger.

Stealing was wrong, Credence acknowledged guiltily, as he turned left this time. But he had no other means of supporting himself. And it was so, so easy, to stretch out his hand, to feel the golden sparks of goodness dance through his fingertips....if Ma could have felt this, would she have hated and feared it quite so much?

He was too scared to test the extent of his abilities. This was a gift, a precious, precious gift, and if he wasn't careful, and was wasteful and greedy, it might disappear as suddenly as it had appeared. And the grey void in Credence's chest that had been so abruptly filled with what felt like golden, airy liquid, would empty and become a void once more.

That being said, he knew he could do more. Another accident, two days ago- a policeman had caught up with him after he pilfered a whole roast chicken. Careless, he should have been more vigilant- but when the man's hand had enclosed his wrist, Credence felt the words leave his tongue before he could stop them.

"Leave me alone!"

But the weight of them seemed to push upon the air, as though there was a driving force behind them, and the policeman's gaze became blank before Credence's eyes. Then the man apologised, and walked off robotically, leaving Credence leaning against a nearby wall, shaking like a leaf.

The street he walks upon now looks familiar, Credence realises. Residential townhouses boxed in line, like books on a bookshelf, a typical New York neighbourhood in the mid-morning. A young girl skipped along the street with a hula hoop, blonde pigtails bouncing as she is chased, laughing, by an elder brother. But the rest of the street was blissfully quiet, no cars.

Then the realisation crashes upon Credence's shoulders.

Months ago, a moonlit street, a steadying hand upon Credence's shoulders. A reassuring voice leading him up the pathway of the very house he stood before now, ushering him inside. Skilled hands healing his after numerous bites of his belt, a warm meal, a comfortable, warm shoulder to rest his weary head upon.

Mister Graves. This is where Mister Graves lived.

Credence is frozen, unable to tear his eyes from the polished wooden door, the bronze knocker. Mister Graves- who had been so kind, who had helped him, healed him. But Mister Graves, who had demanded information, given him ultimatums, and once, hit him. Who had used him.

And to Credence's horror, amidst the tangle of his confused emotions, the polished door opens. A wizard Credence doesn't recognise emerges out of the half-open door, but he doesn't see him. He's far too busy supporting something, no, someone, an arm around the shoulders, and Credence can't see who. A second wizard emerges, supporting a dirty, dishevelled wizard between himself and the first wizard, face grave as a witch follows them out the door and onto the stoop.

The middle wizard seems to be barely conscious. Caked with dirt and grime, one leg hung limp to the ground, and his robes were torn and bloodstained. A scratchy mess of stubble stained his cheeks, and his hair was filthy and matted, shaven in some places but long in others. The wizard suddenly stirs, groaning, and Credence doesn't dare move, afraid the other wizards and witch will notice him as they argue on the stoop, the witch having difficulty locking the home's door. But the middle wizard raises his weary, painstricken gaze, and locks eyes with Credence.

Immediately, the injured wizard's face blanches, and Credence forgets how to breathe. He knows those eyes, the deep brown boring into his.

"Credence," Mister Graves mouths, face stricken, before the wizards and witch supporting him turn upon their heels and are gone, leaving Credence alone in the quiet New York street.

As soon as the four disappear, a howl of panic and grief escapes Credence before he can stop it. He charges up the stairs and onto the stoop, but the wizards do not reappear. Grasping the doorhandle, sobs choking his throat, he twists the handle roughly, even though he knows the door is locked.

Another frustrated snarl threatens to escape him, but the door unlocks, swinging open slightly, and Credence, despite his panic, silently prays thanks for his newfound ability. He scuttles inside, hurriedly slamming the door behind him.

Where have they taken him? Where have they taken his Mister Graves?

Credence stumbles blindly through the house, dimly remembering its layout from when he was last here, so long ago. There are boxes and belongings strewn everywhere, as though people- those wizards and witch, maybe- have been searching the house for something. A distinct air of neglect hangs about the silent place. But Mister Graves' house used to be so tidy and well-kept....

Credence pauses, shaking, in front of a muck-flecked mirror. He catches sight of his grime-trimmed reflection, of his own pale, slightly dirty face.

Then again, well-kept was Mister Graves. He had always looked so polished; black and white robes forever immaculate, slick and clean-shaven, unalike the dishevelled layabout with Mister Graves' face Credence had just seen leave. But that sort of filth and grime would have been accumulated over some time...he had been far dirtier than Credence was after a whole week of living rough.

Credence finds himself in the kitchen area of the house, and numbly pushes aside some boxes to collapse onto a familiar chair, dust exploding into the air at the push of his weight against the stuffing of the seat. He's sat in this chair before. The first night he met Mr Graves, a little while after that witch attacked Ma.

His head is in utter turmoil as quiet sobs continue to escape him, and he raises his knees to his chest, hugging himself.

Was Mister Graves okay? Would he come back? And why did he look altogether devastated and amazed to see Credence? Dimly, Credence remembers the incident in the train tunnel. Inbetween the heavy blows of the spells raining down upon him, and his own agony-filled cries, a voice had screamed for the merciless wizards to stop, pleaded with them. Mister Graves' voice, he acknowledged, his gut twisting.

The inconsistencies between Mister Graves' actions were too complex to even begin to contemplate in Credence's current state. He could feel a headache building within his temples. Dehydration, maybe- he hadn't had a drink of water since the previous night.

Drying his tears, Credence picked his way through the messy kitchen to the faucet, and finding a mostly clean glass, filled and drained it twice. Feeling slightly better physically, he took it upon himself to tentatively explore the house, careful not to dislodge anything. Apart from the aforementioned air of disuse, which was odd, and the belongings deposited around as though they had been searched through, the house's layout was still familiar. Credence found a few dusty cans in the back of a kitchen cupboard, and had a sating meal of beans for the first time in quite a while.

He kept himself occupied by exploring the contents of the house. Snooping was a sin, his conscience recalled, but Credence felt that he was owed some recompense. Surely staying in another man's house, eating his food and exploring his surroundings was fair trade for Mister Graves' betrayal?

Credence noticed a lot more this second visit than he had during the first. There were no photos of family members in Mister Graves' house, apart from a small, faded photograph of a small, middle-aged woman that must have been Mister Graves' mother. Mister Graves had her raven hair, and her tight mouth. She stares at him so keenly he has to turn away.

The townhouse was every inch a bachelor pad, and Credence took his time observing the littlest details, like a visitor to a museum. Unconsciously hoping to discover the truth of Mister Graves' existence, his true self, through his environment.

But Credence found many discrepancies, just as he had with Mr Graves' behavior. Some of the house was spotless, apart from the occasional evidence of someone else's prying, and other parts were messy, with dirty, crumpled clothes piled in heaps, and used dishes littering a tabletop. It was as though two very different people had been living within the home. But Mr Graves, to Credence's best knowledge, lived alone. The second bedroom had a decent two inches of dust over all surfaces when he discovered it.

The sun was setting when Credence paused his exploration in favour of hygiene. He couldn't remember the last time he had bathed, and Mister Graves had a shower. It was rather exciting and terrifying to use it for the first time, rather than a metal tub of barely tepid water, and Credence cringed when the hot water hit his skin. But after a few moments, once he became accustomed to what felt like deliciously warm rain, it was extremely refreshing to wash away the dirt and grime of the streets. He tried not to think of Mr Graves showering in here previously, of what the hot water would look like sliding off his bare skin.

Surely Mister Graves wouldn't mind if Credence borrowed some of his clothes, just for tonight. After carefully peering into several cupboards in the wardrobe, Credence settled upon a plain, long-sleeved button up shirt, and a pair of trousers. Both were about the right size, but Mister Graves was broader than Credence, and the trousers really needed a belt. But Credence wasn't keen on wearing a belt anymore. He'd been holding up his pants with a piece of string the past week. The smell of the clothes comforted Credence as he slipped them on, and it was as though he was receiving a full-bodied embrace from Mr Graves again. They smelt like him.

Now clean, and after another can of beans, Credence felt his eyes begin to droop. Sleeping rough made it difficult to get a proper night's rest, and it had been an exhausting day. It felt wrong to slide into Mister Graves' bed, pulling the covers around himself and staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, but Credence gave in to temptation. He wanted, needed to feel close to the other man, despite his conflicted opinions.

And as his eyes drifted closed, Credence sent his usual prayer to Christ and the Holy Father. A thank you for his magic. And a prayer for Mr Graves.

Chapter 2: 2

Chapter Text

Voices again, a bright light shining in one, then both of his eyes. The white face of a scared young man, floating in his consciousness, before Percival surrenders to sleep.

When he woke, slowly, painfully, it took a moment for him to get his bearings. He lay in a bed, an actual bed, a luxury he had not been afforded for what felt like an age. Clothes that felt soft and clean on his skin. And the constant, jarring, paralysing pain in his leg was mercifully absent. Voices- always voices now, after such long periods of silence- murmured around him. Stirring with a groan, Graves cracks open an eyelid.

"Oh thank Merlin, he's awake!" Blurry shapes convened around the bed, and squinting, Graves vision finally comes into focus as Seraphina Picquery, President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, leans over him, face a mixture of concern and relief.

"Percival? Percival, can you hear me?"

He tries to move his mouth, but his throat is so dry only a feeble croak escapes him, a thermometer slipping from his lips. Immediately, Picquery catches on.

"Get the man some water, quickly," she orders authoritavely, and a split second later a brimming cup is pressed gently into Percival's hands. Immediately sitting up, head swimming and body aching in protest, he jerkily raises it to his lips, hardly noticing or caring that a fair portion splashes onto his front as the water, feeling like an elixir of life, ran down his parched throat, soothing him.

Several more times he gestures, the cup is refilled, and Graves drinks, as Picquery and the two Healers flanking her observe him quietly. He doesn't know their names, not having frequented the infirmary for some years, being beyond his days as an active Auror. A notepad hovers by the left, curly-haired witches' shoulder, a quill scribbling across the parchment of its own accord as the Healer mutters quietly. "...dehydrated, but responsive to visual and audible cues..."

The MACUSA infirmary is light and airy, all whitewashed walls and large, light-filled windows, that project the cityscape of New York. A fairly large room with moderately high ceilings, it's a merciful transition from....other places.

His thirst finally sated, Graves lets his hand fall into his lap, cup drained, and focusing on Picquery, asks quietly. "Have you got any food?"

An understanding look flashes in Piquery's eyes momentarily, and before either Healer can act, her wand is out and she wordlessly conjures a plate filled with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Unabashedly, Graves falls upon the food, devouring two sandwiches in mere seconds. So much food, he was utterly ravenous, with the poor form of nourishment He had provided....a shiver spider-walks up his spine, and his hands shake imperceptibly. Abandoning the sandwiches in order to attempt to mask his shaking palms, Graves again raises his eyes to meet the President's.

"Do you know who you are?"

"Percival Andric Graves."

The quill skittered over the parchment as the witch muttered "self-aware, knows name..."

"Do you know where you are?" Picquery questioned, leaning her hands on the iron footboard.

"MACUSA, the Infirmary, if I'm not mistaken."

"Capable of coherent and concise speech, aware of surroundings..."

"Do you know whenabouts it is?" The president asked, and here, Graves paused.

He had not even the faintest inkling of what day it was, or when, and hence voiced his lack of knowledge. Slightly ashamed, out of the corner of his eye, Graves saw the quill pause.

"Today is Wednesday, the Twenty-Ninth of December, Nineteen Twenty Six, Graves," Picquery enunciated. "And," she consulted her wristwatch. "It's just gone one in the afternoon."

The twenty-ninth of December. He'd been....for thirteen whole days...

"Percival." Picquery's voice lowers to a softer tone, which makes Graves vaguely uncomfortable. The madam president had never been described as soft by anyone. And she rarely ever called him by his first name, which definitely meant something was amiss.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

And the floodgates of memory open, as coherent thought returns after so long. Tossed around like a dinghy on the high seas of recall, Graves sees it all. All he had been through, the flashes of excruciating unbearable pain, darkness, cold, gut-rending hunger, a cruel, mirthless laugh, like pages in a book being flipped through. The memory of the monster who stole his face. Graves freezes up, immobile, as the memories of his recent, nightmarish existence flickered in front of his eyes like a hellish, grotesque parade.

Who are you?

No one.

What are you?

Alone.

Picquery must have noticed his jaw clench, and the shadow pass over his features. The quickening of his breathing, the tension in his frame. With a quick glance to both Healers, a subtle flick of her eyes to the wizard and witch, and the pair discreetly move to the far end of the infirmary, to give them some privacy.

"Do you remember being found?" The president continues quietly, trying a different tack as she holds Graves' haunted gaze.

"I sent Lenihan, Barrows and Carneirus to your home," she continues in response to his silence. The names of three of his colleagues in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement registered within Graves' mind. All accomplished Aurors, probably the best in the New York Division. Especially Carneirus, Captain of Aurors. "With a search warrant. They were on orders to investigate and uncover possible evidence against G-"

"Don't say the name!" Whispered Graves hoarsely before he could stop himself, knuckles white as he clenched the bed's beige blanket between his fingers. "Please." His body shook uncontrollably, such an adverse reaction to a mere word, and his femur sparked with a warning twinge.

Who are you?

No one.

What are you?

Alone.

He feels Picquery's gaze turn sharp. "Fear of the name-"

"-Increases fear of the thing itself, I know," he finishes wearily. "One of the first things they teach you when you begin the training to become an Auror."

Picquery looks unimpressed at his interruption, but perseveres. "As I was saying," she inclined her head to give him a reproachful look. "Your colleagues were combing through your home, in hopes of uncovering evidence to use against...your impersonator, who is currently awaiting a trial by the International Confederation of Wizards."

"But the trial cannot take place until you, the primary victim of 'his' most recent crimes, is willing and able to testify against him," Picquery finishes, as Graves' knuckles tighten once more on the hem of the blanket. "And you are definitely not able, not in this state."

"I'm not asking you for a statement just yet," the MACUSA chief explained quietly, watching as a shaky sigh escapes Graves. "But your eventual cooperation will make sure this man never has the opportunity to hurt others ever again."

Graves nods in acknowledgement, and Picquery proceeds with an account of his extraction from the suitcase that had been his prison, careful to skirt around the mention of His Name. How after a day of combing through the hide, they had come across the suitcase. And upon opening it, discovered a weak, filthy Graves, barely hanging onto consciousness. Shreds of memory begin to float back into place in Graves' consciousness as the President talks, and once more snippets of footage play in his mind. His colleagues astounded faces, being pulled from the cold into relative warmth, voices that were too loud, asking questions he couldn't hear. Strong arms holding him up, wobbling on his doorway stoop, unable to support his own weight under his ruined left leg, the milk-white face of a boy-

"Credence". It takes a moment for Percival to realise he's uttered the name aloud, in the silence of the room.

"...Credence Barebone?" Picquery's brows furrow and she co*cks her head slightly, seemingly troubled, as the Healers shift imperceptibly.

"Yes, where is he?" Graves pressed urgently. "I saw him."

"Percival, you've just experienced unimaginable-"

"I need to see Credence. Credence Barebone, my source for the Obscurus attacks." Cutting off an authority figure, especially the president, was never wise, but Graves is too preoccupied to care. And Picquery, knowing him well, and seeing his changed demeanour, must have agreed within herself to cut him some slack.

Something drops on her face.

Moving around the foot of the bed, Picquery tentatively takes a seat on the mattress, looking slightly awkward as she did so. It seemed a rather intimate position, and having a purely professional relationship with her for so many years, Percival was intrigued to see her so out of her comfort zone.

"Percival," she began softly.

"Ma'am," he acknowledged absently, before returning to the issue at hand. "I need you to send someone, anyone to Thirteenth Avenue, to the orphanage. Maybe Tina Goldstein, Credence knows her, trusts her. Get her to adopt Credence, we can sort out the paperwork later, I'm not planning on saddling her with the boy for eternity, just for now, until I can find a place for him, maybe he can stay at mine now that the investigation-"

The boy, the boy had to be ok. All alone on that accursed orphanage, subject to so much trauma.... He had to know if Credence was okay, if he was safe.

When Porpentina Goldstein had violated the International Statute of Secrecy, Graves had already been on the trail of the malevolent, destructive dark force in New York. Random, incalculable attacks around Manhattan. Despite being a usually adept Auror, Goldstein's use of magic in the presence of an orphanage full of Second Salemite no-Majs was inexcusable, and though reluctant, Graves had been forced to remove her from his team in Magical Law Enforcement. But not before she had sworn him to an oath, before he took her badge.

"Promise me you'll check up on Credence Barebone, sir. Please. He needs help, our help," Tina had begged.

So despite overhearing the President's firm ruling that Goldstein herself could no longer tail or associate herself with the anti-wizard group, he had warily agreed to keep an eye on the boy, should he come across him. For the frequency of attacks was increasing, and Graves was often finding himself in that same Manhattan neighbourhood, which was also conveniently where Credence resided.

It had been a total accident that he made the young man's acquaintance, in truth. Investigating yet another crime scene, with no trace of the culprit yet again, Graves had been poised to Disapparate. But a sob cut through that silent, foggy night, and through the mist he walked, away from the ruins of a florist. Down the cobblestoned street, and around the corner, to find a small, hunched bundle against a dustbin.

He had recognised the tearstained face from the file in his desk's outbox. Credence was terrified, cringing away, until a tap of Graves' wand healed the nasty weals on the palms of his hands. A short journey by side-along Apparition to his home later, to fix a cracked rib as best his meagre healing skills could. Some soup, a comforting arm around shoulders and a listening ear got Graves a promise for information.

And so their partnership began. Comfort and healing, in exchange for rumours and whispers, suspicions and anything deemed odd within the no-Maj community.

"Percival." Piquery's tone was sharp once more, cutting through his spiel and silencing him. She kept calling him by his first name, why? He was her right hand man, as Director of Magical Security, and yes, they could be considered friends, after so many years spent working together. But she always called him 'Graves', and he called her 'Ma'am' or 'Madame President'. And why were her eyes so sympathetic, and filled with concern?

"Percival... Credence was the Obscurus you were investigating."

A suckerpunch to his gut, and so, so much fear within him. Fear for that poor boy. And guilt, the heavy press of guilt upon his shoulders.

"I should've known," he said hoarsely, unable to meet Picquery's eyes, as he swallowed hard. "Everything that he's been through, the level of abuse- I should've known sooner."

"He- my- you know- he-" Flashes of red light, his own screams, and the cold, flat tone of a voice, a voice that was his but not, asking. Constantly interrogating. And the press of that spike of ice invading his thoughts, sweeping past his stalwart defences as though they were scraps of tissue paper. "That man. He- he's a skilled Legilimens. The most powerful I've ever encountered. He....found out about the Obscurus through me. He looked into my thoughts with such ease...I remember him leaving to go and meet Credence. I passed out, I don't remember much else about it, apart from- from-"

The shudders take over his frame again, and he takes a deep breathing, trying to calm his shaking limbs. Picquery's stretches out a steadying hand to his shoulder, and is quiet until he stills.

"To our best knowledge, the man who imprisoned you met with Credence several times, when he wasn't masquerading as you here, or at home." 'Torturing knowledge out of me', Graves added silently. The urgency still bubbles in his gut.

"Credence didn't notice the difference between the genuine you and the impostor, as far as we are aware. But the other man seemed to have as keen an interest in finding the Obscurus as you did. We believe he wanted to use them, as some sort of weapon."

Graves manages a nod, processing the information. "He looked through all I knew of a potential Obscurus in New York."

The MACUSA chief exhales deeply. "There's more of Credence. The darkness within him- it was unleashed amongst no-Majs. He destroyed a dinner held in the honour of senator Henry Shaw Jr, by Henry Shaw Sr, the magnate at the head of Shaw News. Senator Shaw was killed during the attack."

"Oh Credence....." Graves head is buried in one of his hands. "This all my fault. I should've got him out of that hellhole of an orphanage sooner."

He finds the strength to look Picquery in the eye. It wasn't too late. "Can you find him, and bring him to me? It is of utmost importance that I see him, and put this right. He's not what you think."

"Percival, I'm sorry, but you've got to hear the rest of this," The President said as gently as possible, hands folded in her lap.

So he listens. To how That Man had given Credence a necklace with his symbol, imbued with a Summoning spell so he would be notified immediately if Credence found the Obscurus. He had hit Credence when the young man was too upset to provide information. And he had broken the promise that he, the true Graves, had made to Credence, in good faith. That Man, that monster, had used the poor boy.

Until Credence revealed his long-kept secret. Until he tore up a good portion of downtown Manhattan, not caring who he hurt, what he destroyed. Because he believed that Graves had manipulated him, used him, and had now discarded him.

"We cornered him in one of the subway tunnels," Picquery murmured. "He was highly distressed, and volatile. There was nothing we could have done."

Nothing we could have done. The finality of the words doesn't escape Graves, and his face frowns in a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"I don't understand. Where is he?"

There's a pregnant silence, and Piquery grimaces, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry, Percival. Credence didn't make it."

"No". No, it couldn't be. That boy, that poor, innocent boy, caught up in forces that were beyond his control, in circ*mstances that weren't his fault. He couldn't be gone. No.

Picquery continues quietly. "Regrettably, the Aurors had to remove the threat-"

"The threat?!" Graves spits, face horrorstruck, almost grief-stricken. "He was just a boy, Seraphina! You murdered an innocent-"

"He was not an innocent". Piquery is off the mattress on her feet, eyes blazing. "He murdered Senator Shaw, a no-Maj, in cold blood, and violated the International Statute of Secrecy an astronomical amount of times-"

"-Because he didn't know what he was doing, he didn't know what he was, or how to control it!" Graves exclaims loudly, appalled. How can she justify this?!

There'sa strained silence, before Graves caves into himself. "This is all my fault," he whispers, thorat seizing up. "If I'd acted sooner, if He hadn't managed to nab me, if I'd fought harder-"

"No no no, shhh." And the President is holding him in a way that is definitely unprofessional as Graves tries not to break but fails, several of his tears staining the dark fabric of her robes. He doesn't cry. Except now, he does, a groan in his raw throat masking a choked sob. This is all his fault- all of it. If only he'd been more vigilant, more proactive. Just more. The blood of a young boy he cared for, now on his hands.

"We have good faith that....your jailer's subduing of you was highly premeditated," Picquery informs him as he regains his self control,stepping back as he hastily wipes his eyes. "Rolls of parchment in your home, recounting your daily schedule, your movements, your associates, your mannerisms. Down to the very last detail. He'd been watching you for some time."

But he's not listening, not caring. A bolt of realisation has just lanced up Graves' spine, and he sits rigidly upright suddenly. "How can Credence be dead when I saw him?!"

"Outside my house, when Lenihan, Barrows and Carneirus were bringing me here. I saw him," he said defiantly, almost triumphantly, to Picquery's contemplative facial expression. She was wrong, Graves had seen Credence. His eyes wouldn't lie to him.

"Percival, it's highly likely you were hallucinating," The President murmurs quietly, clasping her hands behind her back. "Your body and mind have been through unimaginable trauma, and your eyes saw what you wanted to see-"

"I saw him," Graves insists, even as his shoulders droop slightly with defeat under Picquery's empathetic gaze. She reassumes her seat at the foot of his bed, again looking slightly out of her depth.

"I'd also like to apologise to you, Percival," she begins, cutting off his protests before he can even begin. She stares down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.

"You- he- seemed harsher, more ruthless. I assumed it was the pressure of attempting to control the disturbances within our city, that took its toll on you. The stress of trying ti keep the peace.

Her eyes swim with regret, so much so that he has to look away. "Percival, after all our years as colleagues, friends, I am so, so deeply ashamed that one of my closest confidantes was so out of character, and I did nothing. You were suffering, alone in that house for nearly two weeks. I shudder to think of what may have become of you, if I hadn't issued that search warrant. We are part of the force that holds together the fabric of our great nation's magical community, and MACUSA as an organisation has failed you. I have failed you."

"Seraphina, please," Graves mutters, as the woman clenches her jaw. "No one could have suspected. No one had an inkling that He was even in the country. And...," he shuddered slightly. "He was a good actor."

"I swear to you, he will be held accountable". The President's tone was deadly. "This is the last time that the United States of America will be brought to it's knees by Gellert-"

"No!" Shouts Graves in desperation, as Picquery finishes her sentence absently, eyes widening with horror as the dreaded name slips off her tongue.

"-Grindelwald."

And Graves left femur explodes into agony, electric currents of red encasing his thigh, the man screaming incoherently, writhing and jerking upon the hospital cot. The shouts of the Healers, white blurs rapidly approaching, and Picquery's stricken facial expression as she wrings her hands are lost to Graves, who is transported to his own private dimension of hellish suffering. The white hot tendrils of pain shooting through his body, and he throws up over the side of the bed, heaving, breathing ragged as he continues to scream. In the midst of the thick haze of pain, his thoughts somehow jump to the memory on his stoop, just before his vision turns black.That had not been a hallucination.

And Graves slumps mercifully into the dark.

Who are you?

No one.

What are you?

Alone.

Chapter 3: 3

Chapter Text

Multiple lacerations that were bordering on infected. Moderate bruising, a few sprained fingers. Chipped molars, severe dehydration and borderline malnutrition, some tender ribs, and one badly broken left femur.

At least, that's what it said on the clipboard hooked at the end of Graves hospital bed. An inventory of the physical trauma inflicted upon him during the thirteen days he had been imprisoned.

The cuts had been dealt with quickly and easily, leaving Graves skin unmarked once more. As were the sprained fingers and chipped teeth, with a simple 'Episkey' from his carers. No spell could replace the many meals Graves had missed, but Sydell forced a tangerine potion down his throat several times a day during the first week, which saw his health drastically improve.

"Bed rest, therapy, and on paid leave indefinitely." Piquery had refused point-blank to budge on her decision to keep Percival in the MACUSA infirmary until the Healers, Cyprian Roux and Sydell Quest, two of the best in the entirety of the United States, were fully satisfied that he was well enough to be discharged. Even if Percival wanted nothing more than the familiar pressure of investigations, piles of paperwork and stakeouts, if only to escape the invisible, hulking beast that dogged his every breath.

"And don't even think about trying to Apparate on that leg," Picquery had warned at his mutinous expression. "You'll either splinch yourself, or worse."

So Pericval had reluctantly swallowed all his retorts, and his pride, and tried to get better. He was a warrior, and warriors did not fail.

His wand was returned to him that Friday, having been uncovered from the depths of his home by Lenihan, Barrows and Carneirus. The familiar weight of the onyx wood in his hand momentarily comforts Graves. One of the few precious things That Man hadn't defouled. However, Picquery nearly confiscates it from him in the following days, after it is discovered that in the dead of night, Graves had been Summoning stacks of paperwork from his desk, filling them out, and sending the completed forms zooming back upstairs from his bedside.

"For heavens sake, Graves, would it kill you to rest?!" The President had cried exasperatedly at the mildly sheepish man. "Or must we put you in a Full Body-Bind Curse until you're discharged?"

There's an Impregnable Charm upon his office door next time he tries to Summon himself some files. But the following morning, Picquery hands him a small stack to work through, barely a third of what he could usually accomplish. She gives the Healers strict instructions to not let him work for more than two straight hours a day. This time Percival complies, relief in his voice as he thanks her, and a similar small stack materialises on his bedside table every morning after that. Familiar, distracting work.

At his insistance, the healers cut his hair, lopping off what remained of his longer hair in favour of a crown of short bristles. 'It'd come back,' Graves told himself, running a hand over the sparse growth, muttering thanks to Sydell. But he wasn't sure he wanted it to. The female Healer also offered to shave the wiry growth of a beard that had sprouted, but Graves refused all offers. He was determined to have this one liberty. When he accidentally catches sight of himself in the mirror, for a split second he doesn't recognise it's him; not with the shaved head, tangled facial hair and haunted look in his eye. Until he cringes away from the familiar features, which so recently, had been associated with nothing but suffering. Graves manages a patchy shave, relying of his muscle memory of his own features. It'd do, for the time being. And when Sydell sees him, looking like a boy who'd tried to shave his peach fuzz for the first time, she clucks to herself, but says nothing.

The aforementioned leg had been causing a great deal of strife in terms of healing and rehabilitation. It had been splinted upon his arrival using a Binding Charm, Cyprian had informed Graves, whilst Sydell had been working her magic to get food, water, and Pain-Relief Potion into him during unconsciousness, which he continued to take during his stint in the Infirmary. But his leg was still a curse wound, and curse wounds took considerably longer than normal to heal. Worse still, after his second awakening in the Infirmary, leg once again painless, no one seemed to be able to work out exactly which curse had been used upon Graves by Him. According to both the Healers and Picquery, a curse the likes of this had never been seen before, making it doubly harder to treat.

"We have our suspicions," Sydell confessed to Percival a few days after the first blackout occurred, careful not to say His Name. "Possibly a blend of the Cruciatus curse, and a Taboo Charm, however..." The witch tutted, thinking hard. "We're unsure of exactly what other curses and spells He may have blended into it when he cursed you. Are you sure there wasn't an incantation uttered?"

"No," Graves had replied quietly, the memory of the wordless jet of intermingled red and white light hitting his leg flashing before his eyes. "No, he didn't say a thing". He just laughed, my laugh, except it was cold and unforgiving-

Who are you?

No one.

What are you?

Alone.

Cyprian and Sydell's efforts to uncover the root of the curse and the conditions binding it meant that Graves was subject to a number of experimental treatments and procedures, cautiously presided over by Picquery. In the privacy of the Infirmary, with the rest of MACUSA under strict instructions not to interrupt unless at chiming of Grave Peril on the giant MACUSA clock, they began to test. One by one, the limits of the thing that lay dormant, waiting to once again wreak pure, unadulterated pain upon his body. Graves cooperated- anything to stop the all-consuming fear eating him alive with every moment. And after the 8th day of his convalescence in the Infirmary was dawning, idea after idea had been crossed out from Sydell's indefatigable clipboard, Picquery had consumed her forty-third cup of coffee, and Graves had bitten clean through the towel they were using to mask his screams and protect his teeth. But there were results.

At the mention of the His Name within earshot, uttered by himself or another, Graves was subjected to immense pain at the site of the breakage in his left femur. Despite that the actual bone was healing- faster than the bones of no-Majs, as was normal for wizards- it felt almost as though it broke, over and over again, at the mention of the name, from Graves' descriptions to Sydell. Not wonderful results, but results, nonetheless. And so began the process of attempting treatment, as the physical bone itself began to knit back together.

Numbing charms worked reasonably well, but at the mention of His Name, or the passing of an hour, the charm would expire. An extensive array of potions researched, brewed and imported yielded similar results, each breaking at the mention of the name or until such a time that the pain-suppressing effects wore off. Any and all remedies were tried and tested, and at one stage, whilst testing out his crutches, Graves swears he hears Cyprian arguing with Sydell's and Piquery about the possibilities of amputating his leg, or removing the bone, and using Skelegro to regrow the accursed limb. Percival is quite relieved when both women immediately dismiss the idea, but the possibility of no more pain kept it at the corners of his mind as one by one, everything else failed.

"We have to keep trying," Picquery had declared impassionately, as yet another obscure charm broke and Percival dissolved into agony, given relief only by Cyprian's abrupt 'Stupefy'. "There has to be a way."

But the struggles of his physical rehabilitation, with all the exercises, potions and charms, paled in comparison to the psychological after-effects of being held captive in one's own house, by Europe's most dangerous wizard. To being forced to relive every memory, one by one, in gruelling, clinical inquiries conducted by Picquery, as a means of collecting evidence for His trial, even though a date had not yet been set for Graves to testify.

Constant, intricate questions that forced him to replay every discernible moment over and over again before answering, in the quiet of Picquery's office, seated opposite the woman herself whilst a quill transcribed every word.

How was he captured? When? Where? What was he doing?

-Walking through a mercifully quiet alleyway, night just fallen, the city bustling in the main streets behind and ahead. He'd chosen not to Apparate, not tonight. The walk would do him good, give him time to contemplate, to think things through. About the Obscurus, about Credence, who he was meeting. Typical muck crunching under his boots, homebound, deep in thought. He should have been vigilant, should have kept up his guard. The Stunning spell hitting him square in the back, 'coward' his last thought before the black shadow with hair white as the moon's light descended upon him-

So many questions, stripping Graves raw. The first interrogation, the green-tinged fog of the Imperius curse. Crucio! Legilimency, the icy spike prying, violating his inner sanctum, with Veritaserum spilling what little remained of his secrets from his lips. He even stole his face, the familiar gluggish brew of the polyjuice potion turning ivory at the addition of a clump of Graves' hair. But then it didn't work, for some reason, and there had been hell to pay for that....Having Graves' likeness only seemed to encourage Him to make him suffer. Breaking his leg after he gave all he had wasn't enough. The Man Whose Name Couldn't Be Spoken hurt him, and stole from him. Again, and again, and again, until He had it all, and Graves had nothing. Until he was nothing, ragged and freezing in a suitcase, a prisoner in his own home.

He couldn't even think the name. The pain had conditioned him. Couldn't, as his limbs seemed to seize up from fear when he tried. The devil, a human evil wearing his own face. The only means of survival was to block it all out, like thick curtains over a window.

And then, on top of all of this, was the difficulty of social interaction, with people who had borne witness to the havoc ''The Other Graves" had wrought within the institution of MACUSA. There were the buckets of sympathy cards, from colleagues, members of the public, and even overseas acquaintances, all of which read a similar rendition of "How terrible it was that you were kidnapped, hope you recover soon. If I'd have known, I would've rescued you. Take care!"

In truth, Graves did appreciate the cards from people that truly knew him, who had some understanding of how this whole ordeal. But he had only a handful of those, and cards from faceless strangers only sought to incense him. In the end, he drafted a generic statement of thanks, and got Cyprian to duplicate and send a copy to each wellwisher. Far easier than seeing their empty-eyed sympathy face to face.

Tina Goldstein was his first in-person wellwisher, when after ten days, the Healers permitted visitation. Graves didn't have any surviving family in the States, only some distant relatives in the wilds of Ireland that he'd never even spoken to.

"Someone's here to see you," Cyprian had advised Graves, and peering around the Healer, setting down his newspaper, Percival had seen Tina standing awkwardly at the Infirmary door, stubbing the toe of her shoe on the spotless marble floor.

"Mr Graves, sir," she greets him as she approaches, hands behind her back, with an awkward smile than comes out more of a grimace.

"Tina," Graves returns with considerable effort, even as his insides roil with guilt. The last time he had seen Goldstein, on the 6th of October, he'd been convinced she'd lost the last shred of her sanity. How wrong he had been.

"I brought hot dogs," she offers suddenly, revealing a rolled brown paper bag from behind her. The roll and sausage is still warm when she passes one to him, and he inhales deeply with a sound of appreciation. New York street food at its finest.

"One hot dog from the vendor on the corner Fourth, cooked until golden brown with a hint of ketchup and-"

"-a little more mustard then necessary, just the way I like it," Graves finishes her sentence for her, as his mouth twitches with satisfaction. It's not a smile. But it could've been, if his mouth remembered how. "You remembered."

"As I'm sure everyone who's ever worked for you at some point does, sir," Tina countered amusedly, unwrapping her own hot dog as she takes a seat beside his bed. "Besides, I didn't know what standard of goop they were feeding you in here."

And Graves actually barks a humorless laugh, with a mouthful of hot dog. Even though the action makes his gut squeeze slightly, because it's been far too long since he last laughed, a rare occasion. When was it? Maybe April Fool's Day, when Carneirus persuaded the intern Fadi to bewitch the name plaque on Lenihan's office door to read to 'Loonihan', an old nickname from his Auror Academy days. The resurgence of the nickname hadn't been unfounded, though- after Nguyen borrowed and broke the man's Secrecy Sensor on assignment the week of the prank, Lenihan had bewitched Nguyen's chair so it pulled out from under him whenever the other man tried to sit on it. It had been amusing, to say the least. Graves had let himself have a small chuckle, before he yelled at all of them for not filing their paperwork on time.

"How've you been?" Tina asks quietly, eyes searching his face carefully, as she uncomfortably picks at a thread on her trench coat sleeve. Graves swallows his mothful of hot dog, which now tastes like ash, before he responds.

"Been better. And you?"

"Ditto," the woman murmurs, and Graves takes a deep breath before he continues.

"Tina, first I owe you an apology for a couple of reasons-"

"Save it please, sir," she says kindly, concern clouding her features, but Percival soldiers on.

"Please, Tina, let me. I need to."

Silence.

Graves exhales quietly. "This apology is firstly for taking your badge. Tina, I was misinformed-"

"Sir, please, you did what was necessary. I violated the Statute of Secrecy, and paid the price," the woman replied valiantly.

"No, you were trying to protect an innocent boy from a world of pain, and I prevented you from doing that," Graves said lowly, swallowing hard. "You were far better a protector than I was- what was it, two months? I had two months, in which I could've got Credence out of that orphanage and away from that vile woman, and I did nothing. Then He comes in and steals my identity, it all goes to sh*t, and Credence is dead. Dead, because of me and my carelessness."

"I'm so sorry, Tina," His voice has dropped to a hoarse, choked whisper, willing away tears threatening to prick his eyes as he continues to stare at the beige blanket draped over his legs. He would not cry. He was not weak. "If I'd let you keep your badge, you could've gotten him out, and the attacks might've well stopped, so even if He had...done what he did, Credence would still be alive. This is all my fault."

"Sir, please."

"And then there's what He- the Other one- did to you." Picquery had filled him in with all she knew in their meetings. Slowly colouring in the blanks of the fiasco, with a young British man named Newt Scamander and his creature-filled suitcase, the continued Obscurial attacks, and exactly what That Man had been doing while in Graves' likeness. All of His actions, and their consequences. Graves had just about fallen to pieces right then and there in the Presidential office when he heard them all. " He nearly murdered you. Apologies can't even do justice to all of this, a poor excuse. But it's all I can give right now, so please, let me-"

"I should've known it wasn't you." Tina's soft tone cuts through his emotion-heavy words, and Graves leans back against the bedhead, jaw working. A hand hesitantly reaches out to lightly touch his arm, and Graves lifts his embarrassingly watery eyes to meet Tina's own.

"The day I brought Newt in, all seemed as well as it could be. You looked a little stressed, which was understandable, and your treatment of me when I so uselessly interrupted-" her cheeks flood with colour, and Graves recalls the gentle, yet slightly impatient conversation he had had with her in the Wand Permit office, when Scamander's case had yielded baked goods rather than wild beasts. "-wasn't out of character. You've always been good to me, sir. To all of your staff."

"It was when I brought the right case in, you were off. Wandless magic to take Newt's case, I'd never seen you do that before. Then the interrogation in your office, the lie you spun to frame us, and the severity of the sentence-"

Graves bit his tongue in a valiant effort to keep his emotions in check as Goldstein continued her account. The seething, raw hatred he felt for Him, and what He had done was immeasurable.

"It should've been obvious to me it wasn't you," Tina finished, hands back in her lap. "You've always been so particular about the truth, that solid facts and evidence always trump speculation and sensationalised conclusions. Why would you suddenly compromise the granite moral standards you'd upheld for so many years, as an Auror and now as Director?"

"But even if you'd said something, what good would it have done?" Graves argued, but there was no bite in his tone. "Who would have listened, or believed? I'm the second highest-ranking official in the entirety of MACUSA, Goldstein. The only one above me is President Picquery, who at the time didn't seem keen to listen to anyone other than the International Confederation of Wizards. Your hands were as bound as mine."

"Alright," Tina acquiesces after a moment, adjusting herself on the chair as she digested the information. "I think the lack of expletives also may have given some hint you weren't yourself, either."

Graves manages to crack another small smile. "I'm glad Picquery reinstated you," He said genuinely, hot dog forgotten in his lap."You're an excellent Auror, and I'll be glad to see you back on the team."

When I get back to work, he added silently, before Tina, wishing him well and mentioning possibly visiting again, left to finish a statement on the recent and long-overdue arrest of the goblin gangster Gnarlak.

Tina was the first of many visitors, all of whom got a pre-visitation talking to from Sydell about mentioning a certain name. For the Infirmary constantly had people ducking in and out, needing minor injuries healed, or sometimes an overnight stay. Graves' charges and employees were some of the most frequent regulars to pass through, being employed in one of the riskiest branches of MACUSA. And usually, while they were waiting for broken wrists to be mended, or cuts to be obliterated with a wave of a Healer's wand, they came to check on him.

But visitors were difficult. Graves wasn't an anti-social person by any means, but he didn't have many friends either. Being married to a job that constituted long hours, frequent intercontinental transfers in his younger years and a healthy dose of near death experiences meant that by the ripe age of forty he was practically solitary, apart from Picquery and a few distant acquaintances he barely saw.

Yes, he'd built a rapport of respect with many of his colleagues, which was vital if he was to run an Auror precinct. And to his best knowledge, due to his serious attitude and take-no-bullsh*t demeanour, he was either loved and hated. Which preference people had didn't bother him particularly. But these, people, his subordinates, weren't friends he could count on. So in the Infirmary, the monotony of being asked about his health, followed by noises of sympathy and well-wishes, grew rather dull quickly. There were moments of guilt and awkwardness, too. Such as whenever Graves was unable to stop himself from asking what That Man had done to this particular visitor, and subsequently apologise for the wrongs He had done. Most accepted his awkward apologies happily, to his relief, wishing him a speedy recovery. But some, whilst they accepted the apology, seemed to blame Graves for letting Grindelwald catch him unawares. Graves tried not to think of those people often.

His Enforcement Squad colleagues popped in quite regularly for a chat, to keep him updated on the goings on of the department. Carneirus had been appointed temporary Head, until Graves was well enough to return, and as he heard from junior Auror Vance, was counting the days until he could go back into the field and give Graves back his 'blasted paperwork'. Which Carneirus apparently swore was a stack almost as tall as the MACUSA building itself, what with the combination of his own Captain of Aurors work plus Graves' . However, it wasn't long before rather than cheering him up, Graves found the constant stream of company grating, and made him restless to return to work, and for his accursed leg to heal.

When the offending limb had healed just enough for him to progress to crutches, after weeks and weeks of going stir-crazy in the Infirmary, Graves was granted permission to leave the room on short walks, monitored by either Sydell or Cyprian. Being able to walk, or rather swing along the halls of MACUSA again was a short-lived relief, if not slightly humiliating. However, his newfound freedom was soon soured, as he was constantly stopped by wizards and witches who would usually give his presence a wide berth, badgering him about his recovery. Soon, Graves resorted to ceasing the walks altogether, and requested a curtain be pulled around his bed in the Infirmary most hours, just to get some respite.

But when the sun goes down and everything stops, when the Healers go home and MACUSA's halls are quiet, Graves is left to contend with another foe in the deadened silence- everything left inside his head. When the guilt hovering at the edges of his consciousness takes centre stage, and a boy with sad eyes and a wavering voice says his name. When flashes of red, green, white light flicker before his eyelids as he tries to sleep, breaking into a cold sweat at the sound of a cruel, cold laugh. Snippets of suppressed memories floating to the surface, crashing tidal waves of emotion. Anger. Grief. Sadness. Fear. Guilt.

When it gets too much, he walks. Pacing around the Infirmary at first, slowly, painstakingly. But when he gets his crutches- yes, wizarding medicine did borrow slightly from no-Maj remedies-, Graves could expand his reach to the quiet hallways and passages, the many levels of America's wizarding government. Walking was a welcome distraction when sleep was far away, simultaneously giving him a mindless task and an opportunity to build the strength in his leg, until he eventually grew so tired he could stumble back to the Infirmary and collapse of near-exhaustion.

If he was lucky, he'd be so tired his brain would grant him the mercy of a peaceful sleep. If he wasnt, he'd wake, sometimes several times a night, covered in sweat, breath coming in short gasps as phantom pain coursed through his body, and his own voice whispered in his ear.

Who are you?

No one.

What are you?

Alone.

He's dealing with it. He's in control. He is.

Thrice-weekly debriefings with Picquery peter out, and crutches morph into a cane. Graves hasn't heard His Name in almost a whole blessed month, and he can walk with minimal pain. With a limp, a limp he'll never fully lose, due to the thirteen days he endured without treatment. But he can walk.

"So," Picquery explains, drawing out the 'o' as she stands at the foot of his bed one more, the late afternoon sun filtering through the Infirmary windows. "I suppose this means you can be discharged."

And somewhere, in the tangled dark abyss of his thoughts, Graves finds it in himself to manage a smile.

*****
Mister Graves has been gone for one month and five days.

Credence has been keeping track. There's a calendar tacked to the wall in the kitchen, and by some miracle, none of the investigation wizards have noticed as he marks off each day with a tiny black x, one by one.

He's been staying in Mister Graves' house. Or rather, sleeping in it. Because every morning, as he found out the first night he slept there, the wizard officials returned, to continue prying through Mister Graves' things. By some other divine miracle, Credence hadwoken ten minutes prior to their sudden arrival, and had been dressed and eating a breakfast of cold beans, when the sound of the front door opening had Credence bolting out the back door and into the street, can of beans and spoon thankfully still in hand.

He'd been so careful ever since to not leave a trace of himself within the house, while they searched for whatever they were looking for. Luckily for Credence, it seemed they had already searched the main bedroom, and hence he could hide his clothing, and various other objects he utilised within the room.

So throughout the day, from sunrise until sundown, when the two wizards and witch left, Credence was left to his own devices in the vast cityscape of New York. He wandered aimlessly a fair bit, watching civilians mill around, going about their daily lives. And when hunger struck, he only summoned just enough to sate him, sending up a silent prayer to the Lord to forgive him for his sin, vowing to repay the street vendors and shop owners at the next available opportunity. Whenever that would be.

Credence toyed with the idea of trying to find a job one day, as he sat on the sunny grasses of Central Park beneath the boughs of a great, sprawling tree. Maybe he could find work as a retail assistant, or an apprentice to a trade....But finding a job meant having skills he did not possess, and providing identification, which Credence didn't have. All of his documents, his file containing his birth certificate, remained back at the orphanage, where he dared not venture. Never again. He avoided that part of New York like the plague.

So with working not an option, in secluded areas, when no one was paying attention to the pale-faced boy, Credence would stretch, out over the plains of his consciousness, towards that golden tendril that beckoned, the feeling of the bright, sunshiny substance in his chest fizzing and popping with potential, a near-silent humming through his veins.

The leaf had zoomed into his hand effortlessly, a skill he had near-mastered, and Credence had pressed that tendril. It got easier and easier each time, and the leaf had pirouetted, slid, and jigged upon his hand on invisible arms and legs, performing a dance just for Credence. The smile that had split across his face had felt unfamiliar, unused to joy, and Credence had practically bounced home that evening.

After another week, the wizards and witch had stopped coming. Credence had vacated the house that morning as per usual, and waited, listening, for the creak of the door and the usual voices. He had waited, legs cramping from crouching beneath the window in the back alleyway, for almost an hour, when it became clear that they weren't coming. Credence had cautiously ventured back inside, ready to flee to the door at the slightest noise. But they hadn't come. Nor the day after that. Or the following day, until Credence acknowledged they weren't coming back, the house now a great deal tidier than it had been when he first crept inside.

But if the wizards had stopped coming, did that mean Mister Graves was coming home? Where was Mister Graves?

Credence was running out of canned food by the time another two weeks passed, signalling the end of an entire month, squatting in Mister Graves' home. There was still no sign of his one-time protector, and anxiety permeated Credence's thoughts almost daily as he cleaned the house from top to bottom, like Ma had taught him and his sisters. He promised himself he would leave once Mister Graves returned, going who knew where, but the big question mark hanging over the other man's whereabouts troubled him. And in his heart of hearts, a small voice screamed, begged for himan interaction, for just a shred of physical affection from someone, even if Credence refused to acknowledge it.

The food officially runs out nine days later, and Credence is forced to leave once again during the day to scavenge where he can. A little bit if bread here, some vegetables there- poring through dumpsters, shame-faced, summoning cans just past their expiry date into his waiting hands.

It's a week after that, having spent the day on the usual search for food, Credence returns home one afternoon to notice something is different in the house. There's a different feel to the place, and he stiffens when he realises a stack of newspapers he had been collecting had been moved slightly on the coffee table. Almost dropping the scraps of food he has painstakingly collected, Credence creeps through the house, room by room, searching for the trespasser. It's not Mister Graves. Credence's - or really, Mister Graves'- room is untouched, as is the majority of the dwelling, to which Credence breathes a sigh of relief. There's also a vase of yellow flowers, daffodils, perched in the centre of the dining table, and their sweet scent lifts Credence's spirits slightly, before he glowers in apprehension at the thought of some female interest of Mister Graves coming in to spruce up his home.

But the pantry is showing the beginnings of being restocked, and Credence cries from relief at the sight of the fresh tins lined up neatly in the cupboards. He's halfway through devouring one when a jolt in his gut makes him drop the spoon with shaking hands. If the house is slowly being restocked......

Mister Graves would be returning home. And soon.

Credence knew he had to leave, and soon, if he wanted to avoid being discovered. He was now back in the habit of vacating the house mid morning, and returning well after dusk. For whoever was helping to replenish the home- definitely a woman, from what Credence had seen while peeking through the back window- had a habit of dropping by in the dying hours of the day. And Credence was sparing now in what he took from the cupboards, not wanting to arouse suspicion, and so still spent much of his time on the hunt for food. But he kept delaying leaving. For this house had given him a sense of security he hadn't felt, well, ever.

Apart from that, all is as well as it can be, Credence acquiesces, slipping in through the back door as usual, with the meagre fruits of a day's search. Forgoing food in favour of a nice warm shower, Credence emerges from the bathroom,clad in his freshly washed clothes, only to freeze at the top of the stairs. There's voices in the kitchen.

Panic dances through his body, sending his heart rate through the roof.

"...take a further week's leave....regular checkups with the Healers..."

Whoever's there, they're in the kitchen, shadows shifting in the lit doorway.

The back door was in the kitchen. Credence was trapped. His best bet, if he was extremely lucky, would be to go downstairs, creep into the dining room, then the lounge, before quickly darting into the hallway and out the front door. Swallowing a shred of a sob, he tentatively, body still with adrenaline, puts his weight on the first step. Then the next. Slowly, jerkily hardly daring to breathe, Credence descends the staircase, crouching lower and lower to avoid detection until eventually he squats on the floor of the dining room floor, mercifully concealed by the large pot plant positioned near the staircase. On his hands and knees, he hurriedly crawls to the dining table and chairs, peering anxiously through the legs of the chairs to see if the intruders have noticed.

All he can see is a pair of female legs, elegantly heeled, and the voices still murmur with conversation, still obviously, thankfully oblivious to Credence's presence, who once again silently thanks the Lord for his mercy.

Still crawling, Credence uses the cover provided by the dining room setup to sneak into the lounge room, where he wove around several of the leather lounges, and, finally out of sight from the kitchen doorway, stood up, mentally preparing himself for the leap of faith.

All he had to do was step into the hall, turn the front doorknob, and flee. Whilst risking being spotted at any moment.

His heart hammers in his throat, and Credence hurriedly lurches forwards, hand grasping the heavy doorhandle in triumph-

But it won't budge. It's locked, Credence realises wildly, hysteria building within him, which only mounts as the shadows in the kitchen doorway grow longer, as they begin to enter the hall.

Frantically diving into the study across the hall, Credence scrambles behind the door, curling into a ball against the wall, wedged between the ajar door and a closet. Hands clamped over his ears, eyes squeezed tight shut and his breathing quiet but harsh as he prays with all his might to the god that had forsaken him moments earlier to please, please have mercy and spare him from discovery this final time, as the voices and footsteps approach.

The voices talk a few seconds more, the conversation intelligibly muffled due to Credence's hands blocking the noise, then the front door slams shut, lock clicking into place.

Credence isn't sure how much time has pass when he unblocks his ears and opens his eyes, but the silence is deafening, house clearly deserted once more. Slowly getting to his feet, he comes out from behind the study room door, peering out into the quiet hallway warily.

The house is unlit, the moonlight and glow of streetlamps leaking in through the windows, shadows crossing the walls. Relaxing slightly, Credence slopes back up the hallway towards the voiceless, lifeless kitchen, stomach grumbling loudly with hunger.

Where had he left his food again? Ah yes, the mantelpiece. He crosses the room, squinting in the low light, and reaches out with one hand, waiting for the brown paper bag to meet his fingertips.

But there's nothing there. Credence grabs again, but it's gone. A sinking realisation only just begins to dawn, Credence halfway turning before a tall figure snatches him from behind, holding him toghting by his arms.

Credence follows instinct and screams, before one of the hands leaves his arm and claps over his mouth muffling his cries. Free arm waving wildly, his hand comes into contact with the newspapers he had painstakingly stacked on the mantelpiece, sending them scattering over the floorboard, before his fingers grasp one, forming it into a scroll and throwing his arm upwards. There's a grunt of pain as the newspaper makes contact with flesh, and the remaining arm releases Credence, who stumbles, falling to the floor beside the fire grate.

"Please," he sobs with fear, curling up into a protective ball, arm with the newspaper outstretched to ward off any incoming blows. "Please d-don't hurt me."

The broad-shouldered figure looming above him stills.

"...Credence?!" Came the voice, incredulous but so familiar it made him freeze, breath coming in ragged gasps as his blood simultaneously ran hot and cold.

"Lumos."

A bright light emits from the figure's wand, and, and the room is bathed in yellow- tinged light. And Credence's eyes fill with more tears, from happiness or fear he doesn't know, sobs still echoing through the kitchen.

Because standing above him, face simultaneously overjoyed and stricken, is Mister Graves.

"Holy sh*t," the man breathes, eyes wide, before Credence is unceremoniously hauled to his feet in one fluid moment. "I've thought you were dead for weeks! Thank God, you're safe."

Mister Graves' half long, half short hair is all gone, in favour of a buzzcut. Short stubble clings to his cheeks, and the gaunt look of his eyes from when Credence saw him all those weeks ago on the front doorstep is still there, albeit lessened slightly. He's wearing robes, plain navy blue, similar to the coat of that kind-faced wizard who tried to help Credence in the train tunnel-

"You poor soul, Credence-" Graves extends his hands, intending to place them upon Credence's shoulders, maybe draw him close, but Credence scrambles away, cowering, even as every bone in his body wills him not to.

"Credence," Graves says quietly, aghast, pain in his eyes as Credence puts the kitchen table between himself and the older man, entire body trembling. "Oh Credence, what's He done to you?"

This is all too much, too much to handle. So many questions, so much pain, and desire. Credence's eyes dart to the back door, now unobstructed.

"What's He done, my poor boy?"

Graves eyes follow Credence's gaze, and horror-struck recognition dawns.

Credence lunges for the door, and it flings open of its own accord as Mister Graves yells "No!", and there's a loud thump followed by a very loud, rude curse. But Credence isn't listening, he's flown out the door and into the alleyway, tearing down the night-shrouded street as tears stream down his face, away from the man he is so drawn to.

There's a knife between Credence's ribs when he finally stops running, turning left then right, then left and then he stops caring which way he turns, he just runs and runs, until he can't even hear a whisper of his name from Mister Graves' lips. His tears dried in the wind from running, but as he leans over on his hands and knees, lungs heaving in oxygen, he takes note of his surroundings.

Another alleyway, almost entirely encompassed by darkness, save the shred of moonlight illuminating the lower half of the wall he stood next to, panting. Leaning a shoulder againt the grimy wall, Credence slides to the ground, leg muscles pinching in protest as he finally starts to catch his breath, heartbeat slowing.

He's still holding the newspaper he used to hit Mister Graves in the eye. Loosening his grip on the paper, it unfurls, and Credence drops it on the blackened ground, resting his arms on his knees and looking up to the star-filled sky, praying for guidance. Until a word he spotted in the headlines of the paper clangs into place amid the cogs in his brain. Graves.

Credence looks again, certain he's misread. But there it is, in bold print, at the top of the newspaper that got slipped through the letterbox in Mr Graves' door without fail every morning, no sign of a post-boy. 'Genuine Graves Forced to Go to Ground By Grindelwald'.

So many names he didn't know, so many terms he didnt understand. But Credence, hands trembling, tears filling his eyes once more, read the front page article. Once. Twice. And a third time, before he gently set the paper down, and buried his head in his hands, sobs echoing off the smooth brick walls encasing him.

"...unclear just how long Grindelwald had impersonated Graves..."

Impersonated. This evil wizard had pretended to be Mister Graves. And Credence, so naive, so stupid, had believed him. Believed that all those touches, those whispered words, were real.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Graves Apparated a block away from the alleyway where Credence was curled, weeping, so not to startle the boy.

He'd known someone had been in his house the second he and Picquery had walked through the door. At first, he'd chalked it down to the Auror's dismantlment of every room, looking for evidence against Him, as things looked slightly different. Almost too tidy. Or it could've just been the fact that he, Graves, had been away for far too long. He tried not to linger on that train of thought.

But there was fresh food on the mantelpiece, that he'd quickly stepped in front of to help hide it Picquery's keen eye. And a stack of yellowing newspapers from recent weeks, next to the offending food. Not to mention the slight bump he heard upstairs midway through the President's lecture about his health and it's importance, that sounded like a door closing. Luckily she hadn't twigged anything was amiss, leaving him with strict instructions to rest up and check in daily, until he returned to work the following Monday.

But as soon as she'd left, Percival switched off the lights, concealed himself in the kitchen, and waited. He hadn't known it was Credence at first, just pounced at the right time. He would've used magic, should've, wand lying ready in his pocket. Aurors were trained to be merciless in the face of a threat, for f*ck's sake. But the thin frame had been familiar, and he couldn't find it in him to curse someone when their back was turned, not when he knew all too well how that felt. So he'd snatched them from behind instead, and he'd know that sombre, yet panicked voice the moment he heard it.

And then the boy had fled. Dammit, his leg was a pain in the arse. He'd slipped whilst trying to grab him, and fallen on his cane. Graves cursed the stupid stick as he leant on it sparingly, approaching the source of the sporadic sobs in the backalleys of 60th. Alleyways were sometimes what he dreamt of, and made him nervous, if he was alone.... he tried not to encourage the panic threatening to build in his gut at the memory of the last time he was in an alleyway, and focused on calming his breathing.

There he was. Gilded by mild February moonlight, a trembling ball of limbs. The newspaper he'd hit Graves in the eye with was crumpled next to his drawn-up knees. Still masked by the shadows, Graves keeps his approach silent, until he is mere metres from the young man, when he speaks softly.

"Credence."

The boy jolts as though electrocuted, scrambling into the dark sanctuary as Graves steps into the moonlight.

"No, please, leave me be." That voice sounded so hopeless, hoarse from tears and broken, and something in it resonated with Graves deep within his chest. Squinting at the abandoned newspaper, he can make out the headline. It's the one about Him, and how Graves himself was found. Credence knew everything. But clearly, there had been some misunderstanding.

"Credence please, you've read it all wrong-"

"I thought it was you, the whole time!" The boy whimpers, giving up trying to escape the dead end of the alley as Graves continues to edge closer, numb heart going out to Credence at the sight of his anguished face. "I never even suspected, I trusted him, I trusted you, and it was all a lie-"

"Credence listen". There's authority and a hint of pleading back in Graves' voice as he kneels on his good leg in the gloom with some difficulty, a foot away from the slumped young man. The latter quiets momentarily.

"If I were a liar, who used you and threw you away like He did, why would I go to all this trouble to chase you, to try and find you? If I didn't give a f*ck, or didn't remember you, why bother?"

There's no response apart from sniffling, and Graves takes the silence in the darkness as assent. "Take my arm, Credence," he says levelly, the calm of his tone surprising him when internally, he was anything but. "Do you remember how we travelled the night we first met?"

A small 'yes' is uttered from the hunched frame.

"Can we travel like that back to my house? So we can talk? Please?"

Red-rimmed eyes lock with his own, before a hesitant hand grasps his coat sleeve tightly. With an audible crack, the pair are squeezed through the crushing air pocket that typically characterised Apparition, before arriving, stumbling slightly, on the polished hardwood floor of Graves' lounge room. God it hurt, his leg throbbing angrily, as Picquery's words about no Apparition rang in Graves' ears. But he gritted his teeth, and persevered.

"I assume you're hungry, if the scraps you left on my mantlepiece today gave any indication," Graves states, while Credence avoids his eyes, letting go of the other man's sleeve.

"Picquery's left me a casserole to heat up for dinner," The older man continues, limping into the kitchen as Credence trails him from a distance, wary. Graves leans slightly to switch on the oven, the machine creaking to life, before turning to face Credence again, who hovers awkwardly in the doorway.

"I'm not much in the way of a cook," Graves offers with a bit of an apologetic shrug, and the young man immediately breaks eye contact again, face determinedly fixed on the floor. With a quiet exhale, Percival unwraps the foil-covered dinner dish, before sending it skittering into the oven with a wave of his wand, the ajar door slamming shut a little too hard, making both men jump.

"Or at household spells in general," he sighs, rubbing his face tiredly with one hand, before making in the direction of the doorway Credence stood in. The boy stiffened at his approach, not daring to meet his eyes, and Graves sweeps past him, with an abrupt but calm "Come."

****

Through the dining room and into the lounge room, with a flick of his wand the lights switch on, bathing the room in yellow-tinged light. "Sit," the wizard offers, waving an arm towards the empty leather lounges, and Credence obediently perches on the very edge, leaning forward onto his touching knees as Mister Graves reaches the liquor cabinet in the corner. Pulling out a decanter of amber liquid, the man fills two glasses, and levitates the glassware over to rest on the coffee table, before he crosses the room, decanter still in hand, to drop onto the lounge opposite Credence with a weary sigh.

"Relax, Credence," Mister Graves says after a moment, dropping his cane in favour of one of the glasses and leaning back against the comfortable lounge. "I'm not going to bite you." He regarded the young man over the rim of his tumbler before taking a sip.

"Have some." Credence gingerly picked up the remaining cool glass, and the potent smell of the alcohol within filled his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose.

"Ma always said alcohol was the devil's drink," he said timidly, setting it down.

Graves laughs, a short bark without humour, before taking another sip of his own drink. "She can't hurt you anymore, Credence. Have some."

"Or, if you'd prefer," he added slightly guiltily at Credence's facial expression. "I can make you some tea? Coffee?"

"Tea please, Mister Graves," the boy murmurs, and with a wave of his wand, in mere moments a cup of steaming hot tea comes hurtling out of the kitchen, slowing in its descent before it lands, tea almost spilling, on the coffee table with a clink.

"sh*t at household spells, what did I tell you," Graves mutters in apology as Credence takes a measured gulp, the burning tea calming him slightly, even as his emotions threaten to burst out from beneath his skin at any moment. The slightest mention of Ma had him shaking slightly again, at the memories the name brought back-

"Credence, if you have questions, you can ask them," Graves begins again in reassurance, face full of concern, as a solitary tear slides it's way down Credence's cheek. He must've seen the apprehension on the boy's face, the reflex instinct to stay silent curbing his burning desire for information. "I'll answer anything you want to know."

With some effort, Credence manages to swallow his burgeoning sobs. Having the audacity to ask questions had always been deeply discouraged at the orphanage, with the only answer being the lick of a belt on his bare skin. Having all this freedom to make decisions and access to information was an unfamiliar, slightly uncomfortable feeling. But tentatively, his conscience caves, and curiosity takes over.

"That wizard in the paper- that pretended to be you- who is he?" The boy whispers, hands clenched tightly around the teacup as he keeps his gaze firmly fixed to the coffee table, not daring to meet Graves' eyes.

The older man swallows hard, before answering somewhat robotically, as though detached to the topic he spoke of. "A very powerful and dangerous dark wizard. Luckily He was apprehended so soon- I shudder to think of what havoc he may have wreaked within America, after what he's done in Europe."

Mister Graves seemed to be avoiding saying the other wizard's name, Credence noticed. "Why did G-"

"No!" Graves face suddenly went white, his body rigid as he cut off Credence partway. The wizard's left hand was gripping his left leg tightly, knuckles stark white on the dark material of his trousers, breathcoming in hurried gasps as his frame shook imperceptibly.

"Please don't say the name," Graves said grimly to Credence's horrified expression after a tense pause. "He's cursed me."

"G- that man?" Credence asks, worry clear on his features as, sitting up straighter, he began to unconsciously look Mister Graves over for injuries. The only curses he knew of were the ones Ma had preached so violently against; pincushions of people stuck full of pins, lengths of rope tied in knots, herbs left outside doors and whispered verses that struck people down.

"Yes, but not the sort of pagan curse you're familiar with," Graves reassured him, tension of a different kind building in his shoulders as he remembered the boy's strictly anti-magic background, where the slightest bit of bad luck meant a curse. "In the wizarding world, a curse is a spell of malicious intent. It has an incantation, usually, and when cast, a coloured light comes out of the end of a wand. No black cats or broken mirrors involved."

"And He- The Man- has performed a curse on me so that whenever I or someone else tries to say His name-" Mister Graves pauses, jaw working for a moment before he continues, slightly quieter. "-I'm subjected to excruciating pain in my leg. And so far, there's no cure. That's why I was gone these past six weeks- recovery at MACUSA, in their Infirmary."

Credence's posture relaxes minutely at the mention of a term he actually knows. In the short time he had known Mister Graves before....everything, whenever they had arranged a meeting, he'd managed to glean snippets of information from the man. Such as where he worked, for wizard Congress, similar to no-Maj Congress, but for wizards. And that Mister Graves was the Director of Security or something, whatever that meant, but considering it was Mister Graves job to protect 'no-Majs' from knowing about magic, it sounded like a very, very important job. But poor Mister Graves.... no wonder he looked so....different. His demeanour, the very way he carried himself, was so different to the way Credence remembered. Like something had shattered within him, and he was still trying to make out that all was well, when really, it wasn't.

"And you, Credence, were seconds away from being discovered by the President earlier, which would definitely not have ended well," Graves concludes seriously, before Credence, self-consciousness momentarily forgotten, pipes up.

"President Coolidge?" The boy says bewilderedly, wondering why on earth the American President would want to see the mysterious Mister Graves.

"No, no," Graves puts a hand to his face, seemingly frustrated with himself. "I forget you know so little about the wizarding world. The President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America- MACUSA."

"The President, Madam Picquery, escorted me home today," Graves informs Credence, still on the topic of MACUSA, and the recollection of the female voice, the heeled feet suddenly makes sense to the boy.

"God knows what might've transpired if she had known you were here."

Graves tone was serious once again, piquing Credence's interest. But there are other questions he had that he desperately needed answering, so he pushed that particular query to the back of the list, to be asked much later.

"Why? That Man- why did he pretend to be you?"

Graves is silent for a time, before he answers quietly, gaze distant. "I don't know. I haven't been involved in the investigation as of yet, but when I get back to work..." he trails off, before seemingly sensing Credence's next question before he can voice it, from the pure emotion in the young man's eyes.

"But I have a feeling why he may have wanted you. The dark force inside Obscurials, inside you, can unleash catastrophic amounts of destruction, at will, or when the host body loses control."

Credence can't, won't look at Graves, tears stinging his eyes as he bites his lip. The mention of the unbridled fury, the malevolent power that had hurt so many, wrecked so much....all because he hadn't learnt to control it, he'd let it win, every single time. And at the time, he had even liked it, being able to release his built up rage, all his pain, funnelling the thing within him with power. He was a failure.

"And," Graves sustains, voice heavy. "I suspect He may have made an effort to find the Obscurial within New York, so could use them as a weapon against the wizarding world. By gaining their trust, he could manipulate-"

"How long?....H-how long was He you?" Credence hardly dares to breathe, his composure hanging by a thread.

Graves voice is hoarse yet calm when he answers, the eerie, distant look returning. "I was ambushed and taken captive on the sixteenth of December."

"Three," Credence breathes, face anguished as flashbacks replay in his brain. "Three times, when it was Him, and not you-"

The day in the alleyway, then the time where not-Graves gave him the necklace- the silver triangle now hidden beneath his clothes, against his chest-then when Ma was dead and Credence was alone, all alone, calling for help but met with a slap to the face and the constant question- where is the child?- before he lost control and it all became a blur of destruction, glass and rubble and debris and his own ragged sobs drowned out by the roar of the beast inside him-

"Credence?"

A choked sob is audible as the younger man grits his teeth, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check. And before he can even register the movement, Graves has set down his tumbler, hurriedly crossed the room as quickly as his injured leg can carry him, and sitting down, pulled Credence into a sturdy, comforting embrace. "Oh, Credence."

The younger man breaks instantaneously at the physical contact, sobs unobstructed as Graves just holds him unrelentingly, murmuring in a strange, oddly emotional voice Credence hasn't heard before. Mister Graves had never really shown outright emotion around him before- then again, had he even known the real Mister Graves? "Shhh, I'm so, so sorry, my poor boy, that I couldn't stop Him getting his claws into you-"

He doesn't know what to think, what to feel about anything, everything. The man who had helped him, healed him, shown him the kindness and affection that he had never known in exchange for information- replaced suddenly and abruptly by another with the same face, but with ultimatums, lingering touches and betrayal- only to be exchanged again for the first man, but with a different psyche, who had been through just as much as Credence, and survived. Credence knew the motive of the first two Mister Graves', who he had once thought were the same- but he was unsure of the third's, if there was an ulterior motivation to this at all. And this psychological confusion, the breaking of his fragile trust by the Mister Graves who wasn't actually Mister Graves, combined with the deaths at his hands, his own alleged demise and the past weeks, all alone, was enough to send someone mad.

But maybe if he lets Mister Graves hold him, like he used to, with capable arms holding him in place, one hand patting him comfortingly as he utters gentle, soothing sounds, everything will be alright.

Because Mister Graves vocalises all of that, all if Credence's pain, confusion, grief- perfectly. Empathising, in that familiar-but-not gentle voice. Understanding, truly, which only made Credence cry harder, because this might be the first time in his entire life that someone actually did understand.

Slowly but surely, Credence gets a handle on his ragged breaths, face pressed into Mister Graves' shoulder, practically sitting in his lap, hands clinging tightly to the sturdy expanse of the other man's back. Extracting his face from the now damp section of the other man's robes, he wipes his eyes with one hand, and Graves moves one arm out of the way, the other still resting reassuringly on Credence's spine.

"So,"Graves breaks the silence, surveying Credence with those fathomless dark eyes, and the younger man cant help but break away under the intensity, eyes locking onto the damp patch he left on the other's blue coat.

"Seventeen Killing Curses, right to the chest, and you're still sitting here before me. If they thought you were a miracle before, Credence, thats certainly what you are now," The older man continues, face filled with a mixture of concern and faint awe. "No one has ever survived a Killing Curse, by the way. That's sort of the point. I'm beyond overjoyed, ecstatic, to find you're not dead, but how the bloody hell did you do it?"

"I-I," Credence stutters quietly, overcome by his recent outburst, lack of knowledge and the wizard's kind words. "I don't know- I can't explain it."

How it hurt, hurt so much, and then there was a shockwave bright white light blinding his eyelids, and suddenly he was floating up and up, twisting and writhing through the air- then nothing, until he woke in the rain. With a new kind of power at his fingertips.

Graves just sits and stares as Credence haltingly, with many pauses, reiterates all he can remember, right up until waking up in the rain. And then there's silence, silence until the man, mouth open slightly, breathes, "I don't believe it."

"But it's true, all of it," Credence stuttered, dismayed at the other man's apparent disbelief, before he interrupts.

"No, you misunderstand me," Graves said impatiently, shaking his head dismissively, but his eyes are still full of that awestruck light, understanding that had previously been absent dawning upon his face.

"Credence, I think when the Aurors attacked you-" a shadow passes across the wizards face before he continues, undeterred, eyes fixated on Credence's. "-Their spells didn't touch you, physically, but rather hit the manifested Obscurus. And destroyed it. Which means- Credence, my boy, the dark force inside you. It's gone. You're free."

The absence of the black, heavy abyss within Credence's chest when he'd woken up against that muck-streaked, damp alley wall. The sliver of hope that he had barely dared to encourage could now bloom in its full glory. He was free, he couldn't hurt anyone anymore, and a single tear slides down his exhilarated face. "I know."

"And the fact you survived, the sheer force of all that magic..." Mister Graves face is astounded, deep in thought. Something seems to dawn briefly on the older man's face, and he refocuses, tone becoming softer.

"Credence, I think you may already suspect what I'm about to tell you."

He'd wondered, guessed, but hadn't let himself hope, not when it could be ripped away at any moment. Maybe it was residual power from that parasite within him, before it was obliterated, maybe he was hallucinating, maybe it was all a wonderful, extended dream-

His body is shudders slightly, and Credence hardly dares to breathe, to hope, as Mister Graves' dark, dark eyes bore into his own.

"You're a wizard."

****
The boy sits frozen for a moment, and Graves swears time stops momentarily, before he speaks so quietly, eyes alarmingly wide, Graves can barely hear him.

"B-but- He said I was a sq- a sq-"

"A Squib," Graves corrected gently, as Credence still gaped open-mouthed at him. "Someone with magical blood but no powers of their own, and you are definitely not that, Credence."

"I suspect He lied to you," Graves continues matter-of-factly. "He knew that you had limited knowledge of the wizarding world, and of your own abilities. The sheer fact you survived for nineteen years with the Obscurus inside you is testament to your capability- so he likely lied to you to maintain his hold over you, and ensure you would not become independent and selfaware."

"I was going to tell you," He adds in the quiet tone again, to Credence's dumbstruck silence. "That was why I originally intended to meet you on the sixteenth. To tell you, and get you away from that orphanage. But things-" he pauses, before regaining control. "Things did not go as planned."

"I can't be a wizard," Credence mumbles in disbelief, eyes planted on the polished wooden floor. "I can't."

"But you are," Graves said encouragingly to the younger man. He wracks his brains, before asking "Have you had any instances where something happens, and you can't explain why?"

There's a pause, and Credence seems to come to himself, a spark of recollection igniting in his eyes. "A couple of days after I woke in the alley," The boy begins slowly, as though he could hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth. "There was this bakery- they had bread, by the door, and-" the boy ducked his head further seeming in shame.

"And?" Graves pressed, waiting for the pin to drop.

"The bread- it flew, right into my hands. I didn't touch it, I swear-"

"Magic," Graves announced with a hint of triumph, before turning to gaze at the young man's now upturned face. "Don't you see, Credence? You used your magic to get the bread."

The full weight of this epiphany suddenly seems to crash down upon the young man. The corners of his mouth turn up, and for a moment, Graves thinks he will actually smile, if he even knows how.

But instead the boy bursts into tears, and Graves gives him the shoulder he needs to cry on, until the oven bell chimes over the wet snuffles and Graves is forced to go and rescue their dinner from becoming charcoal.

Dinner is a quiet affair in the kitchen, as Graves can't be bothered with the formal dining setting in the adjacent room. Credence barely utters a word, and Graves chalks it down to the young man processing the information gleaned from their prior conversation. But he cleans his plate, and shyly thanks Graves when he eats half a second helping. The past weeks with little food had stripped his already lanky frame of much of his fat reserves, and the hollowness of his cheeks is a little too pronounced for Graves' liking.

"Credence, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Mister Graves," came the murmured reply.

Setting down his fork suddenly, Graves chews and swallows, before asking "From the sounds of things, you spent a lot of time looking for food elsewhere. But why didn't you just eat the food in the cupboards?"

"I did," Mumbles Credence, as Graves sends their empty plates over to clatter into the sink wuth a wave of his wand. "I ran out, and then there was more, but-"

"You didn't want anyone to notice," Graves finishes for the young man, who inclines his head in agreement. The older man pauses, as two thoughts click together, before meeting Credence's eyes, across the kitchen table.

"Credence, exactly how long have you been living in my house, by yourself?"

The pained, concerned tone of Graves' voice only seems to make the boy more self-conscious, picking at the long sleeve of an overcoat that Graves recognises suddenly as one of his own.

"Since I saw you leaving, with those wizards," he whispered shamefully, tears stinging his eyes again as he hangs his head, shoulders habitually cringing. "I didn't mean to stay so long, I swear, Mister Graves, I was going to leave-"

The boys tone is panicked, but he quiets at when Graves shushes him gently, pressing a finger to his own lips. The poor boy had been through so much already, and then had been eking out a pitiful existence, all alone in Graves' house for over a month. He could have died, and no one would've noticed, or cared. A potent surge of emotion envelops Graves, the desire to protect, to make sure that this special, special young man was never alone ever again.

"Credence, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like," Graves said seriously, even as Credence opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again meekly. "Don't ever think you have to leave, unless you want to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mister Graves," the other man replies, but there's gratitude laced within his words. "Thank you."

After taking care of the washing up, Credence showers, then retires to the spare room- now his room, for as long as he wanted it, Graves reassured him-, the exhaustion of a busy day and revelation-filled late night clearly getting to him. Graves himself stayed up, reacclimatising himself with the layout of his home.

However, when the nausea at the thought of That Man living here, sleeping here, being here while Graves was locked away powerless threatened to overwhelm him, Graves too decided rest would help. It had been a difficult night for him too, after all, and after casting multiple protective spells upon every possible entryway into the house and drawing the curtains, he feels slightly more at ease. It's a nice return to routine when he kicks off his shoes, strips off his travelling clothes, and dons his striped pyjama pants and shirt, deftly buttoning it. And the familiar sheets of his bed were a small blessing to return to, even if they did feel as though someone else -he vehemently hopes it was Credence rather than the more sinister alternative- had been sleeping in it.

Graves lies awake for quite some time, staring at the darkness-fuzzied ceiling. Sleep still doesn't come easy, and he can't walk around to exhaust himself, as he doesn't want to wake Credence. And the thought of walking the dark streets alone still sends a chill up his spine, which does nothing but irritate him. He's seen his fair share of horrors as an Auror on crime scenes, far worse than what he himself had experienced- so why was the mere idea of something, memories, a f*cking name crippling him? And why couldn't he sleep in peace?!

The first time he hears the noise Graves twitches in bed, but convinces himself with much effort that he imagined it. He's jumpier than he used to be, and he mentally tells his conscience to piss right off, closing his eyes with a resigned sigh. But another muffled noise cuts through the thick silence, and Graves jerks upright in bed, fumbling for his wand beneath his pillow. Sliding out of bed, Graves cautiously approaches his bedroom door, and using his cane, nudges it open, wand at the ready.

The hall is dim, and no further noises are audible. Relaxing slightly, Graves prepares to turn on his heel and head back to bed, cursing himself for his newfound paranoia, when another of the keening noises has him on high alert once more. Continuing out of his bedroom door and into the hallway, poised to jinx anything that moved, Graves suddenly twigs the source.

The noises, some louder and some quieter, continue to emit from under Credence's doorway, and rather awkwardly, Graves debates within himself whether it's appropriate for him to intrude. But when a strangled shout reaches his ears, he throws caution to the wind, and opens the door.

Credence thrashes in the tangle of his sheets, limbs flailing as tears cascade down his cheeks, a mangled string of words and sobs coming from his mouth as he struggles, clearly in the midst of a nightmare.

"No!...please-ah-help.....no! Aaagh!"

"Credence!" Graves barely registers the dull ache in his leg as he crosses the room in a flash. Clambering upon the bed, he gently shakes the boy's bunched shoulders, calling his name urgently, as the young man, drenched in sweat, continues to shake and shudder.

"Credence, please, wake up, it's just a dream-" Credence's eyes fly open, and he freezes instantly, chest heaving, suddenly aware of his surroundings, of Graves positioned next to him, hands still on his shoulders. More tears brim in the young man's eyes, and Graves lifts the other's upper body into his arms, feeling the thin arms embrace him as Credence bawls unashamedly into his shoulder.

"You're safe, Credence, shhh" Graves soothes, petting dark hair as the young man continues to blubber all over him, clinging to him as if Graves himself was the only thing that could stop him from falling into the haunting oblivion of his nightmares, back into the memories Graves was sure were haunting Credence's dreams.

"You are safe. You are cared for. You are not alone..."

"You are safe. You are cared for. You are not alone..."

Graves repeats the words like a mantra, over and over, holding the boy unrelentingly until the sobs peter out, the tears dry up, and Credence's breathing is no longer ragged. And oh so gently, he lays the young man back onto the mattress, easing out from his arms as sleep began to soften the youthful face.

And Graves hopes that Credence's last wakeful thought, as he whispers out of the boy's room, was that maybe, just maybe, Credence could Graves another chance.

Chapter 5: 5

Chapter Text

"We need to go shopping."

Mister Graves announces this over a breakfast of porridge the following morning at the trusty kitchen table, watery sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.

Credence pauses bolting down his own half-finished bowl, lifting some slightly slower to his lips as his conscience quietly notices the inclusiveness of 'we'. Like they were a team now. The thought makes his filling stomach feel light and airy, even though his instincts still warn him to be cautious, after all that's happened.

"You don't need permission to ask why, Credence," Mister Graves said with kindness, and the young man flushes slightly at the attention.

"Sorry," he murmurs, ducking his head instinctively in embarrassment, staring into the breakfast bowl's mushy contents.

"You don't need to apologise either," Mister Graves remarks reassuringly, and for a moment, Credence thinks the other man will reach out over the table and pat his hand comfortingly. But the moment passes without the contact, leaving Credence a little relieved, but also disappointed.

"Why do we need to go shopping, Mister Graves?" He asks, in an attempt to shake off his jumble of emotions.

"Well there's a couple of groceries that I'd like to grab," starts the older wizard, spooning the remains of his breakfast into his mouth. "And I think it's high time we bought you some new clothes."

"Your current ones are tatty, and you can't keep wearing mine," Mister Graves said reasonably as Credence opens his mouth to protest; then closes it again with sheer embarassment, painfully aware of what he's dressed in. "It was fine when I was... away, but now I'm home, I'm sort of going to need them."

Credence manages a nod, utterly mortified, managing to look anywhere around the kitchen but at the man sitting opposite him. It was true, he was in desperate need of new clothes; his clothes from the orphanage, though washed regularly, were falling apart after weeks of repetitive use and time on the streets. And Mister Graves' clothes, though comfortable enough, still didn't sit right on Credence. They were tailored for a man that was broader in shoulder and breast, after all, and Credence's waist was much slimmer.

"Finish your breakfast first, then we'll leave," Mister Graves placates him, directing the steaming vat on the stove to ladle out another half-serve of warm porridge into Credence's bowl, and the younger man eats until his stomach bulges.

Since it's a Saturday morning, the streets of Manhattan are moderately more crowded than usual, the February sun beating down upon the bustling civilians. Mister Graves manages to cut a path through the throng easily despite his limp and accompanying cane, like a ship gliding through water, and Credence's sole duty is to keep up with the other's lengthy strides. When Credence plucks up the courage to ask why they haven't Apparated, the other mutters something about his leg. Block after block, being jostled and bumped occasionally, four lefts and a right- when Mister Graves finally slows in a part of town Credence hasn't seen before.

A boarded up shop window with an eviction notice pinned on top of the rotting wood, sandwiched between an expanse of soot-stained brick and a peeling, faded poster advertising a barber on 4th. There's far less people here, in the the poky street, dim despite the morning light, and no one seems to notice Mister Graves and Credence are loitering in front of the seemingly abandoned shop. There's a finger of ice in Credence's chest at the memory of the last time he loitered in an alleyway like this one, with a man with his companion's face and a tongue loaded with lies.

The real Mister Graves in front of him steps closer to the hapzardly nailed boards, seemingly reading the details of the notice. Credence's eyes near disappear into his fringe when the letters declaring 'Werther's Furniture & Antiquery is henceforth evicted....' vanish, replaced with a single word, in curling black script.

'Who?'

"Preventative measure against no-Majs," Mister Graves explains to Credence's incredulous silence. "There's a glamour, an enchantment, over this place. So No-Majs can't, don't notice it."

Taking out his wand, he conjures a feathered black quill from nowhere. "We still take precautions though." Graves scrawls something beneath the 'who?' inscribed on the parchment, and Credence barely has a moment to realise it's Mister Graves' signature, when the latter grabs Credence's forearm and walks him through the solid wall.

Credence cries out in surprise at the action, but the noise dies in his throat and his mouth falls open as he beholds the room before him. A grated gold lift large enough to fit quite a number of people awaits across the expanse of polished, shiny floor, like the glittering surface of a lake. The reflective gold walls are so clean Credence could probably make out his blurry reflection in them if he stepped closer, and the ceiling rose a few metres above the two men's heads, ornate cornices depicting spiralling vines and plants capped the walls.

"Come on," Mister Graves encourages Credence forward across the oddly deserted lobby, and the two men step into the lift's inviting golden interior. Peering around, Credence catches sight of the left wall, which is coated with what appeared to be business names, and their assorted locations. Each name had a corresponding button next to it.

Manhattan Apothecary......Lvl1

Biggles & Sons Broomsticks...Lvl 2

Thorne-Goldberg's Cauldron Repairs....Lvl3

Credence only got as far as reading about the New York Eeyrie & Hatchery on Level 4 on the endless list of businesses when Mister Graves' hand reached out and poked a button.

Mrs Morgotha's Sophisticated Wizardwear....Lvl 29.

"But Mister Graves," Credence starts, utterly perplexed, mouth working as he tries to find the words. "This building-...it's only a single storey."

Mister Graves has a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips, and Credence realises suddenly he's never seen Mister Graves truly smile.

"Who said we were going up?" Quips the other man, and theres a sudden jolt as the elevator drops.

They're barrelling through the earth, and Credence holds onto the elevator railing for dear life, knuckles white against the metal. Mister Graves appears unperturbed by the fact they appear to be breaking the world speed record, barely batting an eyelid as the machine plummets further and further.

Just when Credence begins to wonder if they'll ever stop falling, he feels the juddering elevator begin to slow, then stop. Trying to calm his quickened breathing, he exhales rather shakily as elevator doors slide open with a metallic 'ding'.

Mister Graves is off as soon as the elevator opens, stepping out with Credence hot on his heels. But a few paces in, the pair pass under a golden-painted doorway, similar to the one in the lobby, and Credence can barely believe his eyes.

They're in the biggest clothing retailer he has ever seen, with enormous ceilings and walls that stretched at least a good hundred yards. And on neatly stacked piles, meticulously arranged aisles and organised shelves, hung and lay hundreds, maybe even thousands of clothes. Several witches and wizards can be seen within the closest aisles, browsing the wares. The shop just seemed too big to be allowed, despite it's distinct air of class, and Credence doesn't know where to look first.

"Good day, sirs," a plump, auburn-haired witch Apparates in front of them, smiling pleasantly in robes of periwinkle blue. "How can we help you gentlemen today?"

"My nephew," Graves gestures towards Credence, who stands awkwardly at his side. "He's come to stay with me from his mother's in Arizona, but she didn't pack appropriate wizarding clothes for New York weather."

An easy lie. The witch peers beadily at Credence, giving him a onceover, and he can't help but wilt under the gaze, flicking his eyes away where over near the wall, a rack of robes, sleeves raised, appeared to be waving at him. Everywhere he looked, there was always something new to discover.

"So you'll be looking to start a whole new wardrobe?..."The woman murmurs in a heavy New Yorker accent, before perking up instantaneously. "How exciting! You're in good hands, young man, I know just the things- but first, let's get you measured."

With a snap of her fingers, a tape measure comes hurtling through the air, before freezing abruptly midair. Lifting one end of itself similarly to the head of a snake, the tape measure darts towards Credence, who watches in shock as it aligned itself along the span of his left arm, before flitting over to the right.

Around and around, the tape measure flies, to Credence's legs, his breast, even measuring the circumference of his head, before finally, it slithers off him, task complete.

"Right, we're off!"

The witch, whose shiny name tag read 'Clytemnestra', leads Mister Graves and Credence through section after section of the humungous department store, magicking bits and pieces of clothes off racks and shelves and into Credence's arms.

"I hear in Arizona that wizards prefer no-Maj clothing," the saleswitch babbles as she works, summoning another pair of trousers off a rack. "Luckily, wizarding fashion in New York closely mimics no-Maj; with all the layers and long overcoats, you can barely tell the difference. Some witches and wizards even prefer non-wizarding clothing, like the Arizonians-"

Credence glances towards Mister Graves, who has so far remained practically silent throughout the whole venture, to see the other man has an expression of faint amusem*nt on his face. Catching Credence's eye, Mister Graves pats him reassuringly on the back momentarily, hand in the centre of the younger man's spine as he steers him after the exuberant Clytemnestra.

Finally, when Credence's vision is almost entirely obscured by the sizeable mound of clothes in his arms, Clytemnestra directs him to the row of change rooms nearby. Mister Graves politely waits outside the thick purple curtains of one stall, taking a seat in a conveniently placed armchair as the saleswitch corrals Credence inside, arranging the clothes into a variety of outfits. She also coerces him into emerging from the changeroom after each costume change, to peer at his reflection in the ornate mirror and hear the approval of his companions.

He feels awkward as he slips on the first of the long-sleeve buttonup shirts, a crisp white number, and insanely guilty. The pile of clothes was enormous, and would surely cost Mister Graves a sizeable amount of money; money Credence wasn't worth. So, attempting to quell the trickle of excitement within him, he decided to be modest. To stick to the dark colours he knew best from the orphanage, the whites, greys and blacks, which would surely save Mister Graves some expense.

But Clytemnestra wasn't having any of it. After Credence emerges for the fifth time wearing plain black and white, earning a 'looking good!' from the aforementioned magical mirror, the saleswitch cries, "What about all those lovely bright outfits we picked out?! It isn't a crime to wear colour, dear, give us a look- that red was simply lovely-"

Meeting Mister Graves' eyes, Credence searches for guidance within their dark depths as he struggles internally with himself, with the conflicting emotions that plagued him. Was he permitted? Would he dare?

But Mister Graves inclines his head encouragingly from his chair, legs elegantly crossed, and Credence lets Clytemnestra bustle him back behind the purple curtain.

In the end, Credence is the quietly excitable new owner of an impressive, brand new wardrobe. There are those modest, darker pieces, typical of New York streetwear, such as a deep grey overcoat, some jackets and plenty of vests, trousers and collared shirts, altered to fit his frame perfectly with a "Fit!" Spell. It was truly fascinating, watching the garments either expand or contract to fit him perfectly with a tap of Clytemnestra's wand. However the sleeves on the jackets are rather larger and looser, typical of wizarding fashion, Credence quickly twigs, with a look at Clytemnestra and Mister Graves' outfits. Despite his plain choices however, a number of vibrant pieces have also wound their way into the pile upon the cashier's bench as Clytemnestra rings up the items. Not as many as the darker pieces, but a fair few. Plus neckties, some sturdy boots, several pairs of oxfords.

And some suspenders, no belts. That in particular Mister Graves had been very clear about, seemingly sensing Credence tense up at the mere mention of the leather. But the moment of silent awkwardness had passed, and the saleswitch appeared not to bear them any ill will.

Clytemnestra reads out the total of all the items, and Credence nearly keels over. That comes to more money than he's ever seen in his life, and a deep wave of shame envelops him.

"Please, Mister Graves, it's far too much-"

"Nonsense," the older man dismisses Credence's protests, and pulling out an expensive-looking velvet pouch from his robe pocket, he deposits a decent amount of strange gold coins onto the shop counter. The young man does his best to swallow the lump of guilt obstructing his throat, and follows Mister Graves out the shop doorway and back towards the waiting elevator, Clytemnestra wishing them a good afternoon and thanking them for their business.

Some minutes later, after another hair-raising elevator ride, rejoining the bustle of the New York streets, Mister Graves finally breaks through the silence between them, peering sideways at Credence as they pace the grimy pavement. "Are you hungry?"

He's a little hungry, if Credence is honest, despite the truly enormous breakfast Mister Graves had coaxed into him. But the familiar anxiety in the face of a question makes him reflexively hold his tongue, eyes to the ground as he shakes his head minutely.

"Credence". The pressing tone settles on his thin, hunched shoulders, and with a look, like tissue paper, he caves. "A little," he murmurs reluctantly. Why is it he can never lie to those obsidian eyes, that seem to see right through him?

"Lunch then," Mister Graves decides aloud, black and white robes swishing by his sides as his cane clacks against the street cobblestones. "I'm absolutely famished."

They stop outside a Manhattan tea room, almost indistinguishable from it's hundreds of fellows within New York. The inside seating is clamouring with noise, dishes scraping and clashing, voices chattering during the luncheon rush, and with a look of distaste, Mister Graves turns on his heel and makes for an empty outdoor table. Plonking down in the homely wooden chair, he stretches out his legs beneath the table, leaning his cane against the circular face. Credence takes the other seat, just as a harried-looking waitress sweeps up to the table, pasting a valiant attempt at a smile on her fatigued face.

"Afternoon, sirs, my name is Polly, what can we get for you today?"

****
Credence Barebone was painfully self-conscious.

Graves had watched the pale, longfingered hands lift up the forkfuls of broiled tuna in careful yet hurried measured bites, even as the boy's eyes screamed of wanting to pick up the plate and swallow down its contents whole. Eyes fixated on his food, not daring to lift them except to dart them around warily, as though searching for some unseen threat in the diner, the crowded street, the buildings that towered above. He only spoke when spoken to, as though reluctant to draw attention to himself. The very posture of Credence's shoulders, hunched up near his earlobes while he ate, seemed to be a silent, physical apology for his existence, and his lanky frame held none of the self-assured confidence so prevalent within the bodies of the rest of civilisation.

Not for the first time, Graves recalled the foul, abusive bitch named Mary Lou Barebone, who should never have had children placed in her sick, twisted intepretation of care. Who had inflicted so much physical and psychological trauma upon the boy in front of him, damaged him so extensively that Credence genuinely believed his own life was worthless. That he was nothing but a burden to those around him, and that he brought the pain and suffering that seemed to flock to him on deathly wings upon himself. So not for the first time, Graves hopes Mary Lou rots in fieriest, darkest and most painful circle of Hell imaginable.

Credence finishes eating eventually, a short while after Graves scrapes his plate clean, grilled lemon and garlic bass devoured. Shopping was hungry work, especially when he was required to provide an opinion on every single item of clothing proferred by that buzzing, incessantly energetic saleswitch. Following that experience, Graves had been grateful for the umpteenth time that he'd never married, and hence never been forced to attend such shopping trips often.

"Dessert?" The waitress appears suddenly beside them once more, short curls bobbing with her quick movement, notepad and fountain pen at the ready.

"Why not," Graves shrugs, and the waitress immediately begins to rattle off the extensive list of desserts that the venue offers, modest sky blue tunic swishing slightly as she adjusted her footing.

"We've pineapple upside down cake, ice cream, jell-o, strawberry or peach puffs...-"

"Credence, what would you like for dessert?" Graves suddenly asked, fixated on the boy across the circular table, even as the other squirmed slightly in his seat, evidently uncomfortable at the attention focused upon him. "You can have anything you'd like."

There's a pause, before Credence mumbles something that Graves only hears snatches of, something about his mother and not being permitted to have sweets. A newfound sense of determination overtakes Graves and he turns to the waitress with certainty.

"We'll have a tasting plate of everything you've got, Polly," he says, and with a swish of her blue skirts, the waitress is gone, leaving Credence stammering thanks in her wake.

But the boy's awkward demeanour changes to one of awestruck amazement, when Polly sets the sizable platter heaped with sweet confections in the centre of their table. He had the look of children seeing snow for the first time, lips slightly parted and eyes wide.

Unconsciously, the boy picks up the spoon, but freezes, eyes darting warily up to look at Graves. There was always that guarded hesitance within Credence's highly expressive face, Graves noted. Still an unconscious force within him, waiting to be given permission, as always.

But with an encouraging flick of Grave's chin, Credence waveringly spoons a tiny morsel of ice cream into the bowl of the utensil, before lifting it haltingly to his mouth.

The ice cream slides smoothly between Credence's lush, parted lips, and Graves watches it all, like a masterpiece being painted before him. The slight raise in the boy's eyebrows, dark against his pale skin, the moment of contemplation where internally, Credence's brain was pondering the taste of the ice cream upon his tongue, visible upon the window of his facial features. Before, finally, his eyes close in ecstasy, throat bobbing as he swallows the creamy mixture, mouth left with the sugary, addictive aftertaste.

"Like it?" Graves asks, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch up imperceptibly after witnessing something so simple, yet so pivotal in the young man's life. Credence nods slightly shyly, the breathiest hint of what Graves might've called happiness crossing his face. "Have some more," Graves urges him, digging his own spoon into a chunk of pineapple upside-down cake, and so their meal resumes.

It was truly fascinating. Credence tried tidbits of everything, savouring, processing the exact taste and texture of each dessert, and bit by bit, Graves catalogued these tine morsels of information about the boy. The swipe of his tongue over his pink lips after tasting pineapple for the first time, then the warmth that flooded to the hickory-coloured eyes when he sampled chocolate. Which foods he had further helpings of, with ice cream seemingly being among several clear favourites.

"I didn't know food could taste this good," Credence confessed, after swallowing another sliver of devil's food cake, eyes beseeching him with gratitude. "Thank you."

With a half-smiling nod, mouth full of strawberry puff, Graves made a definitive mental note to include several more sugar-oriented items on his shopping list from now on. If only to bear witness to Credence when he continued to try the vast array of foods available to the affluent class of New York, foods he'd only ever dreamt of tasting.

At that thought, swallowing the flaky pastry, a further note is made- that Credencewould never, evereat anything near the slop he'd choked down at the orphanage again. Over Graves' dead body.

When they're finally done, platter an abstract swirl of different crumbs and smears, when both men lean comfortably back in their chairs, hunger well and truly sated,, the waitress endeavours to discreetly slip Graves the bill. But her deft movements aren't quick enough to escape Credence's ever-watchful gaze, and the boy's eyes fall upon the receipt milliseconds before Graves can hide it from vision.

At the sight of the bill, the boy's slim frame freezes up, and his face reddens before he ducks it in shame automatically. "Mister Graves, it's far too much, first the clothes and now- you can't possibly-"

"But I can, Credence. Please, it's fine," Graves reassures him, tucking the bill into his coat pocket. It's hardly an extortionate amount for him, not with his very generous salary from MACUSA, that allowed him to enjoy life's luxuries with ease. But looking up the boy's simultaneously grateful and guilt-stricken expression as the waitress swishes away, Graves suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he's probably spent more money on Credence in one day than anyone had on the boy throughout his entire life.

"Mister Graves, why are you doing this?"

Credence finally sums up the courage to look Graves in the face, and the searching, unsure look stops the older man right in his tracks.

"Doing what, Credence?" He responds carefully, almost hesitantly, dark brow furrowed.

"This." The boys makes a general heature encompassing everything, the pained look in his eye unrelenting. "Why?"

Graves recalls the observation he had made while Credence was eating earlier, his mannerisms, his very posture, along with the other minute details he had picked up about the boy in their limited time together both pre and post-Him. The severe neglect and abuse survived by such a young life, the heavy, crushing burden of the Obscurus upon those cringing, slight shoulders....

The boy needed care. Affection. To be shown he was valued, appreciated, that he could be treasured, afforded a measure of loving care. That not all kindess shown to him contained an ulterior motive, that he was not just a pawn in other people's games. That he, Credence Barebone, meant something to someone. To Graves.

And he had every intention of showing this boy the long-absent love he so desperately needed, and deserved. It was the least Graves could do, to make up for his own unforgivable lack of action prior to Him.

Because you've been through so much, and you need taking care of.

Because you've got no one.

Because I f*cked up, and you suffered through a world of pain because of me.

"Because I want to," Graves settles on, meeting those searching chocolate eyes steadily, before, grasping his cane, he hauls himself to his feet to go and settle the bill.

****

The walk back to Mister Graves' townhouse on the Upper East Side is pleasant, the crushing crowds during the sales rush having ebbed moderately. The sidewalk is no longer cluttered with people and their parcels, jostling and bustling, a blur of faceless beige and grey coats, and Credence and the older wizard can walk- or limp- along without fear of being bumped into. The numerous brown paper bags stuffed with groceries they carry aren't too heavy either, which is a slight relief. Credence carries several more than Mister Graves, as the other's use of a cane makes it rather more difficult for him to carry the purchases.

"Why can't you use magic?" Credence had burst out after Mister Graves almost dropped a parcel for the third time, unable to contain his curiosity. "You could make them float-"

"No, Credence," says Mister Graves through gritted teeth, concentrating as he adjusted the bags and parcels in his free arm. "It's illegal."

"Performing magic in front of no-Majs is illegal, I mean," the older wizard continues as they walk, parcels now safely perched. "It violates the International Statute of Secrecy. Exposing the wizarding world to no-Majs is one of the most severe crimes one of us can commit."

Credence's confusion must show up on his face, for Mister Graves furthers his explanation, voice lowering periodically whenever they pass civilians in the street. "Basically, our world is in hiding from no-Majs, because magic terrifies them, and fear makes them act rashly. The Salem trials scarred the wizarding community irreparably, and animosity towards our kind has continued throughout the centuries. You of all people would know best how non-magical folk react to even a hint of witchcraft."

An icy finger runs down Credence's spine at the memory of the orphanage, plastered with hateful, fear mongering propaganda- the giant tapestry of a wand snapped in half, wreathed in fire- before he refocuses.

"-Rappaport's Law, which was founded in 1790 by Emily Rappaport, the then president," Mister Graves was saying, and Credence guiltily listens once more. "According to Rappaport's Law, the wizarding community is to remain completely separate and secret from the No-Maj community in the United States, after a witch consorting with a no-Maj in the 1790s unwittingly revealed sensitive information about our whereabouts and goings-on. The no-Maj alerted the authorities, and the wizarding world was very nearly exposed to the general public, the results of which would have been catastrophic."

"In summary, Congress doesn't know about MACUSA, and our laws forbid fraternisation with no-Majs," the older wizard elaborates, the afternoon sun illuminating the occasional flecks of silver amidst the deep brown bristles at his temples. "Befriending or marrying them is illegal, and penalties are harsh. We associate with them no more than necessary, to blend into society."

"We hide in plain sight," Mister Graves' voice is quiet near Credence's ear as the younger of the two observes the street, the shopfronts giving way to houses. Plastered advertisem*nts are slapped on bare walls, and a handful of people are milling about, automobiles and horse-drawn carts rattling past. "Anyone in this street could be a wizard or witch Credence, and you wouldn't know it. That's the desired effect of the law."

Was the young woman leaving the florist, clutching a bouquet of peonies in her kid-gloved hands a witch, face upturned to admire the cloudless sky? Did the three top-hatted men, smoking on the bench Mister Graves and Credence had just passed, deep in conversation as smoke floated through the bristles of their moustaches, have wands concealed in their overcoat sleeves?

"Is it like this everywhere?" Credence asks quietly, eyes still drifting around the street scene. "Are all wizards in hiding everywhere in the world?"

Mister Graves keeps his eyes forward as they continue to walk, pausing at a street corner as they wait for a sleek black automobile to pass, the engine growling. "More or less. Each continent or country has their own laws and sanctions regarding no-Maj relations. I know for a fact the British are rather more lax, with wizards and witches free to mingle and marry within non-magical communities. Then again, they call no-Majs 'Muggles', and their attitudes to magic are rather different to what we have to deal with here, so that explains their backwardness."

Somewhere within himself, Credence feels the hesitance towards asking questions dissipate. He's already broken the ice, so he may as well soldier on, rather than have to repeatedly badger Mister Graves within questions in future.

"How come wizards are allowed to drink-" He lowered his voice to a whisper as they crossed the road, now car-free, to another stretch of pavement. "-Alcohol?"

Mister Graves exhales amusedly, turning his head to gaze with slight humour at the boy. "It's not a swear word, Credence. But as I said before, MACUSA is entirely separate from no-Maj Congress, and hence is able to craft legislation suitable to the wizarding community solely-"

There was so much to ask, so much to discover, so many questions about this newfound world that Credence had stockpiled unthinkingly throughout the day, too timid to ask. But with each query, he felt a slight weight lift of his shoulders, as Mister Graves obligingly answered every single one, elaborating where necessary.

"Where is MACUSA?"
"Do wizards have speakeasies?"
"Wizards- I mean, we- have sports?!"

Mister Graves' townhouse on 61st is before them before Credence knows it, the rest of the walk a blur, absorbed by his eager questions. The sandstone radiates warmth from the setting sun as the pair ascend the white-washed steps to the ebony front door, and the older wizard opens the front door with a subtle flick of his wand, the tip emerging slightly from his coat sleeve. Mister Graves continues explaining the finer details of American wizarding currency, known as Dragots, as he and Credence awkwardly manoeuvre their waythrough the hallway and into the kitchen, arms aching with the weight of the grocery bags.

"There's a department within MACUSA that assists wizards with the conversion and trading of dragots to dollars, and vice versa," he adds, dumping the brown paper bags unceremoniously onto the kitchen table, and Credence does the same with a relieved sigh, hands rubbing his aching arms. His shoe accidentally nudges something slightly soft on the floor boarded floor, and peering down, Credence recognises the one, then many packages wrapped up hours ago on Level 29 by Clytemnestra. Wizarding shopping evidently included free household delivery, he mused.

"Excellent," Mister Graves announces, handing Credence a refreshing glass of water, which he sculls gratefully. "Your clothes have arrived." Taking a sip from his own glass, leaning against the kitchen countertop, the wizard's wand slips from his sleeve and into his right hand. With a skyward flick, the parcels suddenly mobilise, and moving similarly to a herd of livestock, zoom out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where the noise of them thundering up the stairs, likely towards Credence's room, is audible.

Amidst the din of parcels jostling each other, bumping into walls and God knew what else, Credence turns his attention to Mister Graves; more precisely, his wand. He's seen it before, used fleetingly by the other man whenever they met. The thought dawns on him that during the latter half of those instances it wasn't even Mister Graves he was meeting, that it hadn't been this particular wand that enthralled him at every single conference. Swallowing hard, closing his eyes momentarily in a bid to dispel the unwanted memories, Credence reimmerses himself in observation. The onyx, burnished wood reflectively caught the fleeting light of the sun's last rays out the window, and towards the bottom third, a silver accent wrapped around the cylindrical object. The rest of the wand is obscured by Mister Graves's hand wrapped firmly around it, apart from a further hint of silver peeking out from the space between his pinky finger and clenched palm.

The rumbling of the parcels above their heads has ceased, and Mister Graves, ever keen-eyed, notices the line of Credence's gaze. His own eyes flick down to the tapered wood in his hand, and a glimmer of realisation dawns within his chestnut eyes.

"Ah sh*t," the elder curses, raising his free hand to his forehead, grazing the short bristles of his hairline, before moving it down his face , mashing his facial features together in what appeared to be frustration. "Sorry," he adds distractedly at Credences discomfort at the swear word. "It completely slipped my mind, sh*t, sh*t, sh*t."

"A wand, Credence," Mister Graves supplied, self-irritation laced between his words as the younger man maintains eye contact, uncomprehending. "You need your own wand."

A wand. Of his very own. To do magic with. Spontaneous excitement dances within Credence feverishly at the thought, even as his conscience berated him for not making the connection sooner. Obviously a wizard would need a wand.

"But how to get you one...." Mister Graves murmurs aloud, eyes downcast as he ponders, deep in thought. An epiphany suddenly straightens his slightly slouched shoulders, and uncrossing his injured leg from his right, pushing off from the kitchen counter, the other crosses the kitchen floor to stand before Credence. Startled by the rapid movement, Credence can only stand by the kitchen table, struck dumb, when Mister Graves, twirling his his wand between his fingers, offers it to the younger man.

"You've never used a wand before, and you need to learn magic somehow," the other wizard explains. "So you can borrow mine for lessons, until we manage to get you one somehow."

"You're going to teach me magic?" Credence manages to say weakly, agape as Mister Graves places his wand in the boy's hand, the smooth wood cool against Credence's slightly warm palm. Shrugging off his black and white overcoat, the man hangs it off one of the kitchen chairs, leaving him in his business shirt, waistcoat and trousers.

"Well, how else do you hope to be able to do more than summon loaves of bread and make leaves dance?" He says dryly, resuming his place by the kitchen countertop as Credence flushes slightly. "A wizard needs to learn how to control his magic, Credence, lest it control him. That's when bad things happen."

Swallowing hard again, tongue feeling ashen in his mouth, Credence looks down at the wand in his loose palm. It seemed to vibrate, the low frequency sending a slight hum up through his arm and into his body, through his chest, where the airy gold substance he was beginning to grow accustomed to seemed to warm, spreading within his sternum. It was uncanny, unalike anything Credence had ever felt before, standing in Mister Graves' kitchen, yet so familiar. Like having a wand in his hand was instinctual, natural; like it belonged there.

Picking up his previously abandoned glass, Mister Graves drains the glass of water, before setting it down firmly on the kitchen countertop. Shifting sideways, utilising his cane to do so, the man repositions himself at the very corner of the kitchen counter, nearest to the back door. Credence now has an unobstructed view of the glass, lonely upon the varnished white countertop.

"Credence, you're going to levitate the glass."

Mister Graves says the words calmly, but Credence is at loss for words. He hasn't got the faintest clue how to even begin; if he can control his newfound abilities, if the magic will even appear on call rather than when he desperately needed it. And somewhere, in the depths of his soul, he fears that if he tries, this time with a wand, the golden glow inside him will shatter, and be once more replaced by the roiling, endless darkness of the Obscurus, sinking its demonic claws into him once again.

"How?-" he says in a panic, looking from the wand, to Mister Graves, to the cup in helpless desperation.

"Credence, please, be calm," Mister Graves says levelly, and unwittingly, Credence's rapid breathing slows, hand clenching the wand tightly at his side. "I'll show you how."

"The spell you're going to attempt is a Levitation charm," the older of the two continues, crossing his legs to lean his weight on his right. "A very simple, basic spell; children learn this in their first lessons at Ilvermorny."

"Ilvermorny?...What's that?"

"I'll explain later, after you attempt the spell," Mister Graves promises, and Credence nods in assent, concentrating his attention back on the glass.

"What you need to do- make sure the wand is on your dominant hand- the right? Good- is give the wand a swish and flick, all in one moment, ok?" Mister Graves says, face encouraging. "We can practice it now- don't fret, nothing will happen unless you say the incantation." He mimes grasping an imaginary wand, performing the aforementioned movement, which Credence copies as best he can.

"Good," the other man says encouragingly, nodding in earnest as Credence repeats the movement several more times, feeling excited yet slightly churlish as he did so. "Now, are you ready to learn the incantation?"

Credence nods, gathering all his determination, eyes on Mister Graves. He was learning magic, real magic- and he would not ruin this golden chance, this God-given opportunity.

"Wingardium leviosa," Mister Graves enunciates slowly and clearly. "Focus on 'ar' and the 'o'- in magic, pronunciation is key, unless you want a result rather different than you hoped."

"Wingardium leviosa," Credence murmurs, and though he hasn't made any movement with the wand, the tip flares in his hands, making him jump. The light dies as quickly as it arrived, but Credence is exhilarated, looking between Mister Graves and the wand, wonder plastered upon his face.

"You ready to try it for real this time?" Mister Graves asks, looking to Credence hopefully. And Credence nods again in earnest, steeling the nerves fluttering lightly in his belly, and raises the wand.

Deep breath in, wand pointed squarely at the glass in Credence's wavering hand. He concentrates hard, staring at it, noting the condensation fading from the lattice-etched exterior, the drip of moisture rolling slowly down the side. And out.

"Wingardium leviosa."

Theres a rush of something within him, and the glass moves. It lifts all on its own, slowly, slightly wobbly, one inch, then two, up and up. Credence is focused, yet enthralled, barely registering Mister Graves' praise, urging him on.

"Excellent, my boy, that's it, keep going-"

When the glass is hovering, twitching slightly, almost a foot above the countertop, Credence daring not to move, not to break the magic, Mister Graves suggests "Why don't you try and move it towards me, into my hand? Just adjust the direction of your wand, like the point of a compass- that's it-"

The glass is gliding painstakingly slowly through the air, growing ever closer to where Mister Graves has opened his palm, waiting. Credence pushes that energy within him, pushes and pushes, willing it to go, to move, twitching the wand ever so slightly to direct the glass on its' course to safety.

He's done it, the glass is there, ready to drop- Credence lets out a cry of triumph, letting his hand fall to his side, breathing hard-

Smash.

There's deathly silence. The shards of the glass littering the floor around Mister Graves' shoe like tiny fractured diamonds. He stopped to early; he's failed, he couldn't do it, and worst of all he's broken something, oh no-

"I'm sorry," Credence gasps, shoulders trembling, cringing in on himself as the shame, the terrible guilt envelops him. Tears prick his eyes and he drops his gaze, hands limp by his side. "I'm sorry Mister Graves, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry-"

There's a mutter of some speech, and a familiar shape approaches him, boots crunching on the grit of the glass, and Credence cringes away, exposing his back. He waits for the whistling noise of a limb, a belt, something through the air before the familiar white hot flash pain he expects; he deserves it, he did something bad, it was time to face the consequences-

But he feels nothing. Nothing apart from sturdy hands grabbing his wrists,turning him around, tilting his chin up from the floor to see, through tear-filled eyes, Mr Graves' white, horrified expression.

"You thought I would hit you?" The older man breathes, aghast, gaze rent with pain.

"I broke it," Credence whimpers, as the other continues to stare at him, frozen. "I broke the glass, I should be p-p-p-"

"Oh Credence-"

Letting go of his wrists, Mister Graves pulls Credence into a tight embrace, supporting the shaking boy. Tears roll down the younger's face, and Mister Graves hand cradles the back of his head for a long moment. The guilt he feels for breaking the glass is numbed slightly by the contentment he feels at the show of affection, and Credence holds on for dear life.

After a long pause, Mister Graves extricates himself from the embrace, moving his hands to rest them on Credence's upper arms. "I don't own you, Credence," he says softly yet seriously, face close to Credence's. "And I will never raise a hand against you, I swear it. An apology is more than sufficient for breaking a simple glass. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mister Graves," Credence whispers, drying the residual tears from his cheeks. The fear he had felt only moments prior has dissipated, his remorse towards the incident now unnecessary, though he still felt slightly guilty. But more than anything, he feels embarrassed, for crumbling so easily in front of Mister Graves. He is weak, his subconscious hisses in the recesses of his mind, what would Mister Graves think of him?

The wizard in question however had gently pried his wand from Credence's hand. Pointing his wand in the direction of the glittering mess on the floor, Mister Graves gives his wand a quick wave, muttering 'Evanesco', and the gritty residue vanishes.

"I apologise also, for pushing you too hard during your very first lesson." Mister Graves is facing Credence once more, eyes apologetic. "You did very well, excellent control of wand movement and pronunciation. Many novice wizards struggle the first time they perform magic, and you did brilliantly. The fault lies with me, due to my lack of teaching experience."

Credence stands awkwardly momentarily, unsure how to respond, before Mister Graves claps him reassuringly on the shoulder, and moves off, towards the kitchen doorway. "Come with me."

They climb the carpet-covered stairs, Mister Graves and his cane leading the way, Credence a step or two behind, footsteps thudding on the wood. They reach the second floor, where the bedrooms, bathroom and a small den are located, and Credence pauses, expecting their journey to end here. But Mister Graves continues on, bypassing the floor altogether, beginning the ascent to the third floor, and Credence follows.

He's only been to the third floor once, while first exploring Mister Graves' home, and the space seemed to be used mostly for storage. The entire area was one big dark space, with a few piles of boxes and some dust-covered sheets flung over furniture near taupe walls, windows drawn shut and floorboards slightly less lustrous than the ones on the first and second floors . There was a distinct air of disuse pervading the room, Credence recalled, but as Mister Graves limps up the final few steps, he draws his wand and moves it in a wide sweeping motion.

Lights flicker on. The sheets fly off the furniture like great, billowing white birds, and several of misshapen stacks of boxes disappear altogether, seemingly falling through the floor. The bare bookshelves lining the long wall parallel to the windows let out simultaneous puffs of dust and grime, and a large, wide cedar table skitters into the centre of the room. When all is still once more, and the two men stand at the top of the staircase, Mister Graves speaks.

"This room- I thought maybe we could, you could use it, to learn magic," he offers, turning his head, watching Credence's reaction carefully. "I could try to teach you better up here, there's less clutter, we can order some spell books and-"

The words die in the other man's throat as Credence tentatively steps forward, looking this way and that, taking in his new surroundings. A space, all of his own, something he had never afforded before- his room at the orphanage had been little more than a broom cupboard, with just enough room for a bed and lamp. But this room, the floor that he stood upon, the nearby walls, they represented new beginnings. The chance to learn, to be part of a new, wonderful world. To have options, and choose his own destiny; to become someone new.

"You would do that?" Credence turns around to face Mister Graves, tone of voice quavering slightly. "For me?"

"Of course I would," Mister Graves says with utmost sincerity, looking at Credence with what must be fondness. "You deserve the opportunity to learn, to fulfill your destiny, which isn't half as dark as you so recently thought. Let me give you that opportunity."

There's a pregnant pause, both men unable to break away from the intensity of the eye contact.

"Thank you." There's no tears in Credence's eyes for once as he says this, with all the meaning he can muster, an overwhelming rush of gratitude towards the man standing but a few feet away spreading within him. Mister Graves, who had been but a refuge from the heavy weight of living, before Grindelwald came and ruined everything. And now, the former was back, and had shown Credence nothing but sincerity and kindness in the past twenty-four hours. Mister Graves might be a little more serious, a little warier, look as though he was trying to pretend what had happened to him hadn't broken him; but underneath, under all the fractured layers, all the walls, he was still the same man who had found a hurt boy weeping in an alleyway, and taken him home to heal him.

"C'mon, those groceries won't put themselves alway," Mister Graves says, but there's warmth in his voice as he spins around to begin descending the stairs, his cane thunking against the stairs.

As the other's dark head disappears out of sight, Credence feels the necklace through the fabric of his shirt and threadbare waistcoat. The familiar triangular shape, the metal warm from the skin of his sternum, comforts him as he ponders the emotions within him. The pure kindness being shown to him, with no expectation of reciprocation. Mister Graves truly seemed to have no ulterior motive, now that the Obscurus was destroyed, Credence notes. Possibly the first time in his life that Credence had had a relationship of some sort where the other person involved did not want something from him.

For the first time since the false Mister Graves' betrayal, he feels a trickle of trust filter through him, the fine grains settling within his heart, calming him. It would take time, and effort, and some caution...

But maybe, Mister Graves could heal Credence, once again. And maybe, Credence might be able to heal him, too.

Chapter 6: 6

Chapter Text

On the Monday the Fifth of February, 1927, three days after his discharge from the MACUSA infirmary, Mister Graves prepares to return to work.

He clumps down the stairs while Credence is in the midst of preparing breakfast, cane clicking as it meets each individual stair. The younger man had woken early, out of habit; Ma had the children at the orphanage up at the crack of dawn to do chores, and Credence wasn't sure he'd ever grow out of early mornings. So as a surprise for Mister Graves' return to work and for all his kindness, Credence had tiptoed downstairs, and after a bit of guilty rummaging around, had managed to find the bits and pieces necessary to make porridge. He hadn't much experience cooking, but he'd give it a try, determined to tentatively repay Mister Graves for the monumental generosity he had shown Credence.

"Morning," Mister Graves greets him, sweeping past the younger man as he enters the kitchen. He's already dressed for work, his typical black and white robe combined with dark trousers, a waistcoat and stark white shirt. He doesn't try to touch Credence as he skims past, which again leaves the boy feeling slightly disappointed, though he was unsure why he had been anticipating any sort of purposeful physical contact.

Catching sight of the simmering pot full of porridge on the stove in front of Credence, a wooden spoon peeking out over the metal rim, Mister Graves immediately begins to protest. "Credence, you really didn't have to do this, I don't expect you to-"

"I want to, Mister Graves," Credence argues back in earnest, before silencing himself, ducking his head slightly as his conscience reprimands him for interrupting.

When there is silence for several heartbeats, Credence finds it in himself to continue. "You've done so much for me, it's the least I can do."All I can do. "And I woke first, it seemed only fair..."

Mister Graves still doesn't seem satisfied, but he nods in agreement, and the discussion is dropped as he clatters around the sunlit kitchen to set the breakfast table, uneven footsteps sounding on the kitchen floor.

The noise triggers a sudden thought within Credence's mind as he pores over the glugging pot, porridge almost complete. "Will you always need the cane?" He queries, shooting a glance across the room, where Mister Graves is setting out their breakfast utensils.

"I bloody well hope not," comes the response, the other man taking a seat as Credence begins to ladle out spoonfuls of porridge into two bowls. "But I'm headed to the Infirmary first thing this morning, so I'm hoping they'll have good news for me. Either that I can get rid of the stick, or that they've found a cure."

A cure for the curse on his leg, Credence remembers, hand stilling. Grindelwald was a topic both of them seemed to dance around, and for good reason. But it would be a lot harder to avoid such a conversation as time passed. Mister Graves was now tasked with the investigation into the dark wizard, after all. And Grindelwald's trial would eventually come to pass, meaning Credence's host would almost certainly have to testify.

These dampening thoughts buoy Credence throughout the majority of breakfast, apart from comfortable, distracting conversation with Mister Graves about menial topics. Finally, when their bowls are empty, the washing up is finished, and Mister Graves is prepped and ready to head off to work, the older man approaches Credence across the kitchen. His expression is unfamiliarly apologetic, almost guilty, and this disconcerts Credence as he opens the smooth cupboard drawer to file away the crockery.

"Mister Graves?" He asks haltingly, searching for some sign within the other man's face, barely a foot or two away. Unconsciously, he feels his heart rate speed up slightly, and some small, long-suppressed voice within him screams a whisper that there is a body nearby, another person, who might embrace him, who might sate the starving desire he barely kept controlled nowadays.

"Credence, this is unfair of me to ask this of you," Mister Graves begins awkwardly, and he absently raises an elegant hand to rub the back of his neck, looking almost vulnerable as a streak of sunlight cuts across his cheek. Staying his trembling hands by his sides, Credence wills himself to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct within him will him to duck his head, shrug those shoulders and prepare for a crushing blow within his tissue paper heart. Did he have some difficult household task for Credence? Did he need an errand run? Or, heartrendingly, had his generous hospitality run out, and he needed Credence to leave, after the dream-like weekend they had spent together?

"I need you to stay here, inside the house, while I'm at work."

Credence exhales audibly, relief sagging his tightly-strung shoulders. Yet almost immediately, sharp curiosity bubbles within him, strongly enough that he lifts his head, and dark eyes are upon dark again.

"The house," Mister Graves said, with a general wave of his arm towards the sunlit windows, the closed back door nearby and the general direction of the front door down the quiet hall. "I've placed multiple protective enchantments around all entry and exit points. So hence if anyone tries to get in, or to leave, with the exception of me...." He shrugs, grimacing slightly, as Credence looks on, nonplussed, hand resting on the immaculate kitchen counter.

"But- um- well," Credence tries, brows furrowed. The residual tang of breakfast is sour in his mouth as his brain works overtime trying to understand, to comprehend what Mister Graves is trying to tell him. Staying in the house all day until Mister Graves returned from work was not the issue, though Credence was unsure how he would spend his day as yet. The real question was why did Mister Graves have the sudden urge to keep Credence inside, as though he was on house arrest? The abrupt lack of freedom after so many weeks being able to roam Manhattan as he pleased was certainly disconcerting.

Perhaps Credence's thoughts are showing on his face again, like air bubbles floating to the smooth surface of a lake. Or maybe Mister Graves can read minds. Because the wizard says, "I'm not trying to imprison you, Credence. I'm trying to protect you."

Protect him?! Rather than put his mind back at ease, Mister Graves' words only serve to agitate and bewilder Credence further, the catching of the sun on the window pane making him squint slightly from the glare. "From what?..." He trails off, wary.

Mister Graves purses his lips, exhaling with a quiet hissing noise. That slightly uncomfortable expression was still plain upon his face, which did nothing to relieve Credence of the pressing fear beginning to wind its way around his throat.

"Credence, do you remember what happened down in those train tunnels, weeks ago?"

At those words, a fuzzy recollection of the night in question begins to play automatically, like one of those 'films' Credence had always heard about in the street but never had the opportunity to see. The thing that had lurked within him, the Obscurus, bursting out, grasping his limbs in misty tendrils that were as strong and ice cold as iron- soaring through the Manhattan sky, colliding with brick and glass and cars and God knew what else, nothing but the desire to scream and destroy and hurt, hurt others the way he was hurting, deep raw claw marks on his black heart- flickers of faces, civilians, Tina Goldstein, who once had helped him, and Not-Graves begging, face upturned, expression radiant, admiring, the way Credence had always hoped the true Mister Graves, who stood in front of him now would look at him- then lurking, floating along the darkest shadows of the Central train tunnels, as a man with startlingly bright blue eyes, an askew mop of auburn hair and a soft, friendly voice talked to him, spoke to him, in a way that said friend, friend, someone for Credence to trust. Then flashes of that bright blue light, screams, tears blurring Credence's vision as his heart feels it might crumble right then and there with the sheer force of emotional distress, then more jets of blue light, except they're hitting him, and they hurt, he screams and screams as each one hits, making his soul stagger, feeling the growing feeling of something vibrating harder and harder, a tremor deep within him before he splinters, shards rocketing off in all directions, before he rose up and up and up, weightless, numb, eyelids flickering in the blinding white-

Credence is breathing hard when he comes to himself, still standing in Mister Graves kitchen, fingers digging painfully into the kitchen countertop. "Yes," he breathes to Mister Graves, face stricken. He remembered it all, in nightmarish high definition.

"The MACUSA Aurors attacked you," Mister Graves adds quietly. "They destroyed the Obscurus within you."

Credence manages a nod, but his thoughts still whir within him as he tries to connect the dots between the two topics. Leaving Mister Graves' house and the events in the train tunnels, appeared to have no correlation, and yet....

"From what I've learnt, from what the President relayed to me during my stay in the Infirmary, there was no trace of the Obscurus after it was destroyed," Mister Graves continues, adjusting his stance slightly, the dark buttons on his waistcoat gleaming like little beady eyes from the morning sun. "Nor of you, for that matter, since you rose out of the tunnel ceiling, with that last shred of power. No one saw you leave the tunnel. No one saw you, after the Obscurus was obliterated."

There's a glimmer of an idea, a single, dull thread between the two things beginning to take shape, as Credence slowly, painstakingly begins to comprehend an inkling of something. He hardly dares to breathe as Mister Graves speaks again, tone laced with revelation.

"Credence, both worlds, No-Maj and wizarding- they think you're dead."

And the pin finally drops, as Credence understands. Why no one had noticed when he, barely conscious, had been lifted up and out of that ragged gash in the New York pavement by featherlight fibers in the breeze. Why he'd received odd looks from passerbys occasionally when he prowled the streets before Mister Graves' return. Why the man had been so shocked to see him...

Another thought sparks to life.But if he was presumed dead, surely that would permit Credence more freedom? With no one looking for him, why did he have to stay inside? Hesitantly, Credence voices this, but Mister Graves, as always, is prepared.

"When dead people walk, questions are asked, suspicions are raised and courses of action are taken," the older man says seriously, forehead lined with concern. "Credence, MACUSA didn't kill you by accident. They cursed to kill, to remove the threat. To make sure you-"

There's a pregnant pause, the tension freezing the air around them, until Mister Graves says, haltingly, reluctantly, "To make sure you wouldn't hurt anyone again."

There's no physical blow, but Credence feels the sting spread across his chest at those words, the breath sucked out of his lungs. The gaping, raw ache within him that would not heal, the cost of the destruction he wreaked upon Manhattan, upon people, real people. The blind terror on that senator's face when the life was pulled from him, the hollow shell of Ma hitting the ground, along with Chastity, and the orphanage itself when the Obscurus broke free of the confines of Credences body with an earsplitting roar. Street windows smashing, bricks crumbling into dust, people's livelihoods gone at the touch of that obsidian force Credence let out. He had let it, that was what ate him alive inside- he'd let it break, ruin, kill and terrify, and did naught to stop it, to try and resist the overwhelming, steel-edged drive to obliterate everything and anything.

"I never meant to hurt anyone, Mister Graves, never," Credence chokes out, tears he doesn't even register dripping onto his smooth cheeks. The guilt and shame threatens to crush him like a paper bag, scrunched up and tossed aside, and when Mister Graves sets forward to pull Credence to him, the boy clings on as the waves of emotion break upon him.

"When He made me lead him to- to Modesty, he thought she was the one- I got so angry, I thought everything was a lie, and-," The sobs become uncontrollable momentarily as Credence battles with himself, to finally come clean with what had been eating him up inside for so long, Mister Graves on tenterhooks, unmoving, waiting for the pin to drop. "I let it win," Credence whispers devastatingly, tears sheeting down his face as the pure shame slams into his body. "I let that thing, the Obscurus, take control. I- I didn't want to stop it."

"I hurt so many people, Mister Graves," he whimpers, caving in on himself, even as the other man makes a soothing noise, cradling the back of Credence's neck. "I didn't mean to, but I did it anyway. I-I'm a monster, I don't deserve to-I was upset, or angry, and-"

"Shhh," Mister Graves comforts him, steadfast arms holding Credence securely as the younger man releases his pent-up anguish, the sounds of his pain echoing in the silent house.

"Fate dealt you a cruel hand, my boy, through no fault of your own. I believe you, that you didn't mean it," He continues gently, cupping Credence's tear stained face in a warm hand. "But MACUSA doesn't. They saw you as highly dangerous, a threat to the confidentiality of the wizarding world...which they removed."

"Credence, they don't know the Obscurus that resided within you is gone," The older man divulges quietly, umber eyes and words solemn. "So if they were to get wind that you were still living and breathing..."

"They would find me and kill me." Credence says the words in a whisper, calmly, numbly. The revelation should shake him to his very core, but he feels nothing. Nothing apart from the world seemingly to have lost its gravity, and that the slightest gust of wind could send him floating away into the endless abyss.

Dimly, Credence acknowledges is Mister Graves speaking again, something about why it had been safe for Credence to leave the house when they went shopping on Saturday, and he regrounds himself, forcing his subconscious to pay attention in a bid to escape the frightening numbness germinating within him, like a climbing plant slowly conquering a brick wall.

"I was there to protect you, and would have got you out of there at the first sign of trouble," The older man reassures Credence, and the words ring true somewhere within the quiet confines of his conscience. Whilst what Mister Graves is asking of him disconcerts him, he could not deny he felt safer in the wizard's presence then out of it. As though, for once, Credence didn't have to fend for himself anymore, that there was someone to do it for him.

So he genuinely listens when Mister Graves explains that as a wandless, amateur wizard with 'bugger-all training, no offense', Credence would have been near helpless if someone from MACUSA came across him, recognised him and apprehended him. "It's a miracle you survived for months without being discovered," Mister Graves murmurs, lost in thought, before snapping to attention. "Then again, pretty much everything about you has been miraculous of late."

Credence flushes slightly at the compliment, ducking his head subtly. Mister Graves' kind words never failed to affect him so, the numbness lessening slightly as his conscience quietly jumps up and down with glee at the thought of someone regarding him with affection. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but nevertheless, he craved more, always.

To Credence's relief, Mister Graves promises that he can leave the house alone when he is properly trained as a wizard, with decent skill in magical self-defence. The lack of timeline for such freedom daunts him; it could take many months, years for Credence to reach a level of magical accomplishment that Mister Graves was satisfied enough with to let Credence venture out alone. But his subconscious urges him to have faith in Mister Graves' judgement, and to have patience. Having a safe place to call home was blessing enough, especially when one had never been afforded such a privilege before.

"Credence," Mister Graves says, and the boy snaps out of his reverie, refocusing upon the hands that gripped his upper arms firmly, but not harshly through his layers of clothing, their warmth heating his lukewarm skin. There's a hint of pleading authority in the older man's chestnut eyes, and Credence ponders briefly what will follow.

"I need your word that you will do as I ask, Credence. I apologise that this is how it has to be; but I wouldn't be doing this unless it was absolutely necessary for your safety."

In the silence after the words, Credence watches Mister Graves' face pick up wariness, a slight twitch near his eye potentially indicating a touch of anxiety as the wizard assess, waiting for Credence's reaction, a reply of some sort. And when the boy inclines his head into a nod, murmuring "You have my word, I won't leave the house,", the grip on Credence's arms relaxes, and the wizard draws him in for another embrace, uttering a quiet, relieved "Thank you."

Maybe it's the still unfamiliar feeling of being shown so much affection, or the weight of Mister Graves' revelation pressing down upon him. But tears once again well in Credence's eyes, and a shuddering sob escapes him as he buries his head into the relative dark of Mister Graves' shoulder as consolatory noises sound quietly in his ears.

Its remorse, and pain, pain at the hurt he had caused. Credence cries for the lives he had snuffed out like a hand passing over a candle's flame, not knowing the strength of his suffering had only fuelled the Obscurus. He had done nothing but break things, break lives.

Credence raises his damp face up from Mister Graves' shoulder, to look his protector square in the eyes, chin still wobbling slightly. He can phrase it clearly now, feelings momentarily coherent in the tangle of his consciousness. The desire to cast off the chains of his past, that threatened to hold him down, and forge himself anew. To break free.

"Teach me how to do good, Mr Graves."

The other wizard doesn't miss a beat as his hand once again ghosts over Credence's cheek.

"I will, my boy. I will."

Chapter 7: 7

Chapter Text

The morning air is slightly cool, whispering against Graves' face when he clumps out his front door to begin the commute to work. Descending the front steps, cane clutched in his left hand, his feet meet the sidewalk, and the fresh air filling his lungs and sharpening his mind.

An automobile belonging to a house down the street passes him, the fumes of the petrol clouding his nostrils and the dull roar of the powering mechanism within momentarily deafening Graves. He's one of the few in the affluent neighbourhood that doesn't own one of the flashy, sputtering machines. But wizards had no use for expensive things like cars, not when things like Apparition were so much more convenient, not to mention quicker. Besides, it wasn't as though he made a habit of giving a rat's arse what his neighbours thought; not when he was forbidden by law from fraternising with them.

As he reaches the end of his street, something makes Graves flick his head over his shoulder, gaze trained on the familiar inky wood of his front door. He almost expects to see Credence slip out the door and make a run for it, after their conversation barely five minutes prior. But if the boy tried to leave, he would know in a second, and his conscience berates him for having so little faith in the young wizard-in-training, as he turns back around and limps out of sight of the spotless entrance.

It troubles him to leave Credence all alone in the house. There wasn't a lot to amuse young men in Graves' home, unfortunately. He'd mentioned to the boy about some books he had in his study, but none of them were sure to interest him.

Was it left at the corner near Abbott's Florist, or right? If only he could bloody Apparate, instead of being forced to traverse the buzzing rabbit's warren of Manhattan streets, Graves thinks longingly. He's loath to risk it, like he did on Friday; his leg has been giving him hell ever since. He goes left, and prays to whatever asshole of a higher power existed that Sydell would give him the all-clear for Apparition that morning. If she didn't murder im for doing it three days prior, of course.

Credence would be fine though. The boy was resourceful, there was no doubt about that; his survival during Grave's extended absence was testament. He'd be sure to find something to entertain himself with. And besides, it wasn't as though Credence had been resentfully housebound either, to Graves' relief. Whilst it had pained him to reveal to the boy the wizarding world's disposition towards Obscurials, even reformed ones, and the subsequent emotional outpouring that had followed such revelations, the information had seemingly convinced Credence that Graves' house was the safest place to be.

The boy occupied his thoughts more than Graves would be keen to admit as he continues his journey through the swarm of grey-toned coats on the sidewalk, his accursed cane useful when it came to jostling people out of the way. Credence's emotional instability, characterised by his sudden tearful breakdowns, was unsurprising, yet deeply concerning...

Shopping with Credence had encompassed practically all of Saturday. Graves recallshow hesitant and unassuming Credence was in the fitting rooms of Mrs Morgotha', always looking to Graves for permission, visibly battling with himself to push down the burgeoning excitement that had taken hold of his waif-like frame. The modest, plain clothing the boy had waveringly chosen, clearly uncomfortable with such freedom, until Graves heavily reassured him that he was free to try anything and everything the shop had to offer. And Credence's mortification at the expense of his new wardrobe had been another clear indicator of the boy's pitiful self-worth.

The further fact Credence had questioned Graves' motives during their luncheon, so disbelieving that someone could be kind to him for no reason other than want- Graves would've felt a stabbing ache of empathy in his heart, if the unresponsive lump of meat could so much as feel. Then there was Credence's first attempt at magic; a bad move on Graves' part, due to his lack of proficiency with people in general, let alone as an instructor to a very delicate boy. The next magic lesson would involve less breakable items, he decides, and a great deal more tact on Graves' part. He didn't want the boy breaking down every time he didn't perform magic perfectly.

Ok, so maybe that was an understatement. Another spike punches through Graves' heart at the memory of Credence's tearstained face when the glass shattered, exposing his back, limbs taut as the boy waited for a blow that never came. It takes a moment for him to realise he's paused in the middle of the road, with the horn of an automobile blaring at him, driver yelling something unintelligible but surely offensive. Humiliated, Graves hurries for the safety of the footpath in front of him, before his thoughts once again return to his mysterious young charge.

Credence had endured unimaginable suffering, that much was evident. And every time more proof of this fact was revealed, it rattled Graves to his very core. That someone could wilfully ruin that boy so meticulously, breaking his spirit, any semblance of confidence....

A left at the end of this avenue, then across the street and a right, dodging around the moustached workman carrying the large wooden crate and the henpecked mother shepherding a flock of boisterous children. Graves had been trying to avoid physical contact with Credence, if he was honest. Not because he didn't want to touch the boy; but rather in good faith, to try and silently convince Credence that he wasn't trying to manipulate him, that his intentions were pure. And to give the boy the space he needed, after being stifled in that orphanage for so long. But there was something in those fathomlessly deep eyes that screamed to be touched, to feel physical comfort, and Graves gave in against his better judgement every single time. Anything to ease Credence's pain, in the wasteland of his sense of self.

The boy needed healing. To build his strength, and brick by brick, reassemble himself from the rubble of his former life. To build himelf bigger, stronger, and to become who he was destined to be. And Graves would do anything and everything within his power to help him, he swore to himself determinedly. In the middle of the footpath on Broadway, surrounded by people who neither knew or cared about the damaged boy shut up inside just another townhouse on Washington Mews.

Credence was far too thin however, despite his naturally slim frame. Graves was going to have to try and feed him up, three hearty meals a day, even though he himself was in the habit of random meals, shovelling miscellaneous food in inbetween paperwork and meetings. His eating habits hadn't exactly improved of late, with Him feeding Graves just enough to keep him alive... He hadn't been the nurturing type....But Sydell had been determined Graves would eat properly in her Infirmary, and he'd put on weight, pants were tighter than usual. But Credence needed to eat more, he looked peaky enough as it was- listen to him, clucky like some overbearing mother hen! Graves is darkly thankful no one can read his mind, or at least he hopes so. Not with his skill at Occlumency, anyway.

The Woolworth Building looms out of seemingly nowhere, the journey quick after being consumed by his thoughts. Graves feet seem to stop themselves when he comes within fifty yards of the buildings entrance, neck craned up to the cloud-streaked sky to see the familiar skyscraper disappearing out of view into the atmosphere, the truth halting him.

It's his first day back at work since Him.

Who are you? The sinister voice that haunts his dreams breathes in the recesses of his consciousness, and it takes all of Graves strength to not respond, to let the whisper fade to quiet in the buzzing city.

He'd had been simultaneously champing at the bit and dreading this day, as he paces onward, robes swishing around him. But now that the day was upon him, he just had to man up and face it.The prospect of his familiar office, the usual stack of paperwork piled neatly in the lefthand corner, memos pattering in and out on their tiny paper feet was inviting. Yet the nature of his impending labour was deeply unsavoury...

The wizarding guard to the right of the door gives him a onceover, before nodding with a furtive "Director Graves, sir," stepping aside for Graves to enter the building. He steels himself, willing his shoulders to relax, his body to stand tall,and his gait to be unhalting, damn the blasted limp, as he strides into the headquarters of the Magical Congress of the United States of America.

The usual flurry of movement of no-Majs and wizards greets Graves, and it's as though he never left. He starts up the ornate stairs, passing between the twin golden eagles that flanked the thoroughfare, and moves across the sunlit, gold-tinged floor. The clock is fixed, he notes with a glance at the enormous contraption suspended high above the building floor. The hands of the Magical Exposure Threat Level Measurer now point to a much calmer blue section of 'High Alert', rather than being stuck on the ominous orange of 'Severe: Unexplained Activity' during the midst of the Obscurial attacks, when Graves had last set eyes on the historic timepiece.

Several people greet Graves in passing- associates from other MACUSA departments, an intern from Law Enforcement running an errand. He manages to nod his head in acknowledgement as they brush past him, and focuses every fibre of his being on making it into the opulent elevator. He used to traverse these halls with confidence, in his element- so why does he feel so diminished, with a voice inside him screaming to run, run far away from this place, these people?

Because he doesn't feel safe here. Because a monster with his face traversed these halls, walked up those elegant stairs, nodded to these people. And not a single soul had noticed, or cared enough to realise it wasn't actually Graves. Their apologies were grass, crushed beneath the heavy boot of his own pain.

He directs the goblin bellhop to Level 58, the Infirmary floor, and when the gold latticed doors slide open Graves finally feels he can breathe a little easier. He doesn't like small, dark spaces, not when they are far too reminiscent of a long dark drop yawning up at him from the confines of a suitcase, walls pressing in on him, alone, alone-

After a quick examination of his leg, and a test run, Sydell and Cyprian give Graves the go-ahead for Apparition. He thanks them sincerely, and Sydell makes him promise to come in for a checkup weekly, in order to make sure that his leg was healing smoothly. And of course, to see if any progress could be made to remove the curse from the offending limb, which as of late had been lacking.

"We're doing everything we can to look for even the slightest hint of something," Cyprian reassured Graves, "It's just hard to know where to look- we've never dealt with anything even remotely close to this before."

"But we've managed to narrow it down, right?" Sydell says almost too cheerfully, possibly sensing the hopelessness welling inside Graves. "We'll just keep looking."

Graves doesn't know how much more there could be left to look for, but he thanks them for their tireless efforts anyway, and departs so Sydell can administer a puce-coloured potion a witch who had just arrived, sprouting small saplings where her hands should be.

It's finally time to face the music, and Graves once again tries to calm his slightly rapid breathing, cursing his body's betrayal as the elevator rises again, up and up before finally stopping with a metallic clang, the female voiceover coolly announcing, "Level 63, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including Major Investigation Department, the..."

This was his department. His people. Why was he so goddamn f*cking nervous?! Pull yourself together Percival, bloody hell.

Shaking himself, Graves pulls himself together just in time as the female announcer ends her spiel with "Director of Magical Security," the elevator door slides soundlessly open, and he manages to stride out with some semblance of his usual air of power and authority into the buzzing hive of activity that he could traverse blind, deaf and dumb.

Level 63 is controlled chaos as usual, and momentarily it's as though nothing has changed. Like this singular level has transcended the passing of time, as Graves descends the small steps and onto the obsidian-hued marble floor. The youthful interns from this department or that dashing back and forth with coffees, rolls of parchment or other miscellaneous objects, faces pink with exertion. The scraping of quills on innumerable pieces of parchment from the rows of tawny desks. The constant din of what could be considered a small army of people, familiar voices just a decibel away from deafening. Murmurs, shouts across the room, animated conversations, authoritative directions- a maelstrom of activity and noise so comfortingly familiar that Graves almost pauses to soak it all in.

Just like any other morning. Like an invisible demon hadn't ripped through Graves' carefully curated existence. He had thought he was untouchable, comfortable in his own authority, safe in the knowledge that he was revered, respected. What an utter f*cking fool he had been.

Who are you?

There's a quiet sweeping over the expansive room, like a gust of wind whispering through the leaves of trees. Faces, one after the other, turn to him, a myriad of reactions. Surprise, shock, awkwardness, sympathy. God, it's terrifying.

"Welcome back, Mister Graves," is uttered by Louelle Vasquez, Picquery's Chief of Staff, and bleated by the Law Enforcement admin, a little squeak by his right shoulder. And suddenly they're all murmuring at him as he walks through the middle aisle of the desks. The Aurors and their stalwart chief, Evan Limus. Some of the Major Investigation task force officers, heads together with the Magical Security crew over a piece of parchment, that are raised as Graves walks on. And a few faces from other departments within bowels of Wizarding Congress, from Wand Permit, Surveillance, even No-Maj misinformation. All those honey-sweet words of welcome and propriety, that don't mean a f*cking thing because they don't know him enough to be glad he's back. The only thing they know is his name, his coffee order, what toppings he likes on his hot dog and that when they f*ck up, he yells at them til they un-f*ck up whatever it is they f*cked up......

He's their boss. Their commanding officer, who they blindly obey, nothing more. And the realisation which used to comfort him now only wounds Graves further.

But he can't let them see. He needs their respect, not their pity. So he nods to Aurors, interns, Magical Security officers and the rest, mechanically grimacing at the ones he knows slightly better in the sea of faces. And Graves pushes on, one feigned confident step after the other, even as it feels as though a strong current is pushing against him, imagined water lapping against his thighs, trying to shove him back, into the elevator and away. Each stride is a silent struggle.

The short staircase leading to his corridor seemed so far way, despite being mere metres from him. He will not crumble. Not here. Not now.

"Welcome back, sir!"

"Graves, sir."

"Mr Graves..."

He pauses at the very end of the desks, using his cane to spin in the opposite direction. Now is his moment. To prove himself to them, like a wounded deer surrounded by a pack of wolves. Except he was not some helpless f*cking prey, trembling for death- he was a predator, and his claws, though chipped, were still sharp.

"Thank you all for the warm welcome." Graves' voice is cool, clipped and calm, commanding authority just as he'd hoped. Gracious enough to not seem sarcastic, but with no chinks in his armour. He musters what he hopes is the usual calculating, piercing look in his eyes as he surveys the gaggle of bodies in front of him. "I trust in my absence, that this floor has not gone to complete and utter sh*te?"

There's a chorus of "No, sir," voices sounding less tentative this time.

"Then don't we have some workwe should be doing?" Graves raises his eyebrows expectantly, eyes flickering from expression to expression. He clicks his fingers. "Get on with it."

"Yes, sir"'s hit his retreating back, but there's no bite in the words, as usual. His department have fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. They think that he's fine, back to his usual self, the curt boss with the iron-hard drive that they either adore or detest with passion. That That Man was just a bump in the round, and nothing had changed.

And that's enough to propel up Graves up the stairs and down the cool quiet corridor to his obsidian office door without breaking.

*****

Fives minutes after Graves manages to finish convincing himself that it's fine, he's survived the hardest part of the process, calmed his ragged breathing and the voice in his head, there's a knock at his door.

It's Mohini Agnihotri, Picquery's personal assistant, that peeks around the dark wood door with a slight air of tentativity, her lush dark plait sliding off her shoulder.

"Mr Graves, sir?"

"Come in," He responds, words containing an accidental trace of weariness. No weakness.

The young woman breezes in with her usual faster-than-normal gait, coming to a stop before his desk as she briskly babbles away.

"First of all, Madam President wishes you a warm welcome back, which I'm sure she'll do in person promptly. Also, Dorcas from Law Enforcement is on leave, Burrowes is filling in-"

The familiarity of Mohini's spiels makes Graves relax slightly. It's reassuring to finally have someone treat him like normal, like he's not made of f*cking glass. Or it is, until a pot plant plops onto the centre of his desk.

"A welcome back gift, from me," Mohini says a decibel quieter, smoothing the front of her muted plum robes with a nervous hand, the other toying with the end of her plait.

Dammit, he'd hoped there wouldn't be any of this. They knew he hated gifts, Graves remembers, he had voiced that very fact profusely during his years as an Auror, and now as Director. There'sa flicker of irritation, but then it's overcome with amusem*nt. A pot plant, of all things.

At least this would give Credence something to do. Graves manages a polite and potentially sardonic "Thank you," to the awkwardly fidgeting young woman, as his brain entertains the humourous notion of Credence tending to the Flutterby bush. The boy had probably never gardened in his life.

"Is there anything else?" Graves asks casually, reclining in his desk chair. Mohini's eyes spark with realisation, and her bubbly demeanour returns.

"Oh yes! Madame Picquery sent me to inform you that there's to be a meeting at fifteen past nine in the Major Investigations Conference Room, for all involved in the investigation of-"

Mohini pauses, face alarmed. "Of the European Terrorist," she said slowly, almost guiltily, and whilst Graves is grateful she didn't let slip His name, his stomach still clenches uncomfortably.

"Right," he replies with what he hopes passes as disinterest. "Thank you. That will be all, Miss Agnihotri."

"Mr Graves," she squeaks in farewell, before speeding for the door.

Graves feels an odd sense of calm permeate him, a numbness as he limps down the corridor and further in the direction of the west end of the floor. Occasionally he'll pass someone in the corridor who'll murmur his name in acknowledgement, or some memos will scamper past in the tubes overhead. But he just carries on, mechanically, unfeelingly. Like this left turn, and that right one lead him to places unknown, where he can sleep for a thousand years, untroubled. Until they forget That Man, until Graves does too, and the world crumbles to dust around his shoulders.

But he'll face it. He must. The conference room door creaks slightly as he clumps inside, and Graves slots his game face into place. There's a good dozen people in the dark-hued, cavernous room, and he notes their faces as he approaches the wide table at the epicentre. Picquery at the centre of one of the sides, Carneirus to her right, and Limus to her left. The remainder, a pair of Aurors in their trademark brown leather coats, three Major Investigation Officials, some Law Enforcement officers, and one or two assistants crowd around the edges of the table. Everyone shuffles to make room for Graves as he grows closer, stalking around the table until he comes to a stop directly opposite the President herself.

"Graves," the woman herself greets him, nodding to him, as all around the table seem to stand a little straighter.

"Madame President," he returns politely, leaning his cane against the edge of the wooden table and bracing his weight on his palms.

"So good to have you back. Would you like a chair?..." The President trails off, and Graves' cheeks would be burning, were he not a grown man who never blushed.

She thought him incapable. Did she really think he would be so foolish as to show weakness and infirmityin the presence of his inferiors? He thinks not. To be the only one seated whilst the rest stood would be deeply humiliating.

"No thank you, I'll be fine," he says stiffly, even as his leg twinges in discomfort. Picquery doesn't seem convinced, eyes narrowing subtly, but she lets the matter slide.

"This is the largest investigation to be conducted within the Magical Congress of the United States of America within this century, and some time beyond that," the President begins, and an air of severity seeps into the room, dropping the temperature slightly.

"MACUSA's innermost sanctum was breached, repeatedly, by a dangerous, intelligent dark wizard, and this entire building remained oblivious." Picquery clasps her hands behind her back, drawing herself up to her full height.

"Operation Demiguise, as it shall be known from this point forward, is tasked with the investigation of this person," Picquery continues diplomatically, almost tonelessly.

Demiguise. The word sounds familiar as Graves rolls it around his mouth, grasping at shreds of memory that rise like wisps of smoke. But he can't seem to get a firm hold of it, so reluctantly, he tunes in once again to Picquery.

"Those involved are charged with uncovering everything there is to know about Him- his history, how long He was here, who he talked to; I want details on every single conversation he had."

"Beg, borrow and steal if you must." The President's tone is low, yet so icy, a shiver slides down the spine of the assistant positioned next to Graves. "We will get to the bottom of this. I want no stone left unturned. Do I make myself clear?"

There's a murmur of assent that circles around the table, from person to person, and momentarily, Picquery's severe demeanour becomes one of satisfaction. Until the icy walls shoot back up, and she resumes her role as the demanding authoritarian leader.

The investigative team would meet weekly in the chamber, Graves learns. The chamber was to be reserved solely for this investigation for the foreseeable future, until sufficient damning evidence was gathered to put forth in the trial, which as of yet had no set date.

The murmur of the President's voice fades out of Graves' attention as a flicker of movement catches his eye on the table. It's covered with heaps of parchment, stacks strewn hapzardly across the glossy wooden surface. Summaries of facts, lists of witnesses, photographs-

Photographs.

There's one right in front of him, the one that caught his eye. A wizard, in dark black formal robes, stark white shirt almost blending in with his transclucent, pale skin. Hair that matched the bleached white of the shirt, slicked back, yet the albino strands stuck up and out at odd angles, like the windblown feathers of a bird. A similarly pale moustache adorns his upper lip, and the the demeanour of the man was casual, shoulders relaxed, expression slightly bored. But his eyes disconcert Graves; the colourless orbs have a sinister look about them, calculating, sly, darting from place to place. There's something familiar in them that makes icicles form in Graves' stomach. He squints a little closer, bending over the picture.

The man has the same collar pins as him, tiny scorpions. Except Graves....hadn't been able to find his since- oh my f*cking god-

Graves barely dares to look, breath frozen in his lungs, but his eyes seem to flick down to the caption below of their own accord. Scrawled in the corner, in spiky black ink, 'Gellert Grindelwald.'

There's no pain, the words aren't said out loud. But he swears he sees Him smirk slightly, tiny photographic eyes meeting his own. This was Him. That man. He'd never seen him before, not even during his capture, nor before that, when the name had simply been a distant threat. But this demon had a face now, that was not his own. Another one to join his nightmares. Gorge rises in Graves' throat.

But unflinchingly, mechanically, he swallows the sour-tasting bile, and raises his head once again, hollowly listening to whatever the f*ck Picquery is saying now. Even as every nerve in his body screams, pleads with him to rip that piece of parchment to shreds, shove everything off the table and run far, far away. Run home, to Credence, and never return.

*****

Tina Goldstein arrives at Graves' office less than five minutes after he tells Kerr from the Auror Office to send her his way.

The whiff of anxiety and stale hot dogs enters the room before the woman herself, giving Graves that extra second to stow away the photograph, and his brooding thoughts. The memory of their conversation in the Infirmary those weeks ago floats back, but he pushes it away. There was no room for that weakness in these halls, not today.

"Goldstein," he greets her levelly, leaning back in his chair to survey the woman as she gives a nervous wave and smile in return. "Shut the door".

There's pure unadulterated panic on Goldstein's face momentarily, before it's masked by her coiffed brunette bob as she closes his office door behind her, and spinning around like a top, leans her back against the door, looking even more so like a trapped animal.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" the wavering note in her voice again leaves the room rank with the scent of her panic, despite the weak smile she tries to muster to her face. It would almost be amusing to Graves, under normal circ*mstances.

"Indeed," Graves returns, adjusting his weight to lean both his elbows on his desk, surveying her slightly sweaty face keenly. He gestures with one hand to the chair around the other side of his desk. "Take a seat."

Tentitavely, the Auror crosses the room with her usual awkward, bumbling gait, before plopping into the seat proffered, nervously patting her hair. And then the agitated diatribe starts. "Have I done something, Mr Graves, sir? Because I swear I've stayed out of trouble like you asked me, I haven't been snooping around anywhere I shouldn't, did someone- am I suspended again?!-"

"No, Goldstein-" Graves tries futilely, bewildered by the sudden tidal wave of dialogue, and the spray continues, babbling on and on, until he finally cries exasperatedly, "Enough!"

The tone of his voice is enough to shock her into wide-eyed silence, and Graves takes a moment to massage his temple with two fingers before he speaks, quieter this time. "This has nothing to do with your job, Goldstein".

Goldstein relaxes visibly, deflating like a balloon, murmuring something about '"scaring the stuffing," out of her, before Graves interrupts again. "I'd prefer it enormously if we could keep work entirely separate from this matter, actually."

"Huh?" The woman thinks over his words, before her eyebrows shoot sky-high. "Mr Graves?" she says a tad bashfully, awkwardly, a blush heating up her cheeks. "Are you propositioning me?"

What?!

"No," he says frustratedly, clapping a hand to his forehead. Women. "God, no. Nothing like that."

Goldstein looks slightly put out, but Graves persists, desperate for the awkward demeanour to dissolve, wishing he could speak plainly. "Just come- come to my house, tonight. Eight o'clock. There's something you need to see."

"Mr Graves, why-," Goldstein begins again, concerned, but he hushes her, voice low again. "Please, Tina. Tonight, at eight. Tell no one."

They both know these walls have ears. More so than ever before, after That Man, when Picquery stormed around like a human tempest herself.So maybe there's just enough pleading in his eyes, or Goldstein decides to take pity on what she must see as a man whose lost his marbles, but she agrees nodding her head. "Alright," she says, a tad warily, to Graves' relief.

"Thank you," he returns sincerely, and with another reminder not to tell a single soul, he shows her out.

Chapter 8: 8

Chapter Text

The front door unlocks without a key, the resounding click making Credence freeze comically on the spot, bent over the stove, wooden spoon in hand. Someone was home.

Mister Graves was home. Finally.

He doesn't rush down the dark hallway to the door, even though he desperately, desperately wants to. Credence absently stirs the pot of stew, steam vapour caressing his hairless cheeks, and listens. To click of the hall lamp being lit, the resounding thud of the heavy front door closing, the rattle of a coat being hung upon the umbrella stand. The hiss of the lamp turning off. And footsteps and the click of a cane, drawing closer, and closer, closer...

"Mister Graves!"

Credence cringes slightly at how keen his voice sounds, turning abruptly on his heel as the man himself limps haltingly into the kitchen.

"Hello Credence," the older man returns with the hint of a smile, shoulders losing just a touch of tension as their eyes lock momentarily. He inhales visibly, before his eyes flick to the pot partially concealed by Credence's back.

"Credence, you shouldn't have...you already made breakfast..."

"It's fine, Mister Graves, really," Credence says hastily, spinning around to stir the stew once more. He couldn't well burn it, not now. He had to prove he was of some use. "It's not as though I had much to do anyway."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could grab them out of the air and stuff them back in again. Cringing imperceptibly from shame, Credence reprimands himself for insulting Mister Graves' already overly generous hospitality. What did it matter if he was bored, so long as he had a roof over his head and food on the table? Ma would belt him for being so ungrateful.

But Mister Graves can read his features like a book, unfortunately. With a guilty glance at his mentor, Credence ponders if the man had telekinetic powers, too. Mister Graves gazes at him contemplatively, no annoyance or insult visible upon his face.

"Don't feel guilty, Credence. It's the truth." The elder wizard smiles that half-grimacing smile of his."Once we get you a wand, your boredom will be cured, trust me."

Credence nods furtively in acknowledgement, scuffing a foot on the floorboards.

"And," Mister Graves continues on a lighter note, "I seem to have come upon something that might help, in the meantime."

The Flutterby bush pops into existence out of thin air, and Credence almost drops it in his frantic haste to catch it. "What's this?" He queries hesitantly. The pot plant nestles safely in his arms, wiggling its few green leaves merrily.

"A Flutterby bush," Mister Graves remarks with a hint of amusem*nt. "A colleague gifted it to me as a 'welcome back' gift."

"Unfortunately, I'm neither skilled nor interested in the finer points of gardening," the older man continues, sliding both hands into his pockets casually. "So if it would please you, it's yours. They're relatively easy to care for, from what I've heard. I'll pick you up a book on Herbology before work tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mister Graves," Credence returns, a tiny matchstick of joy lighting up his chest. Another little piece of something to call his own. He places the plant upon the kitchen windowsill, overlooking the alleyway, and resumes his place at the stove.

"How was your day?" Credence asks, awkwardness temporarily forgotten in his haze of good spirits.

"Stomachable," comes the response, plates clinking as Mister Graves set the table. "Nothing particularly of interest."

There's a silence, heavy with things unsaid. Credence can almost hear them. Slithering around the room, between the table legs, rising up to whisper at the tips of his ears as he switches off the stove.

But they dissolve into thin air when Mister Graves queries, "And how was yours?"

"My what?"

"Your day, Credence."

"Oh." No one's ever asked him that before. It was odd, yet nice to feel that someone actually cared about how his day had unfolded.

"Um," he wracks his brains, scrambling.

Same old, same old, really. Credence had spent his day similarly to many others he had survived in the house before Mister Graves returned- cleaning, reading, and a little bit of cooking. He'd managed to get a quill in Mister Graves' study to zoom into his hands from a foot away too. But the hours without the older man seemed to stretch elastically, on and on, until Credence was checking the stately grandfather clock in the hall constantly, waiting for Mister Graves to come home.

"It was fine," he settles upon after what feels like a long pause. "I dusted all the rooms, and mopped the bathroom," he adds unthinkingly. But as the squelch of stew hit the dinner bowl, he froze. Did Mister Graves mind Credence entering all the rooms in the house? Had he crossed a line?

The look of concern on Mister Graves' face when Credence glances over his shoulder at him makes his knees almost crumple between him. He's upset. Icicles form in the lining of his stomach, stabbing at his organs, and his throat seems to close in on itself. He's ruined it all, on this tightrope he seems to walk his life upon.

"Credence, when I said you should amuse yourself while I was at work, I didn't mean you should be doing the housework!"

His tense shoulders deflate suddenly with relief, and Credence basks in the feeling momentarily.

"I don't expect you to play housemaid," Mister Graves continues, tone pained, voice slightly louder as he approaches the kitchen bench. "You didn't sign up for that."

"And you didn't sign up to come home to frightened orphan boy squatting in your house," Credence replies before he can stop himself, midway through spooning stew into an empty bowl.

Stock-still as he realises the gravity of his words, Credence raises his head to look at Mister Graves. "You've done so much for me, Mister Graves," he stammers awkwardly, finding his courage.

You take care of me. Let me take care of you, too.

Holding Credence captive in his piercing gaze for another endless second, the wrinkles in Mister Graves forehead smooth out. Seeming to struggle internally with himself, the man nods in acknowledgement.

"Alright," he says. "But minimal housework." A hand presses lightly on Credence's back. To distract himself from the joy of human contact, he decides not to press the issue further, and nods in agreement to Mister Graves' words.

The hand disappears disappointingly, as Mister Graves picks up the bowls of stew. But Credence swallows the emotion and follows his protector into dining room for dinner.

"What hobbies do you have?" The elder man asks, and Credence shrugs aimlessly, at a loss. The orphanage hadn't left much time for anything other than chores and church. "I like reading," he offers vaguely.

"I'll find a book catalogue for you tomorrow at work," Mister Graves decides out loud as they sit down at the table, the chair legs squeaking as they skate across the wooden floor. He and Credence sat at opposite ends of the expansive table. The first night they ate there, yesterday, the long distance between them had made Credence uncomfortable. The yawning flat surface had made Mister Graves seem so far away. But as conversation had bumbled along that night, the space seemed to shrink, and shrink, until it felt as though they were barely a foot away.

At the memory of the pleasant night before, Credence settles into his seat with a sense of familiarity. "Thank you, Mister Graves," he replies, making warm eye contact with the older man. The affection in their locked gaze seems to hold a new familiarity, an intensity, that Credence can't bring himself to look away from. Mister Graves is looking at him, like he can see into Credence's very soul, that he can see-

Rap. Rap. Rap.

****

"sh*t."

Graves had completely forgotten to tell Credence of their impending guest.

Scrambling up from his seat, he explains as he strides across the warmly lit room, an answer to Credence's questioning glance. "We're to have a guest."

"But she's rather early," he mutters to himself with annoyance as he limps down the hallway.

The carpet squishes under his shoes, and subconsciously, a highspeed recount of his day begins to play in Graves' mind. Re-entering MACUSA....greeting his staff...the rest of the meeting...

Picquery had covered a fair bit in that meeting. She'd managed to tastefully relieve Carneirus of his stand-in duty as Head of Operation Demiguise to make way for Graves, tactfully convey to everyone present that they should not mention His Name, on pain of death, and had even gone so far as to select an alias for Him.

"That way, everyone within the investigation can discuss the accused openly without breaching confidentiality, and causing Graves any unnecessary angst," she had explained briskly, briefly meeting eye contact with him before continuing. There had been no further mention of his injury, blessedly.

Spectre was the alias name, apparently. Even though Graves could think of some more appropriate ones for Him. Like f*ckwit. Arsehole. Murdering, conniving, slithering, disgusting demon cu-

But he's now the head of the investigation charged with uncovering the criminal activities of Europe's most dangerous dark wizard within MACUSA. Of Him.

Graves doesn't understand why he feels so abruptly...unmotivated to go back to work. He had always been one of the most driven in the department- hell, he was 'married to his job', as Carneirus had so sardonically put it. It had been torture, lying in the Infirmary for weeks on end with nothing to do. So why now, when he was all rested and ready to dive back in, were his feet so cold?

Because there's a shark in the water, and it's circling and circling, and it's name is Gr-

More than anything, for the first time in a long time, he just wants to talk to someone. Not just any random prick- someone who understood what he had been through. The pain that He had caused, and why Graves felt like his entire existence felt so unstable, like cobwebs in the breeze.

Credence, his brain whispers, but he pushes the thought aside. Despite all the things he wanted, wished he could tell the boy, it wasn't appropriate. Enough weight had bent those slender shoulders, and Graves was not about to pile more on. Now was not the time.

It's only when the knocker raps against the wood of the front door again that Graves jolts out of his thoughts. He'd been standing struck dumb by the door for God knew how long. Idiot.

Tina's round, pale face illuminated by the front lamplight is the first thing Graves sees when he swings the heavy door partially open. She looks nervous.

"Miss Goldstein," he greets her formally.

"Hiya, Percy!" A high, girlish voice trills, and Graves mentally kicks himself for not being more observant. Why the hell was Queenie Goldstein on his doorstep too, face split into a glowing grin?

The fewer people who knew about Credence, the better. But this wasn't the workplace, where he could pull rank. If he turned Queenie away, he would likely lose Tina's cooperation, jeopardising Credence's safety....

Damn it.Now an extra body was about to be privy to one of the most sensitive pieces of information in American wizarding world, and Graves could hardly do anything about it. Plus, she had called him Percy. He hated being called Percy.

That being said, the witch had a good heart, albeit being a terrible flirt. Graves was one of the few men in MACUSA seemingly impervious to her feminine charms.

So he categorises her the same way he categorises many MACUSA employees- tolerable.

"Miss Goldstein," he grounds out again. Graves' displeasure must clearly show on his face, because Tina immediately starts blathering.

"She wouldn't let me leave without telling her where I was going, and as soon as she knew she insisted on coming, I told her that you only invited me, but-"

"Just come in," Graves interrupts exasperatedly, stepping aside so the sisters could step over the threshold. Queenie gives him a tiny wink and a slick-lipped grin as she steps through the doorway, gold bob of curls bouncing, and he shuts the door from prying eyes.

Tolerable indeed- but only in small doses. Overly cheery people gave Graves the sh*ts.

"So what's the deal?" Tina asks him as Graves follows them into the kitchen, "Inviting me to your house is kind of...weird."

"Not that you're weird," she adds hastily to Graves' quirked eyebrow. "You're just not the 'come to my house' type of guy? At least I think so anyway, you've never invited anyone else from work over-"

"T-Tina?"

Everyone wheels around to the dining room entry, where a hesitant Credence stands in the doorway. The boy's mouth falls open slightly when he lays eyes on the two witches in the kitchen.

Tina looks like a ghost has materialised before her very eyes, face immobile with shock.

"Oh my god, Credence-"

In a split second, the brunette has zoomed across the room and flung her arms around Credence's slight frame. Audible sobs echo in the silent kitchen.

"Tina," Graves sees Credence mouth as the thin arms loop around the witch's back, tears of joy leaking out of his eyes as he holds on tight. Where were these protective urges coming from? A small voice inside him wanted to wipe the tears from the boy's face.

"Isn't that that Obscurus boy?," Queenie asks Graves curiously, looking between him and the embracing pair.

"What's he doing-oh." An understanding suddenly dawns on Queenie's face as she looks upon them, and she falls suspiciously silent. Giving her a suspicious side glance, Graves refocuses on the two embracing figures.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Tina repeats over and over, unrelenting in her tight embrace. Finally, gathering herself, she steps back, giving Credence a sweeping once-over.

"How did you? What- how- I thought-," she struggles to find the words.

"Mister Graves," Credence says quietly in explanation, and the witch meets Graves' dark eyes with her own. There's a look in them that begs explanation, and it takes Graves a minute to realise she wants it from him.

"Uh." He clears his throat, feeling slightly awkward after such an emotional display.

"Well from what Credence has told me-"

The two witches stand, silently dumbfounded, as Graves retells Credence's incredible tale. And even as he hears the words spilling out of his own mouth, Graves sees tapes of the last few days play in high speed in his brain. Credence's face when Graves ambushed him in the dark kitchen. Finding the boy, huddled in the alley. Credence's awestruck expressions at Mrs Morgotha's. The flurry of memories, like tiny slips of paper floating down to the floor, make warmth spread in Graves chest.

"A wizard," Tina gasps happily when Graves finishes, cradling Credence's face in the palm of her right hand. The boy seems to glow with joy at the physical affection, meeting the brunette's eyes. "I always knew you were special Credence. And now, you're free."

"I'm free," Credence repeats, another happy tear sliding down his cheek as he beams at the shorter woman. The special moment seems to amplify throughout the room.

But then it ends, and Tina wipes her wet eyes. "How about dinner, hmm?" Queenie chimes in sweetly, ushering everyone into the dining room.

"I didn't make enough," Credence murmurs fretfully, exchanging a glance of alarm with Graves.

"Don't you worry 'bout that, sweetie," Queenie chirrups, and with a graceful wave of her wand, an additional two places are set at the table, steaming bowls of stew sitting invitingly.

"My sister, Queenie," Tina introduces Credence, as Graves limps around to his seat at the far end of the table. The two witches take opposite seats in the very middle, and Credence his usual at the other end.

"Tina was right cut up when she thought you was dead," Queenie informs Credence lightly as she takes a dainty sip of her stew. "Not even my Jacob's delicious pastries could cheer her up!"

"Jacob who?" Graves asks suddenly, peering at the blonde witch with interest. The name seemed to ring an odd little bell within him, and he wasn't sure he remembered a Jacob, not in his department at least....

"Just a friend of ours," Tina counters smoothly, before hurriedly changing the subject.

"So how did you find out you were a wizard, Credence?" She asks with almost forced brightness. Her fingers fiddle with her spoon.

"Well, um, er, so I was really hungry, and there was this loaf of bread-"

"It's awful kind of you to take Credence in, Mr Graves," Queenie pipes up, gazing at Graves intently. Turning his head, reluctantly tuning out to the boy's stilted explanation, he locks eyes with her baby blues.

"I suppose," he admits, shovelling a mouthful of stew into his mouth to avoid answering any further.

"I mean, with everything you went through with Gr-"

"NO-"

BANG.

Graves is on his feet, halfway through trying to obscure His name as it flew from Queenie's lips. But the gigantic crash had absorbed the name, thank f*ck.

The source of the noise, however, was deposited upon his beautiful, very expensive dining room table. Or was lying spreadeagled on it, innocent eyes peering up at Graves' incredulous expression.

"Hello there," said Newt Scamander, mouth quirking into a casual grin.

"Newt!" Tina shrieks, horrorstruck. "Good gravy-"

A groan emits from above the British wizard, and a brown-tinged lump sits up, rubbing its head with a chubby hand.

"Jacob!" Queenie squeals, flinging her arms around the portly man, who looked oddly familiar....

"How on earth-" Graves starts thunderously, unsure of where to look first. He knew of Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, due to their brief acquaintance in the Wand Permit office. And of the man's hair-brained love of creatures, as well as the events that had transpired in NYC as a result. His name featured all too frequently on the Demiguise paperwork. But what the flaming hell were these people doing in his house?!

"Undetectable Locator charm," Newt answers cheerfully, managing to extricate himself from the other man's portly rump, sliding off the table. "Useful when you're in desperate need of something and need to get to where it is. Sort of like a reverse Summoning charm; learnt that the hard way."

"Newt," Tina says in a warning tone, her angry tirade clearly unfinished. But unabashed, the wizard extends a hand to Graves.

"Oh hello again, erm- Peracles Knave?"

"Percival Graves", Graves mutters, blinking rapidly as he tries to digest the incredible scene unfolding before him. Credence looks utterly shellshocked. The boy had barely moved since the two men had popped out of thin air and onto their dinner, which was now ruined, Graves noted with further annoyance. Unexpected visitors were high on the list of his pet peeves.

Queenie continues to fuss over the stranger on the table, helping him off and dusting down the lapels of his jacket. "How was your day, honey?" She trills.

"All the better now I'm seeing you, sweetheart," the moustached man drawls, kissing her slender hand sweetly as she giggles.

"Newt, you can't just arrive unnanounced in a stranger's house!-"

"But I finally managed to buy that Appaloosa Puffskein, Tina, I wanted to show you, Jacob and I were just-"

"Sit down, sweetie, have some stew-"

"Looks great honey, did you make it yourself?-"

"Freeze!"

The room is abruptly muted, Graves having speedily drawn his wand. He knew now, he knew that face, one of the photos he had seen on the table that very morning in the Demiguise meeting-

"Jacob Kowalski, no-Maj, you are hereby detained by a Magical Congress of the United States of America Law Enforcement Official, by warrant of the Director of Magical Security for questioning concerning Operation Demiguise," Graves declares sonorously, wand pointed straight at Jacob.

Immediately, three other wands are whipped out.

"No, Director Graves, please!" Queenie cries, pushing herself in the limited space between Kowalski, the table and Graves, shielding her beau.

"Queenie Goldstein, you are hereby also detained, for consorting with a no-Maj, a First Degree violation of Rappaport's Law, and for being an unregistered Legilimens-"

"No!" Tina cries.

Of course Graves knew. The lacklustre response to Credence's backstory had merely confirmed his heavy suspicions, gathered over the many years the younger Goldstein had worked at MACUSA. Legilimi were rare, there was only one other Graves knew of in America. The thought of one loose around MACUSA, however harmless Queenie might seem....Luckily for Graves, his mind was a fortress after decades of training.

"But not anymore... That Man broke down your defenses like they were tissue paper," a voice that Graves does not like one bit purrs inside him. "Who's to say Goldstein couldn't do the same?"

-No, no, not again-

Who are you?

"Don't make me hex you," Newt warns, wand hand unwavering-

"Percival Graves."

Tina's voice cuts through all. "You," she continues in an icy, cutting tone that Graves has never heard her use before, puffing up like a bullfrog. "You are herebydetained for obstruction of investigation and justice, attempted detainment without a warrant, and for harbouring a wanted fugitive."

Credence blanches as Tina's wand flicks towards him.

"So you expect me to stay silent about the fact that I'm harbouring an unregistered Legilimens and a no-Maj in my house at this very moment?!" Graves retorts scornfully. He was a high-ranking MACUSA offical- if this were to come out, the New York Ghost would have a field day. Not to mention the fact he would be kissing his entire career goodbye.

"Well you're already harbouring a supposedly dangerous criminal with a price on his head, so this can't be much more of a stretch, I suppose," Newt suggests quietly, but is silenced with a glowering look.

"Don't you start," Graves warns the Englishman, pointing a finger in his direction without taking eyes off Tina. "I'm quite certain that your return to these shores was less than legal."

"Your silence on everything is what I expect, Graves, if you expect me to stay silent about Credence!" Tina cries in that terrible tone, mouth in a thin line.

"You wouldn't," Graves spits derisively, shaking his head. She wouldn't turn in the boy she was so invested in. But when it came down to blood....

The truth dawns. Tina would always choose her sister, no matter how much she cared for Credence.

Nobody moves, everyone rooted to the spot. Goldstein refuses to break Graves' gaze, their brown eyes boring further, and further into each other. This meek, awkward, usually mild woman, transfomed into a fearsome lioness. Her left eye twitches, seeming to say, 'Don't test me.'Yet within her gaze, there is clear, overwhelming fear.

What did he value? What did he value? The law, his mind screamed. He had to take the no-Maj to MACUSA immediately, for questioning about Him. To report Queenie, Tina and Newt to MACUSA, for no-Maj fraternisation and for being an unregistered Legilimens, and Newt and Tina for not declaring her.

He's radiating fury, but internally, he's rattled to the core. Tina wouldn't dare hurt Credence- and yet her wand hovered dangerously close to that slim white throat. The sight overruled any and all rational reason.

The career he had spent a lifetime building, his entire world. Or a boy, who needed him. What did he value? What did he value?

Who are you?

"Well," Queenie breaks the tense silence nervously. "We are in quite the pickle, aren't we?"

"You could say that again," Jacob mutters out of the corner of his mouth, hands raised in the air comically.

Slowly, warily, Graves lowers his wand. Immediately, the tension dissolves. Tina deflates, and Credence swallows hard as her wand is pulled from against his throat. Jacob's arms flop down. Queenie and Newt both pocket their wands.

"Swear to me," Graves murmurs, gaze still unwavering from Tina's. "Swear to me, that if I hold my tongue for the no-Maj, your sister, and..." he pauses, glancing at Scamander suspiciously.

"...people who shouldn't be in the country; that you'll hold your tongue, for him."

There was no clarification needed to determine which 'him' Graves referred to.

"I, Tina Goldstein," Tina returned, voice wavering slightly, "solemnly promise to not reveal the existence or whereabouts of Credence Barebone, in exchange for the safety and protection of Jacob Kowalski, Queenie Goldstein and Newt Scamander."

There's a pause, Graves struggling to get himself to say the betraying words. Tina raises a critical eyebrow, narrowing her eyes. But he grinds out "I, Percival Graves, solemnly promise not to reveal the existence or whereabouts of Jacob Kowalski, Queenie Goldstein and Newt Scamander, or the nature of their relationship, in exchange for the safety and protection of Credence Barebone."

The urgency and fear has dissolved from the room, and yet an air of awkward silence remains. That is, until the unnoticed, tattered suitcase on the table gives a slight jump.

All eyes lock onto the object in question. Another tremor rocks the suitcase, as an odd noise emits from its interior. Graves raises a suspicious eyebrow as Newt drags the case across the table, a small clawed paw visibly clinging to the rim.

"How many times have I got to tell you, stay in!" The wizard mutters, and pokes the furred limb in question with his wand. Immediately, it recoils, as if stung, disappearing back inside the suitcase.

Straightening up, Newt seems to finally register all the attention directed his way around the table. "Sorry about that," he says casually, to Graves' unimpressed expression. "It must've been all the shouting. They do get a bit excitable."

"They?" Credence asks, fragile voice breaking the silence.

"My creatures," Newt replies cheerily, giving the case an absent pat that makes the table shudder.

"Would you like to see them?" He adds, peering at the faces around the table. "I know you three are old hats," he addresses Tina, Queenie and Jacob. "But I highly doubt Credence or Per- Director Graves here have ever seen a suitcase full of magical creatures before."

Graves had heard far too much about that case. The sizeable pile of files he'd read after the Operation Demiguise meeting, detailing every single happening over the three days Scamander had spent in New York had made sure of that. But that didn't mean he wasn't curious to see what was inside that strange little suitcase... yes, it was illegal, but he had missed out on a glimpse of any of Newt's menagerie, thanks to Him...

Who are you?

Credence's face is directed to Graves, an almost pleading look upon it. And the little resolve Graves had crumbles. He would deny this boy nothing.

"Alright," Graves huffs, as everyone else in the room grins. Newt lopes around the table on his long legs, and places the suitcase flatly down near the kitchen entryway. The gold latches flip upwards, and the case flips open to reveal a rickety wooden staircase, descending into the dark maw.

"Well come on then," Newt declares expectantly, flashing a bemused grin to the silent room. "What're you waiting for?"

There's a second, and then all of them sidle into a queue before the case. Graves takes the rear, due to being the longest distance from the case, and still reliant on the bloody walking stick.

Jacob plops in first, his rotund belly scraping the edges of the case. Once his brown combover bobs out of sight, Queenie prepares to step in.

"Don't be afraid, sweetie," she says to Credence, who is lined up between her and her sister. "The drop's not far!"

And with that sound advice, the blonde bombshell steps foot into the case after her partner. From his position behind Tina, Graves can see half of Credence's face as the boy peers down at the uninviting hole. There's an odd mixture of curiosity and self-control, like the boy is struggling to hold himself back.

"Go on," Graves urges him gently, meeting the questioning brown eyes. "I'll be right behind you."

His words seem to strengthen the young man's decision. Taking a deep breath, Credence pauses momentarily, before beginning the descent into the depths of the case. Tina follows directly after, and before long, Graves and Newt are the only two that remain outside the case.

"This is highly illegal, for multiple reasons," Graves remarks, eyeing the drop before him. He can think of at least twelve individual laws Scamander was breaking by just possessing the case within the United States.

"It is," Newt replies nonchalantly. "But rules are made to be broken, or at least, bent."

There's the strangest noises coming from below, and curiosity gets the better of him. With a last glance at the blase Briton, Graves grasps his cane, and descends haltingly down the stairs.

When his cane at last touches the weathered floorboards, Graves surveys his surroundings. It seems he's stepped foot into a dimly lit, dilapidated wooden shack, cluttered with an insurmountable amount of... things. Garlands of plants hung from the ceiling, and sat in bell jars placed at odd intervals around the room. Several lamps gave the structure a low glow, illuminating the littered mysterious bottles, worn tools and wall after wall of storage drawers. Several hangers holding grubby, travelworn clothes hang off to one side. There's a distinctive smell of dirt, dust, and raw meat, with the latter stench emitting from a slab of something dumped on the bench to Graves' left. He wrinkles his nose in distaste.

"This is it?" Graves says disbelievingly at the underwhelming room, that wouldn't look out of place in a deceased estate. He bumps his head on one of the many boxes and cages strung up on the ceiling, making a noise of irritation as Newt closes the trap door behind himself.

"Of course not," the wizard replies, bounding down the stairs and squeezing past Graves in the cramped room. He grabs a hold of the handle of the wooden door in front of him, and with a flourish, swings it open.

"After you," Newt proffers, smiling, and Graves limps haltingly out of the confines of the room and into...

Oh my sweet motherf*cking God.

An utterly enormous landscape stretches before him, spanning further than the eye can see. And what lay upon it- a diverse and colourful array of habitats, like a patchwork quilt. To the left, a great icy alpine tundra, with snow-cloaked fir forests and plains. And to the right, an underwater odessey, with a wall of water that somehow defied the laws of gravity. Ahead, jungles, and deserts, and forests and mountains, like every climate the world could conjure condensed into one extended artwork. The night sky twinkled above, the endless stars and a plump moon providing all the light needed.

And Graves hadn't even spotted any of the animals yet.

"Sweet Jesus," he breathes, transfixed, as Newt smirks beside him, clearly enjoying Graves' awestruck reaction. And he's too distracted to care about his loss of dignity right now.

Figures move fifty feet or so away, and Graves makes out Tina, Queenie and Jacob. They're lifting something out of a bamboo nest, proferring it to Credence. The boy's face splits into a look of excitement and wonder as he pets the head of what appeared to be a snake with violet feathered wings.

"Shall we?" Newt suggests, and Graves manages to muster a nod before they set off to join the others.

He sees the winged snakes, called Occamys, and learns their shells are extremely precious. And that one of them smashed up the largest no-Maj department store in town in pursuit of a co*ckroach. Then there's Dougal the Demiguise, who despite being named for MACUSA's most sinister ongoing investigation -Graves finally connects the dots- is quite a cute little chap. That is, until the wispy-haired mammal decides to take a liking to Graves, and refuses to let go of him, no matter how much Newt attempted to coerce him off.

"He'll let go eventually," Newt shrugs as everyone laughs, much to Graves' chagrin. Dougal just nuzzles his snout into Graves' neck with a contented sigh, wrapping his long limbs tighter around the man's chest. Maybe magical animals sensed he wasn't a huggy person.

Then there's the Niffler, the attempted escapee and the mischief-maker that started the entire fiasco in the first place; the Graphorns, George the Nundu, Newt's newly and very illegally acquired Appaloosa Puffskein named Fergus, and the entire tribe of Bowtruckles. Pickett, who almost permanently resided within the recesses of Newt's trusty blue coat, dances on the palm of Credence's hand, much to everyone's delight.

They pass an arid biome that looks rather creatureless, with wind-smoothed rock formations, and Graves speaks up. "What lives in here then?" He gestures.

Newt's face droops. "Frank," he replies with an air of dejectedness. Tina rubs the Brit's arm comfortingly.

Graves looks to each face with confusion, begging an answer. "For the love of God, someone tell me that whatever Frank is, he hasn't escaped."

"Relax, Graves," Jacob claps him on the shoulder heavily, startling him. "Newt had to release him to distribute the Swoopin' Evil venom that wiped everyone's memories, including my own."

The no-Maj taps his temple with a finger. "That is, 'til my darlin' brought 'em all back for me," he shoots Queenie a wink, and she claps a hand to her mouth to mask her giggles, before resuming her explanation to Credence about the sheer size of the thunderbird. If there were any food in Graves' belly, he's sure to have vomited at such sickening romantic diatribe. He's already feeling sick at the sheer amount of infractions of wizarding law he's seen tonight, although the creatures do distract him from his irate conscience.

"On the plus side, releasing Frank means I've got more room for other creatures that need my help, should they need it," Newt explains to Graves, recovering from his moody slip. And with this logic, he moves them along to look at the Mooncalves.

Although this is as wonderful and educational for Graves as it is for Credence, he cant help but sit back and enjoy the boy's reactions as he meets each new creature, punctuated by anecdotes from the other four. This young man had missed out on so much happiness in his formative years, so now, seeing him smiling, coming to life before Graves' eyes, he couldn't want for much more. And several key realisations clicked into place within the bounds of his mind.

The first was that Tina, Queenie, Jacob and now Newt were clearly going to play an extended role within Credence's life now, in addition to Graves himself. That much was clear through the rapport being established and bonds being created between the five of them as they journeyed around the confines of Newt's case, chattering away. It was so explicitly visible, did not need to be said. Yet if Newt was sticking around, Graves might need to have a chat about fixing up that travel paperwork properly.

Another realisation- now that he had to cooperation of an additional few bodies, they could help him give Credence the life he deserved....

As they wander back in the squashed dimensions of Newt's shack, Dougal having being prised off Graves some time prior, Tina saves Graves the trouble of broaching the topic. "Hey Graves, I was just wondering..." she begins, over the sound of Queenie's tinkling laugh, and Graves turns his head to listen clearly, squinting in the light of the lamp.

"Now that we're certain that Credence is a wizard," she gestures to the boy at her elbow, sat down upon a pile of grain-filled burlap sacks. "How is he going to be educated?"

The conversation dies down abruptly, as all eyes turned to Graves. Put on the spot, he thinks for a moment before answering.

"Well I was hoping you would help me get some clarity around what would be the move going forward, Tina-"

"Why not send him to Ilvermorny?" Pipes up Queenie, a comfortable arm around Jacob. "It's only in Massachusetts, that's no so far-"

"No, it's too dangerous," Graves argues, leaning against Newt's benchtop. "We'd have to create a wholly new identity for him, and somehow get him on the enrollment list, despite the fact he looks old enough to be a senior."

"What's Ilvermorny?" Asks Credence with hushed concern, and Tina quietly begins to explain the finer points of wizarding education.

"You could always send him to Hogwarts," Newt suggests over his shoulder, dicing up some obscure root for one of his creatures. "That would require sending him to Britain though, which would probably mean emigrating-"

"Emigrating?!" Graves splutters, incensed. One minute they wanted to send Credence to Massachusetts, and now halfway across the world?!

"Well that is an option," Kowalski agrees with a nod to Scamander, and the crescendo of arguing discussion rises and rises until Credence, unable to take it anymore, cries "Quiet!"

He then cringes at the sudden attention on him, and at the loud volume of his normally quiet voice. Then Queenie gasps aloud.

"Oh! I'm sorry, Credence, that was rude of us." She shoots the young man an apologetic look, before addressing the rest of the room with a flip of her hair.

"He's feeling overwhelmed, especially because everyone seems to be making decisions about his future without consulting him first," the blonde explains.

Of course, Graves realises with a pang of guilt. Credence had spent his entire life without much of a say in how he lived it.

"How did you?-" Credence stares at Queenie, face simultaneously awestruck and terrified, before Tina hurriedly whispers something into his ear. Goldstein's explanation of her sister's mind-reading abilities must be plausible, for the boy's shoulder's relax, and he directs a accepting smile at Queenie.

There's a murmur of apology around the room from everyone, which Credence accepts with a quiet "Thank you." Drawing his knees into his chest as the group await his response, the wizard speaks hesitantly.

"I appreciate all of the ideas," Credence begins awkwardly, ducking his head slightly. "And I'm still not entirely sure what all of these options would mean..."

"But," he continues before any of those around the dark room can intervene, "I do want to be a wizard, and learn how. I'd....," he pauses, clearly searching for the words within himself.

"I'd like to stay here. In New York, with Mister Graves."

Relief floods Graves, and he feels himself visibly relax, loosening his tight grip on his cane.

"And the rest of you," Credence adds, chestnut eyes flicking from face to face. "I don't really want to go somewhere new, and possibly dangerous, all by myself."

Credence's stilted response clearly finished, Graves offers up a suggestion.

"What if I- we- could teach him?" He voices, biting his tongue as he awaits a response. Everyone thinks momentarily, contemplating the possibility, brows furrowed.

"I could teach Credence self-defence and basic spellwork," he offers. Daring to sneak a glance at the boy in question, Graves is pleased to see the boy looking back, hope welling in his wide eyes.

"I suppose I could lend a hand with that, especially with Charms," Tina murmurs, lost in thought.

Queenie adds with glowing enthusiasm, "And I could teach Credence all the homely spells, all the tips and tricks and things!"

"He can come and help me with my creatures when I'm around," Newt volunteers, as Pickett jumps up and down on his shoulder excitedly with a squeak.

"Which I plan to be." He and Tina share an interesting look across the crowded room.

"He's always welcome in my bakery too," Jacob shrugs, earning himself a kiss from Queenie, and Graves breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

He directs his gaze back down to Credence, gauging his reaction. Tears have formed in the young wizard-in-training's eyes, but judging from the smile plastered on his face, they were of joy. He was simply overwhelmed by the kindness of these veritable strangers.

The warm feeling is back in Graves' chest again, and he hopes it's evident in his words when he declares "Excellent," to everyone.

"There's just one problem," he adds, looking around at the two witches and three wizards and no-Maj alike.

"Yes?" Jacob urges, pressing Graves to continue.

"We're going to need to get you..
" Graves directs at Credence, meeting brown eyes with brown.

"...a wand."

Chapter 9: 9

Chapter Text

Two witches and four wizards suddenly reappear within a sophisticated lounge room, clambering up from the hidden depths of a woebegone brown suitcase.

The party moves into the dining room, crowding around the expansive table. And then the discussion begins.

Ideas, each more convoluted than the last, are flung into the air of the room. Some stay afloat, hovering suspended, frozen in the flow of conversation. Others flutter down to the table surface, umoving, like figurative corpses. There is interjection, interruption, and some facets of discussion are hotly debated by multiple figures around the table.

Cup after cup of coffee or tea is brewed from thin air, and the stars pass overhead as it all goes on, and on. As purple streaks appear beneath the six's eyes, their heads droop, and one slips into dreams, young head resting heavily on the table.

There is no definitive solution decided. An hour or so before the sun threatens to rise, the four guests within the house shuffle off home, the front door clicking shut with finality. The elder of the two remaining wizards flicks off the lights, secures the house, and puts the cups in the sink for washing up.

And then, ever so gently, he lifts the sleeping boy from his seat, and carries him upstairs in his arms, despite the difficulty posed by his injured leg.

****

Mister Graves leaves for work on time the following morning, despite only farewelling Tina, Queenie, Newt and Jacob hours prior.

No firm plan had yet been orchestrated in those witching hours. Credence had fallen asleep by one o'clock in the morning, and so missed out on hearing the finer points of these suggestions. And the dining table, while good for holding food, did not make for a comfortable pillow.

But they had multiple viable options, Mister Graves had reassured Credence. After a Pepper Up potion with breakfast, the elder man looked less like the living dead, brushing a hand over his stubbly head. And he leaves, but not before he makes Credence promise to go back to bed, as 'young people need their sleep'.

When he returned from work, the sky was dark, and Credence had managed to cook up a chicken casserole. As he ate, tucking into the delicious food, Mister Graves relays to Credence that he, Tina and Queenie had agreed not to continue negotiations at work. For fear of arousing suspicion in an already wary MACUSA. Instead, the group would meet as often as necessary, conducting research separately to report back, he rationalised.

"It may take a bit of time, Credence," Mister Graves admits, slouching in his chair with a hand on his full belly. "But we will get you a wand."

The look in his eyes tells Credence that he means every word.

The next days pass in a blur- some housework, reading some worn no-Maj books Mister Graves found in the basem*nt, and some new ones. Credence ignores the serpentine whisper in his headthat sounds like Ma, telling him that any book but the Bible was sinful. He's not quite sure he believes there's a God anymore, even as his gut twists with the betraying thought.

Queenie, Tina and Jacob come over on Friday night for dinner again. There seems to be a heightened sense of purpose as they sit within the lounge, brainstorming.

"There are four wandmakers we can seek out within the United States." Tina clutches a mug of warm coffee in both hands.

"Shikoba Wolfe; Johannes Jonker; Thiago Quintana; and Violetta Beauvais." She lists each name with careful certainty. The fireplace is roaring along; that particular day had been utterly frostbitten.

"Quintana is dead," Mister Graves responds almost immediately. He shifts slightly in his position next to Credence on the maroon chesterfield, body heat radiating off him.

"Died in November last year," he explains further, to the grim faces around the silent room. Queenie looks as put out as Credence feels, his gut twisting uncomfortably. He tries not to visibly squirm as anxiety shoots through him. One less wandmaker- the chances of him ever getting a wand grew ever slimmer.

"He made my wand," Tina murmurs to no one in particular, lost in thought.

"What about this Wolfe chap?" Newt suggests out loud, fiddling with his wand. "What do we know about his whereabouts? Or wands?"

"Wolfe? Incarcerated," Tina shakes herself out of her thoughtful stupor. "I helped Carneirus bring her in. She's serving twenty years for multiple convictions; She's Chocktaw, her people were moved off the land in the 1830s. The no-Majs that settled on Chocktaw land suddenly began to suffer mysterious accidents a while back..."

Credence can't help but inquire further, shifting forward on his seat. "Like what?"

"Wolfe wands are known for their power and affinity for Transfiguration magic," Mister Graves explains, lowering his voice slightly. "She and several other Chocktaw wizards turned many of the no-Majs into wild animals, as revenge."

A cold drip runs down Credence's spine.

"How 'bout that last name you mentioned, Graves?," Jacob resumes the conversation, looking intently at the Director. He absently brushes a thumb over Queenie's fingers, entwined in his. "Whatshername- Bothways? Bouquet?"

"You mean Violetta Beauvais," Mister Graves replies, always impeccable in his pronunciation.

"Yeah, her."

"I think it would be prudent to avoid Ms Beauvais."

"Huh?" All eyes are on Mister Graves, especially Credence's. Sighing, the elder wizard rests his forehead on his hand, distractedly massaging his temple.

"The President and Beauvais are firm friends, who speak frequently. To visit Ms Beauvais would mean treading right beneath Picquery's nose, which at this...tense point in time, isn't wise. We're almost asking to be caught."

The sombre mood magnifies momentarily, and Credence tries in vain to stop the rush of despair pooling in his gut.

But Queenie, ever the ray of sunshine, cuts through the pea-soup of fear.

"But there's still Jonker!" She reminds everyone, in an attempt to revive the mood. "He made my wand."

"Jonker is a valid option," muses Mister Graves, seeming to come around to the idea as the seconds ticked by. "What do we know about him?"

"Well he's no-Maj-born, parents were cabinetmakers," Tina interjects.

"What?" She says to everyone's quizzical expressions. "The Ghost wrote a piece on him a while back. It was interesting, he's an up-and-coming wandmaker."

A wizard born from no-Maj parents? Now that was interesting, Credence decides. Maybe he was one, too...

"Well where might this Johannes Jonker be located?" Newt asks with interest. "That way we can concoct some semblance of a plan?"

When silence meets his question, the British wizard uncrosses his long legs and leans forward on his knees.

"Well then," he grins. "I suppose we have some work to do."

Their guests leave soon after, with the promise of investigation and research. And so commences Credence's brief nightly magic lesson.

Mister Graves had given Credence a night off following Saturday's glass of water disaster. But on Monday afternoon, prior to their guests' unexpected arrival, he had ushered Credence up the stairs to the attic and gently pressed his own wand into his palm.

"I won't push you," he had promised, locking eyes with Credence. "But you should give it another shot." He folds Credence's fingers around the hilt of the ebony wand with his own.

'Wingardium Leviosa' was still the objective for Credence to perform successfully, and the boy would be lying if he didn't feel nervous in that moment. But holding the sturdy shape of Mister Graves' wand in his hand... excitement and determination outweighed the seeping fear. He was a wizard. And he would succeeed.

The musty book Mister Graves had placed upon the table levitated without complaint, and under his mentor's direction, Credence manages to safely lower it back onto the wooden surface. Once, twice, three times. With each utterance of the spell, of the feeling of the golden power within his core, and each time the book left the table, a kernel of confidence built up in Credence. Performing magic successfully, finally, and with direction was such a gift.

And the smile he gave to Mister Graves, which was returned, was not at all forced.

So now, on Thursday evening, with four magic lessons under his belt, Credence felt himself approach magic with considerably less fear. And Mister Graves had elected to begin expanding Credence's basic knowledge of spellwork.

"Alohom*ora."

The cupboard door swung open with ease, and applause fills the attic.

"Excellent work Credence," Mister Graves claps encouragingly.

"Getting it first try, with both this and the Wand-Lighting Charm! Fantastic work." He claps Credence on the shoulder, and the boy's giddiness intensifies with the praise.

"Thank you, Mister Graves," he returns shyly, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Come, my boy. Again."

And Credence with a deep breath, lets the golden glow inside him push through the wand.

His good spirits see Credence through right up to when he heads to bed, exhausted yet satisfied with his progressso far. He was learning magic- really learning. And the possibility of getting a wand of his very own was becoming closer and closer to a reality.

But when he wakes at the witching hour, screaming and sweat-soaked like always, all he can see is his mother's face, repulsed by him. All he can hear is the whistle of the belt. Until the belt is a wand, and jets of bright, bright light are hitting him over, and over-

But then Mister Graves is there. There like always, every single night. Cradling Credence in his arms, soothing him, a steady, sturdy presence that meant safety. Whispering, a slice of moonlight illuminating his gaunt face as he promises to Credence that he is safe, and nothing can hurt him.

Credence needs to get away from it, though. To escape the dark horrors of memory that clawed at his unconscious mind.

"Mister Graves?" His voice is barely a whisper.

"Yes, Credence?"

"You never told me about Ilvermorny."

"Oh," the man realises, silent for a moment.

"Can you tell me about it? Please?" Credence asks tentatively, curled beneath his bedcovers.

"Sure."

"It's a wizarding school," Mister Graves clarifies, shifting to sit on the side of the bed. "On the highest peal of Mount Greylock in the hills of Massachusetts. The exact location is kept hidden from no-Majs by many defensive spells, like all wizarding schools. Students usually take a Portkey; it's a menial object enchanted to transport them to a particular destination; to get there. I don't remember exactly how it started, History of Magic was the dullest class, I always fell asleep, I can probably find you a book on it-"

Credence feels himself fly away on the wings of Mister Graves's words, into those Massachusetts hills. He walks the torch-lit granite corridors of Ilvermorny, guided by the older man, often stopping to ask questions along the way. He files into the school's entrance hall, before the four statues of the Thunderbird, Puckwudgie, Horned Serpent and Wampus. Credence then subsequently learns that both the Horned Serpent and Wampus statues reacted to Mister Graves, and that the man chose the panther-like creature as his House. Tina and Queenie, who were first years in the older man's final year at the school, were chosen by Thunderbird and Puckwudgie respectively.

He feels the swish of the blue and cranberry robes, holds the Quintana wand that chooses Mister Graves in his hand, and hears the grumbling of the many Puckwudgies that serve the school. He sits in lessons, eats meals in the cafeteria, and explores the breathtaking views granted by the mountaintop school.

It's all very enchanting, Credence notes, as he finally spirits away into sleep. Ilvermorny seemed like a magical place, literally and figuratively.

But his cards had been dealt by fate. And he wouldn't leave Mister Graves, even if his life depended on it.

******
So many choices.

The sturdy wooden closet in his room is practically overflowing with clothes as Credence stands before it, stuck for what to wear. He's organised it meticulously; jackets and coats on the left. Then shirts, colourcoded so white began and black ended. Trousers completed the line, the slacks hanging in a well-pressed row, and several pairs of shoes sat neatly below the rest in pairs.

There's the soft sound of a door opening and closing, and quiet footsteps pad on the carpet, before another door shuts. Moments later, the noise of running water creaks through the pipes in the house, as Mister Graves begins his morning shower.

Acclimatising to the new sound, Credence chews his knuckle absently. New York has not yet awoken entirely, with the roar of automobiles on the city streets much quieter than during peak hour. The Flutterby bush, now calling his windowsill home, seems to wave hello to the slow sunrise. And the first ray of morning sunshine has glimmered into existence, a warm stripe upon his wall.

His room had creamy walls that were just the right shade- not too warm, yet not too cool. A pale blue-grey carpet spread to the four corners of the room, plush and yet not overly so. The comfortable double bed was enourmous, lacquered walnut with a white and mini floral coverlet. The chintz chair conviently positioned next to the window also was patterned in the black-based floral, as was the skirt of Credence's walnut dresser and the ends of the blue-grey curtains. The east-facing window was directly opposite a bookshelf, walnut again, that Mister Graves had emptied. And of course, the impressive wardrobe that Credence himself dawdled in front of.

The room was just the right mix of masculine and femenine, he had decided. It was was not sumptuous enough to feel uncomfortably extravagant, yet it hardly felt simple. Either way, it was far, far removed from his previous lodgings. That dirty broom cupboard had been barely a room, cramped and stifling. Much like his previous existence, really.

But Credence loved this new room, his new room, immensely. It was a haven, as was the rest of the house. And he would quite happily reside here for quite some time, if he could.

Fiddling absently with the triangular necklace around his neck, brushing the warm fabric of his linen summer pyjamas, he returns to his dilemma.

It's just a casual day at home today, plus the weather is warm. Credence has already neatly laid his dark grey trousers and monochrome suspenders on his bed. Yet he cannot seem to choose between the sky blue collared business shirt, or its white brother.

The blue he would never have worn, not under Ma's roof. Modesty was a virtue, and bright colours were self-indulgent and unnecessary; that was Ma's firm, unyielding opinion. Not that Credence would ever have been able to afford such luxuries- his wardrobe prior to Mister Graves had been threadbare. Ungrateful, the voice whispers in his head, but Credence is getting better at ignoring it.

Yet the white shirt... it reminded him of the cold stone walls of the orphanage, of muffled sobs, impassive faces and the whistle of a belt flying through the air. Another, rougher shirt, stained with scarlet blood. The plain colour reminded Credence of everything he had endured; of all that he had weathered. So whilst he couldn't wear the blue, he was loath to wear the white, either.

Shifting his weight upon his bare feet, he catches sight of himself in the mirror inlaid into the inside of the wardrobe's french doors.

'I can't wear the blue', he tells himself obstinately.

But you're not what you thought you were.

The truth of the intruding thought resounds within Credence. He wasn't a scared, downtrodden boy anymore, who wore white and black.

He was a wizard.

The creaking of water through the shower pipes shuts off abruptly.

A quiet smile touches Credence's lips, and he reaches for the blue.

*****
The two men blink into existence outside the bustle of the movie palace.

Saturday night, and the Capitol Theatre was packed. Swarms of glittery women and suited gentleman stood patiently in lines, eagerly awaiting entry as a small army of red-clad ushers did their best to corral the crush of bodies.

Usually crowds were tiresome, but on this occasion, Graves was grateful for it. The thousands of bodies allowed for anonymity, meaning that he and Credence could leave the house together with lessened fear of being spotted. New York's wizarding community did not make a habit of frequenting no-Maj cinemas.

But they had still been careful. A couple of charms later, and anyone who looked in the direction of the young man at Graves' side would see just another face, indistinctive from the thousands around.

It was still a risk, Graves acknowledged, as the throng pushed them both further towards the Capitol's doors. Some wizards and witches did still attend, and if one happened to be present tonight, they would recognise the concealment instantly.

But the awestruck look on Credence's face as they grew closer to the ticket booths meant that this was a risk Graves was willing to take. It was worth all the trouble and precautions, he decided, as an usher directed them out of the crowd and towards a ticket booth window. Worth it to witness Credence's face when they arrived, eyes glued to the impressive building before them, with all its flashing lights.

"Two tickets for The Black Pirate, please," Graves asks of the seller, conscious of Credence peering towards the inside of the building. "The best you've got left."

"Of course, sir," The seller obliges, handing Graves his change, and another smartly dressed usher holds open the front doors of the cinema foyer, beckoning them both inside.

Even to Graves, who was accustomed to the finer things in life, the interior of the Capitol Theatre was resplendent. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from a high embellished ceiling, lighting the atrium with a glittering glow. The floor was lushly carpeted, with a grand, sophisticated pattern, and twin flights of stairs curved up either side of the atrium, leading to the higher floor of the cinema. Off to one side, a six-piece orchestra played a light, jazzy number, and the burble of hundreds of voices in eager conversation buzzed in his ears. The building was the picture of opulence, ornate and sophisticated.

And of course, the garb of those inside matched the decor. Gentlemen and ladies alike were dressed to the nines, the floor filled with a rainbow of fabrics and hues of evening dresses and suits.

They had to blend in of course. Graves had opted for a striped silver and black double-breasted vest, with silvery buttons and silver thread inlaid into the unidentical stripes. Paired with an onyx button-down shirt, with matching trousers, tuxedo jacket and oxfords, he thought he'd managed to clean up alright. Credence was dressed similarly, but his vest was black, with an overlaid scarlet paisley pattern.

Last Saturday, the boy had worn a sky-blue shirt instead of the usual white. And then on Wednesday, at dinner with their frequent guests, the maroon suspenders instead of black.

It hadn't escaped Graves' notice that Credence had subtly begun wearing more colour. In fact, he silently rejoiced the slow build of his charge's confidence, how Credence now had the guts to tentatively step out of his comfort zone, and try something new and wonderful.

And if Graves himself was admiring the vast show of splendor within the Capitol, Credence....

Credence seemed to be devouring the scene with his eyes. Pale skin flushed due to the later winter's night, the boy craned his neck this way and that drinking in anything, everything that he could see, lips slightly parted in awe. It never escaped Graves how wonderful it was to introduce Credence to these newfound pleasures. But then again, it was wonderful for he himself too- he'd never been to the pictures before, either.

"What do you think of it all so far?" He can't help but ask, and the boy immediately snaps to attention.

"It's...it's so beautiful, Mister Graves," Credence stammers thanks, and Graves waves them away. It's his privilege to be able to introduce Credence to these privileges he had been so starved of, to give him the best of everything. He already had several other outing plans in the works, if this one went well. And if when they all attempted to get Credence a wand, they didn't all end up in prison.

Maybe this was also a kind of coping mechanism, to deal with the guilt he felt about leaving Credence in that orphanage for so long. To make up for what he had done. But still a privilege, to watch these little wonders bloom upon Credence's fair face.

The orchestra wraps up its final note, and after a smattering of applause, the ushers step forth to guide everyone to their seats.

"Right this way, sirs," a tall blonde usher leads Graves and Credence up the left staircase of the atrium, and into the cavernous dark of the theatre.

Scarlet curtains blanket the walls of the expansive room, and as groups of theatregoers entered the room, chatting animatedly, their voices seemed to hush. The usher leads them to the very front row of this elevated group of seats, guiding them slightly to the left before leaving them be.

The rest of the audience filters in slowly, like the slow spread of water on a flat surface. And eventually, with a whir, the cinema projector flickers to life, and the weekly newsreel begins to play, just like Burrows said it would when Graves asked him.

The road he walked was not an easy one now. The tears and rawness of his first few weeks free of Him were gone, but a numb kind of coldness had replaced them. And the future,if he was honest, was as clear as mud. But if Graves could keep watching Credence's face at each new unearthed miracle; hear his inquisitive questions; and maybe, just maybe, heal more than the scars that peppered the boy's body... the road Graves' walked wouldn't look so bloody uninviting after all.

Chapter 10: 10

Chapter Text

The thirteenth of April arrived much faster than Graves anticipated.

Tina, Queenie, Newt, Jacob, Credence and himself had spent hour after hour meticulously concocting a feasible plan. Many nights with very little sleep, so March was soon behind them. Book upon book leafed through, and a little brainpicking of unexpected MACUSA employees by Queenie. Anything for details on Jonker, and other facets of their plan. Several backup arrangements were also decided, in the high likelihood that something did go wrong.

So now, at precisely 9:53am, Graves stood outside his own back door, seemingly leafing through an old copy of the Ghost. But his eyes weren't so much as reading- his ears were pricked instead, waiting for the noise of the door opening. Because when the door creaked open, it meant that Newt, Queenie and Tina had finished Transfiguring Credence into an eleven year-old boy.

Surely enough, the door makes a resounding creak. Graves puts down his paper, rising from his garden chair as Queenie emerges first, in a a peach-toned woollen coat with an accentuated waist and flared skirt. With kitten heels and her pleasant face, she looks every inch the domestic witch.

Then comes Tina, in her usual muted streetwear of a long coat and dress. But behind her...

The boy that cautiously follows behind, peering out from behind the back door, contained barely a trace of the real Credence. His hair is a butterscotch blonde, much like Queenie's. The angular cheekbones have been replaced with boyish chubbiness, likely by a Swelling charm, and a Shrinking spell has seen Credence now stand just below Tina's shoulder. Looking ten, eleven at best, he is utterly unrecognisable.

"I'll take the children's clothes back to the no-Maj department store as soon as everything's sorted- they have a return policy," Queenie is telling Tina as Credence shyly descends the few steps to approach Graves.

"Hi," the boy says shyly, scuffing his shoe on the ground. He doesn't have a particular affinity for children, but Graves can't help himself from placing a reassuring hand on the even slimmer shoulder, murmuring a reply. Credence doesn't draw away from the touch, so he leaves his hand there, a comfort to both.

"They did a good job disguising you," Graves adds quietly by Credence's ear, eyes surveying the quiet alley behind his house carefully for any hint of a threat. It was just something he did now, automatically, since Him. But now less so for his own protection. "No one will look twice at you."

Credence breathes a quiet sigh of relief, and settles his features as the back door creaks open again. This time, Newt emerges, in a deep grey robe and suit, cap perched on his coppery hair. Kowalski had elected not to attend- Saturdays mornings were very busy at his bakery, and all halnds were needed on deck. But secretly, Graves is glad. Not because he had a problem with the no-Maj; he didn't. The man was a good sort, as Graves had come to realise. But the risk of being caught multiplied tenfold with every extra person that came along.

"Are we all set?" Newt asks, looking to everyone individually. Even in the face of breaking at least ten laws that Graves remembered off the top of his head, the Brit like always was in good spirits. Then again, he really did seem to have an utter disregard for rules entirely.

"As ready as we'll ever be, I 'spose," replies Queenie, forcing a smile despite anxiety flickering in her blue eyes. Even Graves can't ignore the small ball of anxiety sitting in his own gut.

"Alrighty then." Newt rummages around in one of his coat pockets, before pulling out a battered tin box. The red paint on the tin was peeling, and Graves can make out what looks to be the scratched logo of a no-Maj brand of after-dinner mints.

"Is that the Portkey?" Credence asks, deep voice a stark contrast to his childish appearance. It would be best if the boy spoke as little as possible while they were at Jonker's, Graves decides. He wasn't sure how well Credence could imitate a child's voice, which was why he had suggested a Polyjuice potion in the early stages of planning.

"All we'd need to do is pull a few hairs from a no-Maj boy's head," he had argued, but the others had howled him down, incredulous that he would even contemplate that. Graves still doesn't see the problem, if he's honest; what's a few hairs to Credence's happiness? All anyone would have to do was quickly yank the hairs from behind an Apparate away...

But he had been given a firm 'No!', so Graves gave it up. That idea had surprised him too, if he had been honest, he admits quietly to himself. He'd assumed his protectiveness of Credence would wane over time, rather then strengthen, as he retunes his ears to listen to what Newt is saying, shifting his weight off his injured leg.

"It's set to leave at 10 o'clock sharp, so...." Scamander consults his wrist watch. "We've got two minutes, everybody grab it!"

Immediately, Graves, Tina and Queenie reach out to touch the Portkey Newt holds, Credence making contact a second after. His smaller hand brushes Graves' right, and their eyes meet, the anticipation and anxiety of the day to come reaching a crescendo.

The boy's wide eyes give away his doubtful thoughts, and Graves can read them like a book in the deserted alley. Credence is terrified. So tucking his cane under his arm, Graves reaches with his free hand for Credence's own, linking his cool fingers securely with the boy's warm ones. Trying to convey reassurance in his own eyes, despite his own trepidation, he smiles slightly at Credence, heartened when the expression is returned. And he manages to stroke the back of the boy's hand with his thumb once, twice, three times, before the Portkey glows blue white. The hook behind Graves' navel jerks him into spiralling oblivion.

Around and around and around they spin, quite potentially breaking the world speed record as the Portkey spirits them across the United States. Wind screams deafeningly in his ears, the blurry mass of colour disorientating, and swallowing hard, Graves wishes he hadn't eaten such a big breakfast. A shoulder knocks into his, and he can vaguely make out the shapes of the four others, fingers glued to the Portkey alongside his, in the midst of the dizzying journey-

His feet rocket into the ground, sending shooting pain up his right leg. Swearing audibly, Graves staggers to one side, but Credence's small hand, still locked in his, keeps him upright. The tin falls to the ground with a dull clang, and massaging his left leg, Graves pulls his cane out from under his arm.

They've landed smack bang in the middle of a corn field. Golden ears of the vegetable poke out of the plant stems at odd intervals, the crops reaching skyward to the glaring morning sun. Blue sky stretches uninterrupted seemingly forever, punctuated by cotton-ball clouds.

"Well I would say we're not in Kansas anymore." Newt emerges from a nearby clump of corn, brushing down his clothes. "But that would be a lie."

"Very funny," Tina says sarcastically, picking herself up off the dirt and running a hand through her wind-mussed hair.

"The Wizard of Oz," Queenie says to Graves' nonplussed expression, picking corn fronds off the hem of her dress. "No-maj book, Papa used to read it to me and Teeny. You'd like it I think, Credence." She smiles glowingly at the boy.

Newt, fortunately for the rest of them, knew the Kansas City area. Something about a Streeler trader he used to know on the Missouri side, but honestly Graves doesn't want to hear it. The less he knew about Scamander's blatant disregard for the law, the better. So a short bout of Side-Along Apparition later, and the party were on the west side of the flowing Missouri River, blinking in the urban bustle of Kansas City itself.

It had nothing on the lit cityscape of New York. Yet Kansas City was a metropolis in its own right, Graves acquiesces as they wander up through the humming town centre. Small businesses and franchises of brands alike flank the well-worn streets, and the constant rattle of streetcars can be heard several blocks away. They all clamber onto one of them not long after, thundering along the rails towards the man who could give Credence what he desperately needed.

West Bottoms arrives with a squeak of streetcar brakes on rails. The precinct is greasier, dirtier than the heart of Kansas city, and the everpresent reek, imposing buildings and the constant rattle of industrial noise reminds Graves heavily of New York.

He would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy Credence's physical clinginess. The boy, wary of a new place, stuck to Graves like a second skin. His hand clutched Graves' tightly as Tina and Queenie led the way through the smog-scented streets.

At one street corner, the two witches slow, warily looking around for witnesses as Graves, Newt and Credence come to a stop. Certain the coast was clear of witnesses, the pair spring to attention.

"It's the shop on the far right, inbetween the garage doors of the metalworks and that factory we talked about," Tina says to Queenie and Newt, close to the muck-streaked wall. "Look carefully- if you blink you'll miss it, and if you pass by it too many times, Jonker might get suspicious."

"'Want me to Charm you, Graves?" Queenie offers, and Graves takes a minute step forward, angling his head down. The cold Disillusionment Charm trickles down his neck and into his collar, and Graves almost shudders despite himself. But his feet, legs and cane have disappeared from under him, as expected. Though now Credence looks slightly alarmed to be holding onto what appeared to be a fistful of air.

"I'm still here," Graves murmurs, squeezing the boy's hand lightly, and the anxious edge in Credence's eyes dulls slightly. Meanwhile, Tina has also attained invisble qualities, leaving what appeared to be only Queenie, Newt and Credence standing in the quiet street.

"Now remember, Credence." Her disembodied voice is slightly unnerving. "Try not to speak, your voice doesn't match your age. Just nod or shake your head if Jonker asks you something, ok?"

"Tina and I will keep as close to you as we can," Graves adds, and all eyes turn to him. The sight of three pairs of eyes looking through him rather than at him is unsettling. "And intervene if things go pear-shaped." Intervene meaning Obliviate the wandmaker, and get the hell out quick-smart.

"But hopefully they won't," Newt emphasises, clearly picking up on the silent electric hum of Credence's anxiety. "And if they do, there's always Quintana, or we can try someplace in Europe." He peers at the boy reassuringly, even as Graves bites his tongue.

Please, not Europe. Anywhere but Europe. Not with That Man...

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he only comes to when the hem of Queenie's pastel cloak swishes around the street corner and out of sight. Immediately he hobbles as fast as he canto catch up, cursing himself for his momentary lapse.

Newt, Queenie and Credence look like the picture perfect family unit, Graves can't help but notice. The witch has her slim arm linked through the wizard's, and Credence walks just ahead, keen eyes eagerly flicking around the motionless street. Newt had suggested they approach Jonker masquerading as a couple with a son, on the grounds that it would 'attract less suspicion'. Tina had seemed slightly put out by that suggestion when it was brought up weeks earlier, for reasons unknown. But to the unsuspecting eye, nothing would appear amiss; just a middle-class family enjoying the weekend sunshine, exploring Kansas City's hidden wonders. Yet Graves and Tina lurk a step behind, not even a shadow indicating their presence. Queenie laughs her tinkling laugh, and Graves could swear he heard an irritated 'hmmph,' from Tina's general direction.

The garage doors Goldstein had mentioned earlier are just up ahead, their painted finish peeling and chipped. And further up, the corrugated iron and brick wall of a factory, the cacophany of industrial noise around them a solemn reminder that the group was surrounded by no-Majs. One small screw-up could mean breaching Rappaport's Law; a law Graves was ever so keen not to break, officially. Not when it could cost him his job, his entire career. He was already toeing the line, dealing with Jacob, and of course, harbouring Credence; if all this was discovered by MACUSA because of today's events, it could cost Graves his life, and the lives of his companions.

But inbetween these two unremarkable dwellings aforementioned lies an equally mundane shop. Not even a shop; Graves would call it a shack, quite frankly. A door missing one of it's four panes hangs slightly ajar, the rusty nails attached to its weathered frame sticking out higgledly-piggledly. A sign so badly rusted it's ornate lettering is illegible sits just above, but the saw-horse stand with 'Crime Scene: Do Not Cross' painted in scarlet letters commands all attention. And surely enough, when two no-Maj workers walk past, grubby workmen's shirts rolled to their elbows, they don't look twice towards the shop. Typical sign of a wizarding dwelling, hiding in plain sight.

Stopping just before the uninviting entrance, Queenie seems to hesitate. Both she and Newt look both ways, checking for witnesses, before Queenie takes Credence's hand and ducks under the stand, pushing through the shop door. Credence, through force of motion, follows, and Newt brings up the rear, holding the door open longer than necessary, so Tina and Graves can soundlessly scramble inside.

At first glance, a stone drops into Graves' stomach. The shop is silent, and seemingly abandoned. But there's signs of life none other than a trained Auror would notice- no dust coats the many dark shelves cluttered with boxes, the dim lamp on the ceiling is lit, and a mug of tea, a curlique of steam rising from the lip, sits on what appears to be a front counter.

Tina must've whispered as much into Queenie's ear, as the latter exhales, and her tense shoulders relax.

Meanwhile Newt has ventured several steps further into the tight confines of the shop, lanky frame craning this way and that. "Hello?"

Credence just takes in the scene, eyes wide, fiddling with the hem of his navy coat. And as he scans the shop for potential threats, Graves loses himself in another memory. Of the night before, where sweat-soaked sheets and the terrors of dreams loosened Credence's tongue as Graves cradled the boy in his arms.

"What if a wand doesn't choose me, Mister Graves?" Credence's voice had been barely a whisper, head curled into Graves' shoulder as the older man stroked a soothing hand down his thin spine. Pausing the massaging movement, the elder of the pair had pulled back to study the younger's face, barely visible in the dark-fuzzed room.

"If a Jonker wand doesn't choose you, then we will go to Quintana. And if a Quintana wand doesn't choose you, we will go to Europe. Or to Asia, or to Africa, or even Australia...," They would burn through every wandmaker in existence, regardless of distance, or of Graves' own aversions, to get Credence a wand.

The truth behind his own words last night still resonates in Graves. He would grit his teeth and go to the ends of the earth to find this young man a wand. Even if it meant going to f*cking Europe.

He sneaks a sideways glance at the youthful face, temporarily childish face enchantingly charming. It strikes him that there is alarmingly little he wouldn't do for this boy.

And once again, Credence proves to be a distraction for Graves' usually alert senses. For during his foray into his consciousness, he's failed to notice a newcomer from within the depths of the shop. Who happens to have a wand, pointed inches away from Newt Scamander's throat.

Queenie screams, almost dropping her wand in fright, and Graves' wand is in his hand instantaneously. He automatically steps in front of Credence, knowing that despite the Disillusionment charm, his body would protect the boy from harm.

But before the altercation can escalate, the man drops his wand hand back to his side. "Good God, my sincerest apologies!"

The man is an inch or so shorter than Newt. Strapping in build, he has a thick, chocolate beard, which is a few shades darker than his deeply tan skin. The hair on his head is short, yet as thick as his beard, and he can't be older than Graves, yet is not as young as Credence. Stowing his wand in his trouser pocket, the newcomer looks sheepish.

"I thought you were burglars, my apologies again, sir and ma'am. I was out the back and I heard a ruckus, so.." he shrugs apologetically, some wood shavings clinging to the fabric of his vest coming loose. "The stand at the door doesn't always work, see, and I've had to modify a few memories, just a few no-Maj kids-"

Graves tries to imagine he hasn't just heard about the biggest law in American wizardry being broken as Johannes Jonker introduces himself to Newt and Queenie, and then to Credence.

"Now," the wandmaker clasps his hands together, looking to the trio, clearly oblivious to the two extra bodies hidden in his shop. "What can I do for you?"

"We're here for a wand, actually," Newt begins, and Jonker's brows narrow quizzically over his kind brown eyes.

"A wand?" The wandmaker repeats, looking between Newt and Queenie. "I don't sell individual wands to customers, you should know that. Your son will have to wait until he begins at Il-"

"But he won't be attending Ilvermony," Queenie cries, face so filled with sorrow. "We're due to leave for London in three days, you see; to be with my darling Barry's family-" she gestures to Newt. "His mother is taken very ill, and we want Buford here to get the chance to know his grandmother before..." Her baby blue eyes spark with tears so convincing, Graves almost believes her.

But Jonker isn't buying it just yet. "If you're moving to Britain, why not just get Buford a wand once you're there?" he inquires, folding muscled arms over his chest.

"Yes, that would be the logical option," Newt interjects, wrapping what appeared to be a comforting arm around Queenie's shoulders. "But my darling wife wants Buford to have a memento of the country he was born in, and we feel that one of your wands would be a perfect way for C-Buford- to remember America by."

"We don't know if we shall ever return here," Queenie sniffles, and Graves can see Jonker struggling with himself. The wandmaker seemed to be a man of sturdy morals, after all.

"Well I do have plenty of wands ready here, that I was planning to send off to Ilvermorny in a week or two when they ask for their first-years shipment," he acquiesces. "I suppose if a single wand chose this young man-" he makes eye contact with Credence. "- I can make another in time to replace it."

"But," he holds up a finger as Newt, Queenie and Credence's faces fill with unadulterated joy and relief. "I'll need to see both your Wand Permits, sir and ma'am. And I trust you won't let, erm, Buford here run amok with his wand on the streets while you're still in the States. I know it's legal in Engand, but you're not there yet, and I don't want MACUSA blasting down my door. So let's keep this as quiet as possible, hmm?"

The witch and wizard drown Jonker with promises and gratitude, as Queenie rummages around in her robes for their persona's Wand Permits. Queenie was quite the smooth criminal, Graves had to note. Not only had she pulled off this performance perfectly, but she'd managed to filch some Wand Permit papers with just a wink and a smile to Abernathy, the head of the department. He makes a mental note not to give Queenie Goldstein any reason to plot against him in the future.

"All seems in order, Mr and Mrs King," Jonker proclaims, handing Queenie back the forged papers, which Graves himself had signed. "Now Buford, let's find you your wand."

The look that lights up Credence's eyes suddenly makes all the law-breaking worth it.

The first wand is ash and thunderbird feather, which creates a bang that shakes the very foundations of the shop. Jonker hurriedly takes that one out of Credence's hands.

The next wand is a birch and wampus hair, 10 and a half inches, that Jonker seems particularly fond of. He engages in conversation with Newt, explaining how as his mother was Cherokee, he found it easy to harvest Wampus hairs straight from the source. However, the idea that a wampus hair is the perfect core for Credence is put to bed, when a wave of the wand sends Queenie's pink felt hat flying straight off her champagne curls.

As the pile of discarded wand boxes mounts higher and higher, Graves can feel Credence's anxiety growing. He can almost hear the flurry of soft voices whispering doubt into the boy's ears, as yet another wand, pine and jackalope horn, is cast aside. Quietly ajusting his footing, as his leg gives a twinge of fatigue, Graves sends a silent prayer to whatever lay in the heavens that Credence found a wand.

Finally, as the sun began its dip toward the horizon, Jonker scratches his head. Newt and Queenie have long since flopped onto the squeaky sofa against a wall, and Graves himself leans against a bookcase, careful to avoid making any audible noise or movement. To his best knowledge, Tina is perched somewhere on a drawer in the corner, while Credence sits on a stool in the centre of the room, finddling with his fingers nervously. It was a sheer miracle their disguises hadn't worn off yet.

"Hmm..." Something gleams in Jonker's eyes before he narrows them again. "There might be one..." he mutters to himself, before disappearing into the back room of the shop. A clatter follows, then a crash, and from what the group outside can hear, it sounds as thought the wandmaker is quite literally turning his storeroom inside out. But after several moments pass, Johannes Jonker returns from behind the faded scarlet curtain, and in his hands is a single wand box.

"This is one of the first wands I ever made," Jonker addresses Credence quietly, turning the box over within his skilled palms. "When I was first experimenting with the different cores and wood types. And over fifteen years, try as I might, I've never managed to sell it."

A pinprick of hope blooms to life in Credence's eyes as he beholds the box.

"This wand is quite long, I'd usually try it with a taller wizard, but," Jonker sighs, rubbing his forehead with a hand. "The wand chooses the wizard, as they say. You may as well give it a go."

Taking the proferred box, Credence opens it and lifts the wand from the plush surface so carefully, it was as though the wand would shatter in his hands.

But it didn't. The wandmaker's shop is utterly silent, and Graves waits with bated breath to see what will happen next. Praying for a miracle, praying that Credence's shoulders wouldn't droop with reaffirmation of his pitiful self-worth....

This opportunity, the fact that they were standing here, hundreds of miles away from home... Credence had come so far in the past few weeks, he realised. Little, tiny signs that something was changing underneath that smooth, alabaster skin were smattered sparingly in his mannerisms, like tiny flowers on a grassy field. And Graves wanted to see these signs become more prominent, to see Credence flourish. For while the boy was better, he still had a way to go.

But to be knocked back now, perched atop this careful house of cards they had tentatively stacked....it would crush Credence's spirit like flower petals in a clenched fist. Eyes closed, Graves would get on his knees and pray, if his leg would let him.

Please. Please. Grant him this small mercy, after all he has suffered.

A low humming sounds from somewhere unknown, and a sudden gust of wind whips through the room. The air becomes warm, and strands of fine gold substance circle loosely around Credence. Ruffling his hair and flapping at his clothes, they twist on and on, like spiderweb, until with a soft puff, the thread disintegrates into miniscule sparks, fading away.

"You did it!"

Queenie hurls herself at Credence, bringing the boy into a bone-crunching hug. Newt, breaking out of his fatigued stupor, leaps off the sofa and also embraces the giddy boy, elation illuminating his freckled features.

"Oh darling, I was so anxious you wouldn't find one!-"

"I guess that odd wand was meant for someone after all," Jonker adds to Newt over Queenie and Credence's heads, as the witch fusses over the boy. From where Graves is standing, beaming to himself, it appears as though Queenie is attempting to smother poor Credence with kisses.

"Might I ask what you made it from?" The auburn-haired wizard asks Jonker curiously.

"Larch wood and snallygaster heartstring," the brunet declares conversationally. "Snallygaster is particularly powerful wand core, very fussy about wand woods- has a bit of an affinity for the dark arts, too."

Everyone seems to freeze at the last few of Jonker's words.

"But Larch is a fantastic wood to pair it with, it's a positive wood, gives wielders courage and confidence," Jonker adds a tad hastily to his customers' expressions. "A very strange combination, but not at all a bad one."

Paying for and leaving with the wand went without a hitch, and Graves felt he could breath normally (albeit extra quietly) when the boxed up wand was safely deposited into the depths of Queenie's purse. But he doesn't fully relax until they are back around that corner, and Queenie, positively wriggling with jubilation, has removed the Disillusionment charm from him.

"Buford? Out of all the names?!" He asks Queenie exasperatedly, but only because if he doesn't distract himself, he'll be dancing around in a similar manner. Their ridiculous, utterly implausible, hare-brained scheme had actually f*cking worked.

And that much is what Tina, now visible once more, replies in Queenie's defence, even as the blonde shrugs, unbothered by Graves derision. Credence doesn't seem bothered by the odd choice in name either- the boy is dazed, if anything,tucking the wand box under his jacket as they journey back through Kansas City. He can't seem to stop himself from checking that his precious cargo was still there, feeling his jacket repeatedly.

It's after dark by the time the Portkey has transferred them out of the corn field and back into the clutter and smog of New York. They step inside from the alley briefly to restore Credence his usual appearance, and then Graves and Credence bid farewell to the Goldsteins and Newt at the back door. Credence can't seem to stop stammering 'thank you', which Queenie appears to try and crush it out of him with another bone breaking embrace, but Newt and Tina's reassurances seem to appease the boy's unfounded guilt.

"You needed a wand," Tina tells him levelly, hands braced lightly on the young man's slim arms. "We simply helped you get it."

After several more hugs and reassurances, the sisters and Newt Apparate away into the evening with a dull crack. Credence heads back inside, and Graves follows, closing the back door behind him. The shining titian floorboards thud with a solitary footstep, his, before-

Credence throws what must be all of his weight at Graves, wrapping his arms around him like cords of rope. "Thank you."

The warmth of human contact relaxes typically rigid shoulders. Graves returns the embrace solidly, trying but failing to ignore the matchstick of pride that announced Credence was hugging him. Of his own free will, rather than under the spiked obsidian duress of unconscious terrors.

"It was all Tina, Queenie and Newt," he replies modestly. The feathery texture of the boy's raven hair tickles at his fingertips.

"It wasn't, and you know it," Credence replies softly yet with newfound courage, voice muffled by the sooty-toned fabric of Graves' coat."You asked them for help to get me my wand."

Graves mulls over the younger wizard's words, uttering a noise of assent. "I suppose you're right, Credence."

"But I'm betting you're itching to have a proper turn with you wand, so," Graves draws out the 'o', thinking things over. "How about we go upstairs and have at it, and then head down to the Park for a celebratory dinner? We haven't been to my favourite one yet, you'll love it-"

"Mister Graves?"

There was a hint of seriousness that slows Graves' quiet enthusiasm.

"Yes, Credence?"

"Thank you."

He hopes the tightening of his arms around the boy's lean frame tells Credence all he needs to know.

****

The book lies upon the table, a small object, yet a psychological boulder.

The larch wand is gripped tightly in his hand, sweat lubricating the handle, and his pulse roars fast in his ears.

His nerves were uncalled for- he had done this many a time before. So why did he feel as though he stood on the windswept edge of a rocky precipice, staring down at the fang-like rocks far below?

Breathe, focus. There were familiar wooden floorboards beneath his feet, not the crumbling edge of a cliff somewhere unknown.

His excitement he had been so drunk on before, addling his brain and making his feet light, was now replaced. The grey, choking smog of fear had seeped into his consciousness, curling threateningly at the edges of his happiness.

"Credence?"

He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

But he could. The wand fit perfectly into the creases of his palm. Every curve, every meticulously carved groove of the lacquered wood...it felt like an extension of his soul. Like a limb he had been missing, but hadnt realised until now.

This wand was made for him. For him. Mister Graves, Tina, Queenie and Newt had all risked so much to get it for him. And Ma... Ma was dead. The Obscurus was long-gone. He was free, to make his own destiny, carve his own path with the stick in his hands.

One last deep breath, and-

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The book launches into the air, as the most luxurious golden glow courses through him. It feels like a warm breeze, a hot bath, the taste of chocolate, a kind smile-

A soft thump as he directs the book back to the table. He's smiling, and tears blur his eyes, but they're happy tears. Because it's real, it's all real.

Credence is a wizard, and all he can feel is gold.

Nothing but gold, and Mister Graves.

Chapter 11: 11

Chapter Text

"So what's new?"

The dreaded words fell out of Picquery's mouth, like flakes of ash upon the Operation Demiguise team. Every weekly meeting, the same question.

She was different now. But then again, they all were, in the aftermath of Him. She had always been reserved, tightly coiled, commanding respect with her every movement. Yet the Picquery Graves had served before had a wicked sense of humour, and when the moment called for it, a softer side that few got to witness.

Maybe it was the strain taking its toll on her. That Man had slipped in under her radar, into American magic's inner sanctum, as easily as the summer breeze blew away a cobweb. Dealing with the aftermath of such a critical breach under her watch could not be easy.

But that rarely seen softness, often plied out by a glass or four of gigglewater, was all but obliterated now. Replaced by a cold-eyed, distant figure who walked so stiffly, it wouldn't surprise him if cracking ice was the sound of her joints shifting, and mist fogged in the air from her breath. Whatever small candle of mercy had been lit inside Picquery's chest when she visited him in the Infirmary, that light had long since been extinguished.

"Well?" The President snaps, looking from face to face with cold impatience. Graves had seen her do this before during stressful periods, where she was snappier than usual. But he had never seen her pull back so entirely, until only a hollow gloomy fortress of herself remained, wind blowing through empty halls.

"I had Bellingham comb through the files late last week," Carneirus offers, unshakeable as always. "Spectre didn't request or look through anything important."

"AnythingHe touched has the potential to be important," Picquery hisses, hackles raised. "Any information He gathered is information that could have been used against us."

"But he clearly didn't, because he got caught, didn't he?" The weathered Auror captain returns calmly, and the President doesn't deign to respond.

"Besides, if anything, that bastard didn't look at any of the paperwork, on his desk or otherwise, if the mountain of work Graves came back to is any indication."

A twitter of mirth runs around the table, and the tension-fraught air slumps slightly.

But Graves sure as hell doesn't. He's seething with anger, jaw clenched, and fingers digging into the edge of the table so hard, he wouldn't be surprised if his nails left tiny crescents in the wood.

How could they joke about it, what he had been through? Mentioning it so casually, the experience he was only just beginning to comprehend the effect of? Carneirus should know f*cking better. It was plain to him now; their apologies and sympathy meant nothing. Not when there was no follothrough care or concern.

They had no idea, none of them. Not one singlef*cking idea. How it felt to freeze, dense lightless walls choking him, the searing pain of his ruined leg, and no one to hear him scream-

Who are you?

No one.

Shut up.f*ck off. Not here, not now, Graves, he tells himself. Deep, quiet breaths, don't let them see you fall.

"Spectre didn't ask you about any kind of paperwork did he, Graves?" This time, Picquery's words are directed at him. And if he wasn't already incensed, he sure as f*cking hell is now. It takes everything in him to keep a straight face, a blank stone wall of skin that wouldn't betray the fury beneath.

Ask him aboutpaperwork?!Oh yes, because he and That Man had definitely spent those sixteen days sipping tea together in Graves' lounge room, having a casual f*cking catchup. These people, all of them, even f*cking Picquery, were all so naive. And socasual, for God's sake. This wasn't a conversation about the f*cking weather- they were talking about his f*cking memories being clawed out of his brain, ripped out by an icy spike and rifled through by grubby fingers. It didn't haunt them in their sleep, it didn't make their breath freeze in their throat when they remembered lying immobile on the floor, completely helpless to the will of....it was as though his colleagues were flipping through the pages of a catalogue, his most painful memories trivialised.

The rage inside him builds and builds, like steam inside a teapot, but Graves can't seem to make it stop. No one had realised what had happened to him.No one. He would have starved to death inside that suitcase if they hadn't decided to search his house for evidence, and now they were discussing everything he went through the same way one discussed the newspaper. He wants to slam his fist right onto the table in front of it until it splinters, and scream at all of them, until terror coats their features.'Don't you care? Don't you see what He did to me? Why didn't anyone NOTICE?!'

Was he really so similar to Him, to that vile man, that there had been no discernible difference?

How many proud employees of MACUSA actually knew the real Graves, behind the impassive professional front? Did Carneirus and Limus, his closest colleagues? Did even Picquery?

And just when Graves thinks he might actually combust with fury, a hushed, much-neglected voice breathes, 'Credence does.'

All the anger whooshes out of him like a balloon deflating at the thought of the boy, and the sudden realisation is a steady hand against his raw, wounded pride. Because he needs Credence just as much as the boy needs him, for reasons he can't even voice yet.

So he lets it all go, for now, a simple, clipped 'No,' slipping from his lips, and the meeting continues. Yet the resentment hisses within him, a leaking pipe that will inevitably overflow.

Before, Graves had sat comfortably in the knowledge that he was revered, respected, and people knew him. But now he wasn't so sure they knew him in the right way.

*****************************************************
The Flutterby bush wriggles gleefully as the droplets of water sprinkle onto its broad, green leaves and burrow into the depths of the soil. And Credence can quite confidently say he feels like doing the same thing.

Not being watered by a rusty blue watering can, that had been dug out from the depths of Mister Graves' basem*nt. But wriggling with happiness, at just how good life is at that very moment; with sunshine filling the house with warmth and the oven wafting delicious scents.

The weeks have disappeared like sinking ships, and almost a whole month had passed since his wand had chosen him. The spring chill was blossoming into summer warmth, and it's all a wonderful technicolour blur. The memories filter back with the enticing scent of baking muffins.

Swimming in Madison Square Gardens last week, sneaking in at night with Mister Graves, Tina, Queenie, Newt and Jacob to the pool, that could rival a small ocean. Going to the pictures, in what was now a weekly occurence with Mister Graves, to watch the people move and music play upon the dark screen.

An easy smile curls onto Credence's lips as he props the dripping watering can on his windowsill next to the bush. Queenie made Mister Graves promise to take him ice skating in Tuxedo Park next winter, while every Wednesday afternoon, Credence went to Kowalski Quality Baked Goods to learn the art of baking from the expert himself.

"It's all in the wrists, buddy," Jacob had instructed him warmly, clearly enjoying having a special pupil in the bustling depths of his bakery kitchen. The bread dough had seemed to worm its way through Credence's hands like magic, and a perfect loaf had emerged from the oven the hour later. It had been so exciting to arrive home, albeit covered in flour, to show Mister Graves something he had made all by himself. And with every batch of goods Credence brought home, he also took with him the top secret Kowalski family recipe, to carefully slide between the filling pages of his very own cookbook.

He sees them a lot now, Newt, Jacob and the Goldsteins, Credence realises as he lugs the ironing basket downstairs. Tina had spent every waking moment after Kansas arguing with Mister Graves that he couldn't lock Credence in his house forever, that he needed a social life. From the looks of things, it appeared his new friends had very much intended to continue their involvement in his life, well past Kansas. Tina dropped by after work yesterday for afternoon tea, and now that Newt was officially back from Asia- the Brit came and went fairly regularly- he'd promised to teach Credence the finer points of magizoology. And all of them, Mister Graves included, were going to The Grim later that week, a speakeasy. He'd have to be in disguise again, probably as Newt's cousin or something, but Credence might even get the courage to try some alcohol...

It's not all play and no work. Credence doesn't let himself forget to take care of Mister Graves' house. Wait, no; it wastheir house, the older wizard always emphasised that. According to him, it was as much his house as Credence's, and that was always so comforting. But the cooking, the washing, the ironing- Credence does it all. It gives him purpose, and he takes pride in keeping the townhouse spotless, despite the other man's chagrin.

"You really don't have to, Credence," Mister Graves sighs regularly, each time he comes home to find something else newly sparkling. "Do the doorknobs really need to bethat clean?!"

They did, in Credence's opinion. And it was his little way of repaying Mister Graves for all of his kindness. The older man had provided him with so very much, far more than necessary. And now it was Credence's turn to give a little back, in the limited ways that he could. Even if Mister Graves had put his foot down and insisted upon paying Credence for his chores.

"It's just a weekly allowance for you," the elder had argued as Credence put up a fair fight of refusing. "That way you can buy whatever trinkets you wish whilst I'm at work. Plus you need some savings, just in case."

What that case was, Credence didn't really want to give much thought to, a murky threat that sat on the horizon. But eventually, Mister Graves wears him down, and he accepts a sum, on the condition it is half what the older man had originally intended to give him.

He's changed, Credence realises mildly, setting down the iron momentarily. The past month or two has fortified a framework of subtle confidence within himself, his overwhelming anxiety seeming to...lessen. Like the ebbing of a tide on the gritty span of a beach.

He doesn't whisper inaudibly for Mister Graves to please pass the potatoes at dinnertime, he asks loudly. His fear of questions is all but eradicated, and he now even musters whisps of confidence in order to argue back. Sometimes, occasionally. When the moment called for it.

If he didn't have a mirror on the inside of his wooden closet door to look at himself every day, Credence wasn't sure he'd recognise himself. This new, brighter Credence, that stood just a little bit taller than the old one, who was forgetting the agonising snap of a belt on his back and the stern teachings drilled into him by Ma. Who couldn't remember the last time he'd prayed to Jesus Christ, even if he did sometimes hum hymns absently as he went about his day. Who no longer had sallow, drawn cheeks, but fuller ones with a hint of colour, and not greasy, lank hair sharply chopped. But soft, glossy locks that now straggle past his ears and skim the collars of his brand new, very expensive clothes.

Mister Graves lets this new Credence, the Credence that stood ironing shirts by the kitchen door right now, go the the no-Maj markets to buy groceries. Because he is utterly unrecognisable. Not the wizarding ones, yet, that was still too risky in Mister Graves' opinion. But once Credence has learnt more magic, much more magic, what it meant to walk the streets as a wizard, then he'll be allowed. Even if Credence does feel like Mister Graves is just a tadtooprotective sometimes, he does enjoy the security of someone who cares.

The magic that used to trickle from his fingertips is now a fully-fledged stream, channelled through the wand held sturdily in his palm. And the attic is the haven where this magic can flow freely, be expressed to the air, where Credence can flex this newfound muscle. The number of spells he can perform correctly are slowly but surely mounting, leaving excitement tickling in his belly after each lesson. Even if that horrible doubtful voice in his head warns him not to push it- that the Obscurus could return in a heartbeat, and shatter everything. So despite that the chances of this are less than none, a hint of caution resides within Credence. Even now, clutching the clothes basket, he relishes the invisible bubbles of gold that run through his veins.

His teachers are more than wonderful too. Queenie, whose kindness knows no bounds, leaves work early some days to stop by and supplement Credence's magic lessons. It had been unnerving to hear that the witch could read his thoughts; a Legilimens, that's what Mister Graves had called her, when the topic had arisen some time ago at one of their frequent dinner parties. But the knowledge had also served to comfort Credence, in a strange, niche sort of way. Reassuring him that he wasn't alone in being a little different to the rest of the group. And that when he struggled to voice his feelings, stuck in the thick mud of anxiety, someone would be there to help him voice them with a friendly smile.Besides, the The witch knew things Mister Graves didn't, and vice versa- her tips and tricks for cleaning and household maintenance are better than any book Credence could read. Useful additions that he determinedly commits to memory.

The doorbell clangs outside, startling the young man, and he clatters down the stairs to answer it.

Credence is fairly certain that Jacob, Queenie, Newt and Tina now consider themselves the elder man's friends too. Mister Graves had been a solitary beast when Credence first met him, and still was, by many accounts. No living relatives, and no real close friends...something had clenched mournfully in Credence's gut when he first envisioned his mentor in his big house, all alone.

So it's a nice thought, that Mister Graves might be getting something nice out of this, some friends. Whatever exactlythiswas. But the sight of the elder wizard last week, chatting comfortably with his friends on the lounge, with less of his typical guarded manner...

Lying was a sin. Even if the lie was unvoiced, and lay innocently within the confines of the fortified mind. For as wonderful and generous as Queenie is, as Jacob is, as steadfast and reliable as Tina and Newt are, as much as he appreciates them, Credence will always prioritise Mister Graves.

A shadow lurks outside the frosted pane of glass flanking the front door. Tall and and dark-hued, blurred by the texture of the glass. Who could it be?

He sounds ungrateful towards all the kindness he continues to receive. Credence with a bows his head in shame, an iron clench in his gut. That evil little voice that barely gets a word in these days takes the chance to croon in Credence's ear, infiltrating his inner sanctum. That he deserves to be punished, that God would smite him down. That if Ma were around, she would pummel him black and blue until he showed repentance. That the man outside the door is an enemy, that he shouldn't open it, Mister Graves told him he shouldn't-

But setting his jaw, Credence pulling his face upward, gasping as though his head had been pulled from water. He stands immobile as his breathing slows, silently soothing himself in the rufuge of the broad, cool wood.It doesn't mean you love the others any less, a voice that sounds like Mister Graves' placates him. Reminding Credence to stand tall and hold firm, and remember he is valued, as those toxic tendrils beckon to him from the abyss. To be wary of others, but to trust those who proved their loyalty.

Hedidprefer his lessons with Mister Graves. The sense of privilege he received from his private one-on-one tutelage, in the fact that Mister Graves took time from his hectic schedule just for Credence. The closeness and pseudo-intimacy he enjoys with the elder man, and the way his body seemed to sing when the man stood near. When his front frames Credence's back, body heat emanating from Mister Graves as he corrects Credence's stance, his wand movement with practiced, experienced hands, his pronunciation. The boy can't help but bask in it, in the glow of Mister Graves' undivided attention.

This truth is all the ironclad drive Credence needs. Before he even knows it, the doorknob is twisting in his palm, and Mister Graves' front door arcs open.

But the space outside the heavy door is empty. No shadowy figure stands before Credence after all, as the warm midday air tickles his face and an automobile trundles past, blasting choking clouds of exhaust. With an absent, disbelieving shrug, Credence turns inside, his foot catching on the paper-wrapped package planted on the doormat.

Whatever Mister Graves has ordered, it sure is heavy. When Credence unceremoniously dumps the cubic parcel on the table, it thuds down with enough force that the dishes rattle in the cupboards. With a whit of caution, but utterly overwhelmed with curiosity, Credence slowly unwraps the brownpapered package, bearing the gold and scarlet sticker, 'Whittaker's Wizardry.'

First he finds a neatly folded receipt, billed to 'P.A. Graves', for the 'Whittaker's Ilvermorny Vitals'. The amount at the bottom makes Credence shudder, and he quickly averts his eyes in favour of the contents of the package.

His fingers meet the smooth face of a cover, and peeling back the flyaway edge of the ripped packaging, the crisp, freshly printed fore edge of a book breaks free into Credence's hands.

"Dubois' Comprehensive Compendium of Spellcasting for Beginners..." he reads aloud, as the flowers of excitement and joy bloom proudly in his chest. Hurriedly setting the book down, Credence tears through the rest of the packaging, to collect three more glossy coated, brand new books in his shaky hands. Another Dubois book, for 'novices' , as well as 'The Syntax of Spells' by Fornax Feng and Khadijah Parri's 'Basic Potions for Beginner Wizards.'

Credence sinks to the floor, holding the hundreds of pages tight to his chest as a delighted, inhuman squeal erupts from within him. The books are forhim, from Mister Graves. Comfort and affection wraps around the boy's shoulders like a thick tartan blanket at the thought of his protector, unwavering in kindness. The feeling that subtly colours Credence's cheeks every time they lock eyes, or when he beholds Mister Graves quietly around the house, praying the man didn't notice.

And whilst the sharp edges of the book covers dig into his arms, Credence imagines it's the elder man he's embracing. Just for a moment.

Chapter 12: 12

Chapter Text

The light flicks out with a wave of his wand, and Graves closes his office door behind him with finality, a sigh of relief escaping him as he limps down the hallway. Done, for another day.

The investigation was going about as painlessly as pulling fingernails. Little to no leads, a suspect that wouldn't talk, and dead ends in every corner they perused. The relations with the European Aurors were going horribly, and Carneirus had succeeded in putting nearly every single emissary from the continent offside with his brash manner. This meant that the Europeans were less likely to update them on interrogation efforts, and downright cold whenever interaction occured. Graves' headache only seemed to grow with ever passing moment he was in the room with his investigation colleagues.

'Put me in a room with Him,' some insane part of him wants to beg. 'Let me see what truths I can wring from that scrawny neck.' But that would be madness. Even the thought of That Man made him want to throw up.

The trial kept being postponed, due to technical difficulties and paperwork errors. The judge retired the week before proceedings were to begin, and Demiguise still hadn't managed to dig up anything concrete about His motives in the US. It felt like they were chasing their tails, when the trial was postponed until late July.

Catching smoke would be simpler than this.A cool chill sweeps through the hallway, and though his skin prickles, Graves shakes it off.

He doesn't even bother taking work home with him anymore. Mostly because he hadn't the time to do it, with Credence's nightly lessons. But if Graves is finally, painstakingly honest with himself, he's had a royal gutful of work, despite only being back for six weeks. His Aurors were working overtime to finish their own street cases and still have time for Demiguise meetings, inspections and evidence compiling, which meant a lot of bloodshot eyes, late nights and enough coffee to fill the Hudson. Which meant that Carneirus and Limus, as Captain and Chief of MACUSA's finest, were stretched like chewing gum between about thirteen investigations, reports and subsequent interrogations apiece. And Picquery never seemed to have the time of day for him, apart from in meetings or for a quick word in regards to one of the other major cases they were juggling like in a stripy-tented no-Maj circus. No amount of memos sent to Vasquez seemed to grant Graves any time with the woman who he'd once spent his days practically conjoined to.There was now a reward going for information on That Man. Graves had had is reservations about broadcasting their investigation to the wizarding population, but no one seemed to give a f*ck what he thought nowadays anyway. So the posters went up in the Woolworth building halls, and in every wizarding shop and speakeasy in town. And the following flood of riffraff, crying wolf and being a general nuisance to the poor aurors in charge of questioning the masses, extended far out into the lobby.There was absolutely nothing. That Man had left nothing behind; not a scrap of scrawled on paper, a footprint, a strand of hair. Not one single indication that He had even been to MACUSA, in Graves' house, in his office. But a lack of new leads meant twiddling thumbs, frustration and too many unanswered questions, and on an Auror team, that was never a good thing.No answers meant that Graves' trauma would go unanswered for, unresolved. That all his suffering had been for nothing.

The thought of Credence however, dulls Graves' sombre mood slightly. The boy seemed to glow a little brighter every day, quite literally. The sallow pallor in his cheeks had vanished, replaced by fullness and the faint rosy shine of health. No doubt fuelled by the hearty meals the boy was mastering quicker than Graves could blink, and the elder man's belt had loosened by a notch if he's honest.

Too much weight on his left leg as he takes the stairs makes Grave admit a dull hiss from between his pursed lips. Stupid, useless f*cking leg, with still no sign of a cure, despite the Healers' unfaltering research.

"We could always try getting you to splinch yourself while Apparating," Sydell had contemplated aloud easier that day, absently brushing back a flyaway strand of her frizzy black hair.

"But ," Cyprian emphasises the 't', almond eyes directed to Graves. "As an experienced and licensed Apparator, it'd be a challenge- plus we have no way of knowing which limb may detach itself..."

Graves put the brakes on that idea with no small amount of distaste. Yet now, as he breaks free of the rows of darkened Law Enforcement desks and into the empty elevator, accompanied only by the goblin bellhop, the idea doesn't sound so bad. Anything to break free of the pain that chews him raw from the inside, fraying his emotions, his capacity for sanity, reaching fever pitch every time Sydell and Cyprian regretfully test to see if the spell has worn off every few weeks. The burn, the agony is so deep, Graves feels as though a part of his soul is chipped away every time.

As much as the healers refused to admit it and persisted up this steep incline, Graves knew they were grasping at straws. And it only sought to make him more restless, more unsatisfied. A cauldron of emotions that slowly simmered away within him, threatening to spill over at any sign of trouble.

He doesn't feel safe at work. The sensation of being surrounded by wolves had never fully dissolved; because though his coworkers knew his story, Graves would never let them see how those scars ran down to the blood-licked bone. Not when their negligence, their sheer lack of giving a f*ck had left him to rot in the crushing confines of his own home. His sense of security is little more than invisible stains by his boots as Graves walks robotically from the elevator, and towards the grand front doors of the Woolworth building.

An iron collar constricted his throat at the beginning of every day, and by sunset, he could barely breathe. The only place where this shackle every truly seemed to unwind, to roll to the floor, was at home. At home, with Credence, where their conversations, laughter and lessons were a form of escapism from the tall horrors of MACUSA, and Graves' own overactive mind.

But tonight, he doesn't go straight home.

The orphanage looms out of the dusk, a deserted, blackened pile of rubble so silent, it's deafening. The front door, blasted off its hinges, creaks in nonexistent wind, as crumpled, jagged walls reach for the onyx sky like broken fingers. Graves looks over his shoulder for something he doesn't see, his breathing shallow, and goes inside.

****
A cracking sound and a swish of a dark cloak leaves Graves on the sidewalk outside his home, blurry streetlights illuminating the empty streets. Despite the global reputation of New York as the 'city that never sleeps', this part of Manhattan, the Upper East Side, went quiet after dark. Especially during the working week; not even a cat scampers across the asphalt under the watchful gaze of the high pale moon.

Tangerine light filters through several curtains in his home, the sole lit candle in a street full of extinguished, dark windows. Graves pauses at the unfamiliar sight, face turned up to rest upon the amber glow emitting from each window pane. His chest grows warm, a similar colour to the light, at the thought of returning home to these warmth-lit windows, that were once as cold and empty as his neighbours' at this late hour. That his days of grazing on whatever he was bothered to throw together in the cupboard were over, with a hot meal waiting for him inside. And that someone was there inside his house, waiting, who cared about Graves just as much as he cared about them.

"Mister Graves!"

The force of Credence launching himself at full tilt, arms outstretched, nearly knocks Graves back out the door. Staggering in the hall, knocking into the umbrella stand with his bad leg, Credence hurriedly hauls Graves upright, babbling apologies.

"Sorry, sorry,- you bought me books, on magic! -Thankyouthankyouthankyou-"

"You're welcome, Credence," Graves manages bemusedly, patting the boy's back absently as he wobbles on his leg, slightly shellshocked. "Er, can I have my cane back, please?"

"Oh!" the boy steps back immediately, a soft blush heating his cheeks as he scrambles to the floor for Graves' cane. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Graves returns graciously, as soon as his sturdy cane is clutched back in his hand. Credence gives him another quick hug, but without the bonecrushing pressure of before, and Graves brushes a large hand through the lengthening strands of the boy's raven hair at the back of his head. His own hair is growing back- the usual style of 'long on top, short on the sides' returned by a quick trip to the wizarding barber in the same complex as Mrs Morgotha's. It had felt odd with the buzzcut after a while, and he had longed for something familiar.

It seems to once again have slipped Graves' mind that Credence had not often been on the receiving end of gifts back in his old home. If the orphanage could even be called a home, with blows dealt out like a constant, twisted form of affection.

"No one's ever bought me books before," Credence announces cheerily as he ushers Graves into the cosy kitchen, busying himself with gathering Graves' dinner. "We didn't really have at home, either, apart from the Bible. That's what Ma used to teach me how to read."

"Didn't you have any children's books, classics, anything?" Graves enquires, as Credence sets his steaming dinner before him. Lamb and roast vegetables, his favourite.

"No," came the non-commital reply from the sink , and all at once Graves loses his ravenous appetite. Fury and sympathy take over, at the realisation of yet another thing Credence has been denied. Reprimanding himself for forgetting the wire-sharp struggle of Credence's childhood, where play and happiness were foreign words. The pot of scarlet anger within him simmered higher, and Graves silently vows to interrogate Jacob about every single popular no-Maj book under the sun, so he can buy them, all of them, for Credence. Enough to fill a f*cking library, of wizarding and no-Maj books alike.He will never go without ever again.

****

Perched across the elder wizard in the kitchen chair, Credence watches Mister Graves eat.

The older man eats as though famished, clearing half the plate in scarcely minutes. Either that, or Credence's cooking has exponentially improved since the last attempt at lamb roast; little more than charcoal had been left of that.

The potatoes were a bit too mushy, and the lamb not as tender as Credence had hoped this time, but Mister Graves doesn't seem to notice or care. He happily eats his way through his plate, and then a smaller second helping, before leaning back in his chair with contentment, hands resting comfortably on his stomach. His shirt, lightly crumpled from a day of wear, almost strains to prevent his full belly from conquering the loop of his belt.

Regarding the elder man in the low lamp light, Credence rests his chin on his hand. Studying the faint cresents of exhaustion that dipped below Mister Graves' long-lashed, closed eyes, the faint relaxed few lines on his forehead. The proud, dark brows set above, and the hair just beginning to be restored to its former perfectly groomed jet glory. Smooth lips just parted, and then, the one piece of the physical puzzle that looked completely wrong on the elder wizard. A patchy, jagged shave, a shadow of the hairless jaw Credence used to know.

Mister Graves took the utmost of pride in his appearance. His clothes were always immaculate, his shoes shined. He showered every morning, and always ensured every aspect of his person, from his ears to his fingernils, were well groomed.

"Mister Graves," Credence begins suddenly, and the man's eyes open to lock with his.

"I was just wondering..."

Too late to turn back now.

"Are you having any difficulty shaving, or anything?"

Mister Graves' shoulders sink subtly below the top panel of his chair, and an almost guarded look comes upon his lamp-lit face.

"Just-well-," Credence soldiers on in vain. "I didn't mean to offend you, I just meant-"

"No no, I'm not offended," Mister Graves sighs heavily. His weary expression had increased tenfold since Credence had opened his mouth. The man looked years olders, and if Credence wasn't mistaken, a bit sad as he fiddled with his cutlery on the empty plate. "I know."

Suddenly, slowly at first, the puzzle pieces fly together. The mirror that used to hang in the hall was now covered.... Mister Graves had put all photos of himself, even with others, face down around the home...and two weeks ago, before their outing with the Goldsteins, Graves had blanched when Credence suggested he use a mirror to fasten his bow tie...

"You're af- you can't bear to look at your reflection."

The momentary silence is heavy in the wake of Credence's statement. Mister Graves gazes down at his plate, jaw working with the sheer effort of what must be...

"Yes." The elder wizard's tone is so low, so quiet, Credence almost missed it, even though a pin could easily drop in the still kitchen.

In that moment, a white-haired shadow seemed to encapsulate the kitchen, growing, writhing on the warmly lit wall. The black plague that spread and spread, stretching sinister stygian tendrils of darkness outward further and further, threatening to consume both men. But with a blink, the wall is glowing orange again, and the hallucination of Gellert Grindelwald is gone, confined once again to the sooty locked cabinet of Credence's worst memories.

It takes a moment for Credence to realise that his hand has landed gently atop Mister Graves' and once again, their gazes are locked. So intensely, so rawly, his throat burns at the helplessness in the older wizard's deep eyes.

"I'll do it."

"Do what?"

"I'll shave you, Mister Graves."

The long moment is broken as Credence rises from his chair, and clears the empty plate before Mister Graves can respond. The man doesn't seem to have it in him to argue.

"Just finish your dinner first, alright? I made some angelfood cake, it's a bit burnt on the bottom, but still good." By some miracle Credence's voice is steady as he scrubs the plate in the sink, even as a single tear slips down the velvety slope of his cheek and into the warm washing up water. At the bittersweet epiphany that agonsingly, finally, the elder wizard is opening up, just slightly, to Credence. Like the first page of one of his brand new books.

It's intoxicating, thrilling, and most of all rewarding, as the gravity of this equalisation of the scales hits Credence. Instead of a bond similar to one of those strange partnerships he'd seen between young girls and men, that Ma had condemned has the highest tier of sin...this relationship, whatever it was between himself and Mister Graves, was mutually beneficial. And that made Credence happy, even as the sadness of Mister Graves' loneliness made him weep into the dishes.

A short time later, Mister Graves is seated directly beneath the light, next to the kitchen bench. A bowl of water and a newly sharpened razor sit by his left shoulder. Credence drapes a towel around the elder man's shoulders, applies the shaving cream to his cheeks, and dips the razor into the water.

"Wait."

Mister Graves' hand catches Credence's wrists, his fingers utterly enveloping the boy's slim limb. It's suddenly very hard for Credence to breathe, with Mister Graves' obsidian stare on him.

"Are you sure?"

He's shaved before, in his adolescent years, with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, He'd nicked himself several times, and Ma had given him the belt for dripping blood onto his pristine white shirt. But the downy fluff that gathers at the corners of his jaw has been magicked away for some time, with a click of his fingers. However, he isn't eager to risk his trick on Mister Graves; he'd never used magic on another person before, and the wizard likely wouldn't be impressed if his eyebrows disappeared instead.

Credence's voice is unfaltering as he holds the look and says, "Utterly certain."

The first 'snnnnnnnick' of the razor against Mister Graves' cheek has Credence waiting with bated breath. But no blood blooms on the newly smooth skin, and relaxing slightly, Credence perseveres. The next few strokes areshaky, but successful, and the young wizard settles into a calming rhythm, the razor gliding evenly across Mister Graves' jaw.

"How was your day?" he asks, in an effort to ease off the tension he can feel in Mister Graves' clenched jaw.

"Well, the French Auror I told you about last week is refusign to tell us anything, because of bloody Carneirus, and...."

At some point during this masculine ritual of sorts, Credence realises just how close he is to Mister Graves. His own face is inches from the elder man's to better view the next line of hair he is to shave, and the view is, well...Mister Graves. In all his godly, ethereal splendor, eyes held shut, chest rising and falling steadily. Muscular column of his neck exposed beneath the towel, the heady scent of his cologne entangling within Credence's nostrils. It smells deep, dark, smoky...and oh so predatory, in the best possible way. Like a drug. It takes all his restraint to keep his breathing calm, as impure thoughts whisper in his head, and sinful arousal pools within his trousers.

He must be breathing too noisily. Because Mister Graves cracks open an eyelid, and catches Credence staring at him unabashedly, inches away like some kind of gawkish freak.

"Everything okay?"

Credence jumps back as though electrocuted. He prays that his navy blue trousers would help his embarrassing flusterment escape his mentor's notice. "Fine, fine. All done." He hurriedly scampers to the sink to wash his hands, hoping that the cool water would will away the sin swelling his trousers.

Spinning back around, he returns to stand by Mister Graves. The older wizard has wiped the residual shaving cream from his face, and with a murmur of 'Aguamenti,'has rinsed his face clean. And now sits upright, hands brushing over his jaw, eyes widened in wonderment at the feel of unmarred, bald skin beneath his fingertips.

In a flash, the man is on his feet, a tad unsteady without his cane, but standing before Credence. Two hands grasp his upper arms, and tentatively, the younger man lifts his eyes.

The gratitude in Mister Graves' face has no human words.

"Thank you," he says huskily, and if Credence isn't mistaken, a glimmer of a tear is visible in his left eye. But in a blink, that shred of vulnerability is gone, as the man ducks his head.

"I have something for you...."

Limping his way across the expanse of the kitchen, Graves pulls something from the thick fabric of his black outer robes, hung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. A sheaf of paper, blackened and filth-streaked, that he gently presses into Credence's trembling outstretched hand.

The paper stinks, of smoke and city grime. But Credence would know the elbem at the top of the first page anywhere.

"You went back there," he says breathlessly, a mixture of horror, revulsion and disbelief glazed upon his fair face. "To the orphanage?"

"I wanted to see if I could salvage anything you might actually want," Mister Graves says by way of explanation, steadying himself with a splayed hand on the counter. "I know that place is hallowed ground for you, Credence, but you know nothing of your life before that....place." The final word spills from the older man's mouth as though the taste is unpleasant.

"It's your file. That psychopathic bitch- sorry, sorry," he backtracks as Credence looks at him reproachfully, flinching at the swear word. "That woman, she might've been a nutcase, but she was organised."

His very lungs seem to still as Credence looks down at the painfully thin stack of paper in his limp, trembling hands. At the reminder of what felt like a past life, so small he could hold it, yet the weight felt like a choking collar around his neck.

A thought so sudden it jolts him as though electricity runs through his veins.

"Did you find Modesty's?" he asks, hardly daring to breathe.

How could he be so selfish? Those weeks, months of eking out a living on the streets, and he never once though to look for her? His youngest sister, the only feeble spark of light in a home of doom and terror, who always saw the good in everything; how had he only remembered her now?

The guilt swells inside him like a tidal wave. After he'd gone on his rampage that night with That Man- did she make it out? Was she still on the streets? Was she even alive, or did you go the same way as Chastity and Ma?Panic constricts his throat further, and Mister Graves must see the agony in his eyes. Always so selfish, that voice hisses within him. Greed, one of the seven deadly sins. How he had fallen prey to them so easily, without the righteous guidance of Ma-

"Credence, she's safe." Mister Graves' sharp tone knocks Credence right out of his frantic episode, a large hand grasping his cheek securely. Deep breaths. In and out.

They breathe together in silence, until feathers of calm restore themselves within the shaking, hunched boy.

"I searched for them," the older wizard continues in a lower tone, eyes unwavering upon Credence's face. "I tried manually, through magic- nothing. Someone's taken them."

"What?!" Panic rears once again within the boy, but Mister Graves holds a hurried, detemrined finger to his lips.

"Think, Credence. If someone has taken her files, they must need them, for...."

Relief deflates the younger wizard's tense shoulders. "She's at another orphanage," he whispers, a melting pot of emotions coursing through him.

"The Children's Village," Mister Graves informs him gently, and a blurry fuzzy memory of a building flits through Credence's mind. He stands bolt upright.

"We have to go and get her-" He had to rescue her. She was still young and impressionable, not as bowed and broken as Credence yet. There was hope, there was hope-"We could- I could adopt her, I'm of age!-" He declares triumphantly.

"Credence." Once again, Mister Graves' tone stops Credence in his accelerating tracks. The boy's eyebrows furrow, as a dull sense of foreboding prickles his skin. How did Mister Graves know where-

"This might be hard for you to here, but," the elder wizard sighs, rubbing his head with his free hand. "She's been adopted, Credence."

"Oh." Grief, remorse, gratitude, joy, yet disappointment. Credence's eyes sting.

"Modesty's files weren't unearthed by my Summoning charm, but a newspaper was," Mister Graves ventures. "I flicked to the Announcements, and-" he flips open the first page of the sheaf in Credence's stack -"found this."

'The Children's Village est. 1851, formerly 'New York Juvenile Asylum', in Manhattan, NY, is proud to announce the adoption of the following juveniles into permanent, loving homes:

Agatha, 7, to Mr P & A. Hollingsworth;

William, 3, to Mr J & N. Newby;

Modesty, 8, to Mr R & S Smith;

Half of Credence wants to scream until his lungs collapse, to tear through ever house in new York, through the hundreds of Smith homes until he finds the family had taken his only sort-of-sibling away. But instead he weeps, as the other half, that preaches wisdom and The Right Decision and all things good, croons to him that this is the way things should be. That Modesty should have a happy home, a warm hearth, proper parents who love and nurture her. That she'll go to school, make real friends and be happy. That she'll have a chance at a normal life, and forget all about the twisted nursery rhymes, the constant beatings, and Credence.

"It's for the best," he manages finally, chokingly, face pressed to Mister Graves' shoulder.

"It is."

Credence slips the fragile clipping into his trouser pocket.

"Will you read your file?" Mister Graves asks, eyes searching Credence's face.

And whatever he sees on there, turned downward to the file in question, poring, wondering, weighing the decision up, makes him speak again, hands up in surrender.

"I didn't read it, if that's what you're worried about. And you don't have to if you don't want to. It's yours, now. You can do whatever you want with it."

The constant war waged beneath his skin, two sides pulling at his heartstrings in an infinite, painful tug for control. But with a deep breath, Credence takes it all back. The decision was his, and he would make it.

"I want to burn it."

Midnight moonlight bathes the flat rooftop of Mister Graves' townhouse, and the breeze that presses Credence's shirt flat to his sternum, ruffling his hair, makes him shiver. But the flickering finger of flame he conjures from his wand with Mister Graves' assistance calms him, and steadies him in his final choice.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Mister Graves stands near his side, voice low but clear. Questioning, but only out of concern. "Once it's burnt, it's burnt. You can't bring it back."

A few thin sheets of paper, defining him, shackling him. To parents who didn't want him or know him, dead or otherwise. A birthday he'd never celebrated, a history he'd never been told of. All information that fit the old Credence, not the new one standing on a cement rooftop in the Upper East Side. A sweater of words he'd grown too big for, that needed to be sloughed off.

The cheap pages curl under the bite of the flame, and glimmering pieces float away with the wind, like voyaging fireflies on the sea of an eternal city. The men don't falter, don't speak, but watch, as the last traces of the boy Credence used to be are lost to New York, never to be seen again.

Absently touching the necklace through his shirt, Credence stands tall. Reborn a flame, as bright as the one eating Mary Lou Barebone's scratchy handwriting. Forged pure and anew, to make his own destiny.

*****
The doors are triply enchanted, with Anti-Entry spells, no-Maj repellers and a Locking charm. Windows are closed and similarly fastened, checked, checked and checked again. Finally, wearily, Graves slopes into his room, to collapse into bed.

A cry pierces the humid stillness of the morning's wee hours. Graves is up and out of his bed in an instant, staggering down the hallway, brain kicking into gear.

Credence's door flys open, and Graves is upon the boy instantly, bringing the sweat-drenched, shaking boy into his arms. Quiet words of reassurance and comfort spill from his tired lips, hand knotted in dripping hair, as Credence cries.

Even a night as poignant as this one, where the last vestiges of a cowering boy were cast off, did not grant Credence momentary clemency from his demons.

"I went to Ilvermorny in '98." Graves takes a moment to register his own voice, speaking out into the dim bedroom. A hiccuped shudder comes from his shoulder, as Credence tries to muffle the sound.

"It's in Massachusetts, right in the mountains there. Practically impossible to get there on foot, good for keeping the no-Majs out."

The sobs lessen in depth as Credence listens, nestled into the elder man's shoulder. Exhausted, but absently, Graves pushes on. "Remember how two of the statues declared for me? Well I picked the Wampus cat- the warriors, supposed to represent the body." A blurry memory of the gigantic crouched statue yowling in the crowded atrium before a much younger Graves floats to the surface of his consciousness. And the presentation of his wand, pressed into his hand by Headmaster Coronel, sparks trailing from its tip.

Credence's breathing is calmer, but he still clings to Graves like a lifeline, fingernails registering through the thin fabric of Graves' nightshirt. Another story trips onto his lips, in an attempt to soothe the shaking boy.

"When I was a boy, my favourite game to play was Aurors and Scourers with my friends. Two teams of kids, running..." He rambles on, explaining the game, as Credence quietly listens, head on Graves' shoulder.

"I always knew I wanted to be an Auror. I could never protect myself and Mam from my scumbag of a dad, the good for nothing, drunk excuse for a wizard he was."

"Beat the everliving sh*t out of us both if we trod a foot wrong," Graves offers casually, staring blankly into a dark corner of Credence's room. It was as though the very city had gone silent, hanging onto every fatigue-soaked word. Of the memory of the man with Graves' eyes and mouth, descended from MACUSA's founding fathers. Yet as far removed from their grandeur as one could possibly be, in a city hovel with no job, and a taste for drink.

He's suddenly glad he can't see Credence's face, pressed into his shoulder, because he knew those doe eyes would be filled with pity.

"Aurors were the good guys- who could do anything, and protected everyone. And I swore to myself, even after Da f*cked off and died in a ditch somewhere, that I'd be one. The best Auror there was."

It's jarring, recalling his former years, in the depths of the night with Credence.He and Credence were more similar than he had previously realised. Recalling the brackish boy he used to be, with scraped knees from playing in filthy Bronx streets, clothes shredding at the seams from wear. Who needed financial aid from Ilvermorny's school board to even buy school books, and could count his friends on one hand.

But who had risen above the trauma, the adversity. Who had won over his teachers, his peers with nothing but sheer wit and hard work, gotten Head Boy, and graduated the top of his class. Who had been orphaned immediately after, when Mam died from fever, yet had been the youngest graduate of the Auror Academy MACUSA had ever seen. Far cry from the opulence and success he rolled in now, some thirty years on.

Where was this midnight candor coming from? His secrets spilled so easily from his lips like wine from a drunkard's mouth, truths that his handful of closest friends knew next to nought of. Why did it feel like this fragile, beautiful boy who had endured so much already, was the perfect keeper for Graves' most guarded stories?

He tells him of his travels, of a green as can be Auror posted to Asia, Europe, Britain, even Australia. The cities he'd walked for his first few years, the faces he'd seen, the weird and wonderful cases he'd solved. And finally, of returning to America, a little older and colder, with five years of experience tucked into his belt. Ready to take whatever New York City threw at him.

When the boy's harsh, chopped breathing evens out, and his body grows pliant, Graves lays him back down onto soft pillows. A gentle hand brushes back a strand of inky hair caught in Credence's eyelashes as they flutter sleepily.

"Mister Graves?"

"Yes, Credence?"

"Promise you won't leave."

Another stroke through obsidian locks of hair. "I wouldn't dream of it. Never."

"One day, I'll take you to all those places," Graves murmurs, now sitting against the headboard. "We'll travel the world together, if you want."

"Yes," Credence breathes, barely conscious, squeezing Graves' hand.

He slips into dreams mere moments later, and Graves nearly follows him over into oblivion, head nodding ober onto his chest . But the thought of Credence discovering his own hidden demons sharpens his wits, and Graves moves off the bed and back to the safety of his own room.

Chapter 13: 13

Chapter Text

The sound the the Goldstein sisters' laughter takes to the air like a helium balloon, floating away into the joyful hubub of the speakeasy.

"Don't let Percival hear you say that, Newt!" Queenie chimes gleefully, shooting a mischievous look in the direction of Credence's protector.

Immediately, Mister Graves pretends to cover his ears, ruefully declaring 'I'm not listening, and I don't want to', earning another chorus of laughter from the booth, Credence included.

The Landmark Tavern toes the fine line between lawbreaking and law-abiding oh so perfectly. The no-Maj speakeasy had never been raided in its some 50 years of operation, even before Prohibition had been instated according to Mister Graves. A reputation of safety and security meant that the Hell's Kitchen establishment had been the most favourable out of all the locations he had scouted for group outings; wizards could easily seek anonymity within the crush of no-Majs, Mister Graves had pointed out. MACUSA's very foundations had been entombed in the ever-present camouflage of ordinary people. Any wizarding speakeasies unfortunately, for obvious reasons, were out of the question. How do you explain to the bartender why such a ragtag band of people who wouldneverassociate at work suddenly want to go out to dinner together every other week?

The perspiration on the outside of his drinking glass wets Credence's fingers as he takes a sip of his gin rickey, the cloying taste of alcohol still unfamiliar. The low lighting and constant jazz music of the packed speakeasy on a Saturday night only makes the place more alluring. The all-consuming cloud of happiness and excitement, the distant rumble of caution all too easy to ignore, and the drink amongst the clutter of his friends' own variety of poisons that he was sipping on made for a heady, intoxicating combination.

The alcohol fuzzes the edges of Credence's conscience, and he leans back against the booth's cushioned interior, content. It was utterly euphoric; the sparkle of Queenie and Tina's party dresses every time they moved, the taste of the sidecars that buzzing waiters were all too eager to carry over. The danger of being caught, despite their clever disguise amongst no-Majs, like a loose noose encircling Credence's neck. But the threat just amplifies the thrill for him, in this merry little band of misfits.

The Landmark mightn't be the gaudiest of New York's sparkling speakeasies, but it still called for a bit of glamour. Jacob was in a charcoal-toned suit rather than his flour-doused baker's clothes, while Newt, fresh from another adventure in the wilds of Albania, seemed to have scrubbed the dirt from his visage, clad in a herringbone patterned pebble. Scamander, like a stray dog, couldn't seem to stay away, returning to New York after every expedition. 'Better prospects of funding for my discoveries, a new audience to learn..." the Brit had reasoned simply, when a scrutinising Mister Graves had ventured to ask why. But it was no secret to Credence why Newt had bought what could barely be called a matchbox of a home, conveniently located just a block from the Goldsteins.

Newt's continual presence left the magizoologist and Tina quarrelling constantly, akin to that of a married couple. Yet, it was clear that no real force was behind Tina's words when she scolded him for letting Dougal swing from the neighbour's clothesline at night. If anything, especially tonight, seated by the freckled, auburn-haired man, the elder Goldstein seemed to burn a little brighter, and smile a little sweeter in her soft melon flapper dress. Queenie, well, Queenie always shone. The witch would look good in a rag, yet her fern green outfit, in the same style as her sisters, was resplendent. A band of misfits, indeed, but one that was well-dressed.

Jacob must've caught Credence's train of thought, because the baker, a suited arm thrown around his delicate lady's slim shoulders, exclaims wittily. "This group is so mismatched, I love it. We sound like one of them jokes..."

Lowering his voice so only the other five can hear, he mutters consipiratorially, "a no-Maj, a Legilimens, an Auror, a Magizoologist, a former Obscurus and a MACUSA director all walk into a bar..."

Uproarious laughter follows, and in the confines of the booth, Credence's knees bumps Mister Graves' under the verneer table. The wizard wears nothing but monochrome, of course, not a hint of colour in his expansive wardrobe. An obsidian tuxedo that picks up the onyx of Mister Graves' hair, eyebrows, his thick lashes, and then the accompanying white shirt to polish the look. A sleek black bowtie is knotted around Mister Graves' neck, and from where Credence sits, inches away, the overpoweringly intense scent of the wizard's cologne hits his nostrils. The only hint of any sort of frivolity was in the elder wizard's shoes- midnight-hued, yet with golden leather filigree stitched to dip down the top cap, arc around the vamp and adorn the quarter of the oxfords.

Credence utters a muted, absent apology for the bump that Mister Graves brushes off, the elder man moving his leg and returning to conversation, sipping his glass of red. And maybe it's his body, unpracticed with alcohol, but as soon as Mister Graves' leg moves away, Credence misses it. The sudden press of a honed, muscular thigh against his own slimmer one, heat emanating through the fabric of trousers.

Sin, a voice in his head whispers viciously, as a slight tingling pools in Credence's belly, and his breathing hitches. Blinking rapidly to dispel the strange, alluring thoughts crowding his head, he tunes back into present conversation. Doing his utmost to ignore the constant pull of his body to the one next to him, like a bug to a bright light in darkness.

A dangerous thrill indeed. In a tavern as far away from God as one could get, yet so tantalisingly close to heaven. Credence has another sizeable sip of his gin.

"So...," Queenie trails, mouth pursed in vain to try to keep a brilliant smile from parting her lips. She exchanges an eye-wateringly loving look with Jacob, who looks as smug as a cat that got the canary. The younger Goldstein pulls her left hand from the darkness beneath the table to rest it atop her beau's on the table. A brilliant, iridescent square-cut diamond on a slim, gold band winked from her fourth finger at everyone.

A shrill shriek emits from Tina, startling nearby diners and waitstaff. The elder witch veritably throws herself around the table at her blushing sister, embracing her so tightly Queenie nearly struggles for breath. "Congratulations, oh Mary, Jesus and Joseph!"

Newt immediately gives Jacob a sincere, delighted handshake, exclaiming his congratulations with a grin. Mister Graves also offers a genuine hand, as close to a smile as he got, with a "Many congratulations to you both. What a lovely surprise."

"Congratulations too!" Credence blurts, and is on the receiving end of a handshake, and a warm hug from Queenie. Tina, now having calmed from the initial shock, now bubbles with questions.

"How long? Where did he propose? When's thewedding?!"

"Give the happy couple a second to breathe, Teeny," Newt teases with no bite in his words, squeezing the awestruck brunette's shoulders gently. Credence watches, trying not to smirk. So it wasTeenynow. Maybe another engagement was on the cards sooner than they thought.

"It was this afternoon," Jacob announces proudly, a wink of mischief in his chestnut eyes. He takes a swig of his Old Fashioned. "I called her into the bakery after she finished up at work, told her I made a new cake I wanted her to try."

"The sly devil," Queenie laughs, leaning her head momentarily against her new fiance's. "He did actually make me a cake!"

"Buttery puff pastry with a strawberry filling, sprinkled with icing sugar and a hint of rosewater, all her favourite ingredients," Jacob confides in the group proudly. "Got on one knee as she was tasting it. She nearly spat it all over me, she was so excited."

"It was the best thing I'd ever tasted, but offering me a diamond kinda distracted my attention, honey!"

"Regardless," Jacob concludes, as their friends chuckle once again. "TheQueenieis gonna be a hit in the shop. Love at first sight, just like it was for me." He presses a sweet kiss to his darling's soft curls.

There's a flurry calls for more drinks, warranted by such joyous news. More laughter, unbridled and free-flowing, the clinking of condensation-streaked glasses of god-knew-what, and the room begins to spin pleasantly in a sequined, watercolour spread of technicolour. Limbs bump, heads are on shoulders, but all six burn infinite. Time is transcended, in this little nook of happiness and togetherness in a speakeasy in Hell's Kitchen.

It's late when they leave, a gaggle of flailing limbs and drooping eyelids that stumble out the door. Mister Graves, who seems to be the best at holding his liquor, Apparates all of them home once they've turned the corner from the bar. First Jacob, who can't even unlock his door, laughter coming in wheezy spits. Then the Goldsteins, who both totter inside their apartment building, followed by Newt, who bandys down the street to his own, moonlight catching his russet hair aflame.

Suddenly Credence is in his bed, fully clothed, eddies of broken thought still streaming about his head like dizzy fireflies. It's dark, and he clumsily strips his body of his clothes, throwing them carelessly onto the floor, before flumping back onto his quilt. Mister Graves is nowhere to be seen.

The other mans name sends an abrupt lick of heat through Credence, so intense that he almost cries out. Pure and unadulterated want. His hand is at his pyjamaed crotch in an instant, squeezing his co*ck as waves of pleasure lap at his consciousness, the traitorous part of his conscience taking the reins from comatose reason.

A warning voice tries to tell him it's wrong.Sin, it hisses.Thinking of him, just feet away, in such an innapropriate way. But the dissipation of his inhibitions, and the man's close distance, of just a few walls, just some bricks and cement, only makes Credence more wanting. This can't be sin, there can't be a God, if he's feeling so...good.

Of course he's touched himself before. Once by accident in his sleep, spilling all over the sheets. The whipping Ma gave him for that had left the deepest of the scars on Credence's back. But he doesn't think about that now.

He thinks about how it felt when Mister Graves' fingertips grazed over each ridged band of flesh on his back, breathing puffing on his skin the night they met. How the man's strong jaw caught in the lamplight at the Landmark, sogorgeousit hurt his eyes, and made Credence want to jump out of his skin. Unconsciously, eyes screwed shut in bliss, he fists his throbbing member, biting back another lusty groan.

Would it truly be so ungodly, if Credence could sit astride Mister Graves, perched atop those trousered, sturdy thighs? How would it feel, if Mister Graves wrapped those tanned, strong hands around Credence's slim waist, skimming a thumb along his spine? If he nuzzles that nose against the alabaster column of Credence's neck, leaving fluttering kisses, andbit down-

It doesn't take long, he's been half-hard since their legs bumped. Credence comes, hard, biting his lip to stifle a drawn-out whine as milky droplets of seed paint his stomach, his pyjama pants and the surrounding coverlet. Breathing hard, head swimming from the combination of liquor and post-org*smic bliss, he nearly blacks out.

But it wouldn't do for Mister Graves to come in to check on Credence, and find him like this. After a short while, with a pained groan, the younger man flops his arm around on the bed, looking for his wand.

The newest spell in his growing arsenal would do. "Evanesco,"Credence mumbles, and much to his relief, the sticky residue of his passion evaporates. He collapses into bed, and falls into a heavy slumber. Despite the granules of guilt that skitter across the blackened, torpid expanse of his mind.

*****

The elevator doors clatter open, and Graves shoulders out and into the controlled chaos of Magical Law Enforcement. Memos skitter beneath his feet, interns flying about with just as much vigour, and he limps only a few reluctant feet before he is accosted.

"Mr Graves, forms for you to sign, from the President-"

With a surpressed sigh, he takes them from Mohini, his lunch balanced precariously atop. It had been far from a tolerable day. First, an appointment with Sydell and Cyprian, which had been complete and utter bollocks, with zero progress. Then he had returned to find his ceiling leaking, what with the veritable halcyon of a summer storm tearing through Manhattan outside. No assistants in sight, and the memo chutes were blocked up, so a trip down to Magical Maintenance had been warranted. No one was at the desk, presumably dealing with the aging building's other woes, so Graves had to venture to fix it himself, wasting precious time looking up Waterproofing spells. Then, he waded out into the howling remains of Manhattan, braving the wind and wet, only to find his favourite hot dog place shut on account of the bad weather. He'd cursed the heavens quite colourfully as he made the slippery journey back.

Graves' cane catches on the corner of someone's chair, and he almost trips. His f*cking leg, fresh from it's ordeal in the Infirmary earlier, spasms with agony, and hurriedly, angrily, Graves rights himself.

The gaggle of bodies begging for his ear, his eyes, his attention, still doesn't let up. Would there ever be a time when no one, absolutely no one, wanted something from him? Like a flower with all the petals picked off, one by one by one. This very floor of the Woolworth building gave him an unceasing headache.

"Graves-"

"Mr Graves..."

"Director Graves..."

What?!

It's only after he whirls around, spitting fire, that Graves realises his outburst. The administrtive assistant, Gina, looks as though Graves' words have blown her through the gale outside, and she stands slightly backwards, her silky brown locks askew. Yet the witch is unperturbed; one of the few employees of MACUSA he doesn't have to steel himself to deal with.

"Gina," he offers, tone muted and mild.

"New report in off the street," Gina drones, her second chin wobbling with her words. "Murder on West 43rd. No-Maj kid."

It takes everything Graves has in him to not pinch the bridge of his nose. Gina, everlasting Gina, was now grating on his nerves.

"And?" He manages pleasantly.

"NYPD's 17 looked into it. Coroner's report was inconclusive, it was on page 3 of the Times this morning. Locals are getting antsy. Carneirus suspected wizards might be involved somehow, but he had to leave early. Travelling to his daughter's wedding in Brooklyn this afternoon," Gina provides in almost flat monotone.

Graves narrows his eyes as he stares off into the distance. Analysing, questioning, concluding. After a moment's pause, he answers with, "I doubt the wedding will be going ahead, then... Give one of the Junior Aurors the case. Maybe Koshnikov, he hasn't had one yet.

"It'll help him break his teeth," he directs over his shoulder as he limps off in the direction of the stairs, cane clacking on the weathered wooden floorboards.

"How was work?" Credence asks him hours later in the cosy warmth of the kitchen, pulling out a chair for the weary Graves to collapse on.

A guttural noise of disgust is all Graves can manage, slumping down in the seat with defeat, as the storm continues to crackle and rage outside.

"That bad, huh?" A gentle hand rests on Graves' shoulder as the man sits, eyes closed, and a heaped plate of fresh fried chicken and vegetables is set before him. The smell of the delicious food entices Graves' weary eyes back open, and he tucks in as Credence takes a seat.

"Whoops, forgot the sauce," the younger man mumbles through a mouthful of potato. Fishing his wand from his pocket, with a practiced wave, he sends the gravy boat zooming over to the table.

However, the wand movement is much too vigorous for such a short distance. The boat bounces across the table several times, spilling its cargo all over the tablecloth wildly. Graves can only watch, dumbstruck, as it skids to a halt at the very edge of the table's far end, teetering precariously, before it rights itself.

"Oh, sh*t."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Credence claps a hand to it, eyes as wide as saucers. His cocoa-coloured eyes lock with Graves', frozen with shock, neither party able to move.

Something sparkles in Credence's eyes, and that's it. Graves snorts so hard chicken comes spewing out of his mouth onto the ruined tablecloth, and the two men collapse into uncontrollable laughter.

"You finally swore, oh my God," Graves veritably cackles, the serviette he holds to his mouth doing little to stop the food flying out of it. "That was hilarious, Credence-"

"Shut up," the younger man wheezes, eyes slits of mirth, half bent over. "Figured it'd happen eventually, living with you and your potty mouth."

"Potty Mouth Percival!" He proclaims to the empty house, and the duo are taken by a fresh wave of giggles.

Credence promises to 'scourgify'the tablecloth later, once his hysterics have subsided, and hiccoughing, Graves returns to his dinner. Still snigg*ring quietly at times, and meeting the boy's eyes with humour-laced grins. The weight has left his shoulders, the dark cloud flown from his conscience, and the first first time all day, Graves forgets why on earth he was so f*cking miserable. In his kitchen, eating perfectly cooked fried chicken, and chuckling with a beautiful young man over some gravy stains on a tablecloth he didn't particularly care for.

Even the news of another no-Maj boy murdered in Long Island when he walks into work the following morning can't knock his ongoing high.

Mid-June blusters through, with it's sweltering days and humid nights. And with careful insight, consideration and consultation, Graves begins to plan for the looming event. Credence's first birthday at number 32, 61st Street, Upper East Side.

What did you get a boy that grew up with nothing? Graves' heart screamed to buy the boyeverything- clothes, trinkets, anything and literally everything. But not only would his coffers be emptier -so what, said that impulsive, reckless part of his brain- and whilst the boy enjoyed his new sumptuous lifestyle, Graves knew there had to be something more. Something more meaningful, that the boy would truly love and appreciate above all else...

A holiday, perhaps? Not too far away, as Credence was still settling, but maybe somewhere nice, down South. The Carribean, maybe. Until Graves remembers he's headlining the Magical Investigation Department's biggest caseever, and he's already spent too much time away from work with his injury.

A broomstick, except from the fact broomsticks were highly regulated and taxed, people would wonder why Graves was randomly purchasing one, and the thought of Credence falling off, hundreds of feet above the city...when he wanted his hair to go completely white, then Graves would buy Credence a broomstick. Additionally, a selfish kernel of Graves' spirit suggests that if Credence got a broom, and his nightmares kept waning, then maybe the boy wouldn't need him anymore. His own place was just a step after. And that thought put the broomstick idea to bed indefinitely.

What could Graves' possibly get his boy, that was easily accessible, that Credence would love, and didn't break any major magical laws? Though if he's honest, the latter part has flown out the window of late. It was seemingly impossible to spend time around Credence's friends without minor laws being broken.

"Scamander, a word?" Graves grabs Newt by the arm as they arise from the Goldstein's dinner table, plates practically licked clean. Credence and Tina are chattering by the sink, as the brunette witch gives him an impromptu lesson on a Dish-Washing spell, while Jacob and Queenie titter nearby, utterly absorbed in their engagement bubble.

Setting down the used dishes of food on the kitchen counter absently, the bemused Brit follows Graves out the open french doors and onto the balcony. It had been a stinker of a day, and late Eastern breeze was a blessed relief.

Graves plucks a cigarette from his breast pocket, and lights it with a tap of his wand. Puffing away, he offers one to Newt, who refuses politely. Just as Credence had, ever since he'd tried one a few days back, and coughed until his eyes water. The memory brings an amused smile to Graves' face as he exhales the smoke into the wind.

"Surely you didn't just bring me out here to befoul my lungs with passive smoking?" Newt addresses Graves, ever the joker.

Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, Graves inhales again, shifting his weight onto the balcony ledge and off his wounded leg. "Piss off. I only smoke when I need to think about something."

Unperturbed by the swearing, the Brit leans his elbow on the wrought iron balcony handrail, and lightly asks, "And what might be troubling the keen and unfathomable mind of Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of Magical Law Enforcement?"

No one had been more shocked to receive Graves' attention that day than the Body for Protection of Magical Species. Ever since former head of the department, Irene Kneedander, had cause the catastrophic Sasquatch rebellion of '98, Magical Species and it's employees had been very unpopular within MACUSA's ranks. But it was before Graves' time, and he'd never had much to do with the department personally. Plus, they had information that he needed. Bertie Funke had been most helpful in their brief conversation on magical beasts, especially the friendlier kind, under the guise of 'research for an investigation'.

Graves was an observant man. He paid attention to the few people he surrounded himself with whether they knew it or not. And he had been observing Credence a tad more carefully than usual, especially on the occasion Newt brought out a creature or two.

At that very moment, the Brit was handling Dorothy the Clabbert, chuckling as the scaly, emerald-green monkey creature scampered around his shoulders, ribbiting happily. Newt tickles her bulging belly, and Dorothy writhes with mirth, flailing her webbed fingers and toes.

"I need your help on the matter of sourcing a particular gift," Graves addresses the younger man, meeting his pleasant green eyes. "For Credence. It should be right up your alley."

The rest needs little explanation. Newt fends off an attack of licks from Dorothy, chucking the creature under the chin playfully as she slobbers all over him adoringly.

"So let me get this straight," the Brit says, a twinkle of amusem*nt in his bright eyes. "The right hand man of the President, who treats the law like the Bible, is asking me to illegally acquire-"

"Shut it, Scamander," Graves growls, limping back inside. "Or I'll shove one of your creatures where the sun doesn't shine."

Chapter 14: 14

Chapter Text

"Director Graves?"

Why did he have to leave his door open, Graves sighs internally. Well, apart from preventing suffocation. One needed a steady flow of fresh air. But an open door now seemed to indicate a longing for chitchat in his department, despite the fact he was up to his eyeballs in work. He fixes his eyes on the Misuse of Magic crime statistics he's reading, but answers grudgingly.

"Enter."

Junior Auror Koshnikov traipses in with his typical loping gait. His chestnut curls bounce as he walks, the same colour as his waxed moustache. Despite the facial hair ageing the man's features, the Ukrainian auror is less than a year older than Credence.

"Sir, I was out for a lunchtime stroll..." He begins, and Graves does his utmost not to roll his eyes. It's not that he doesn't like Koshnikov. The youngster was an up and coming auror in the midst of his Academy sabbatical. Graves was nothing if not encouraging of new talent. But he was really rather busy, as the head of this entire floor, and had no patience for anecdotes. Especially not when he still had a whole three feet of this crime report parchment to analyse.

"Yes?" He forces himself to say in monotone, unable to prevent an unimpressed eyebrow from raising. Koshnikov's chatter immediately picks up pace.

"..when I couldn't help to overhear some non-magic policemans. They were hurrying, so I concealed myself and followed- there has been another murder, Director," Koshnikov finishes hurriedly in accented English, puffing out his chest. He rocks on the balls of his feet as he waits for Graves' response.

The elder man takes a moment to respond, twiddling his quill in his hand. He meets the young Auror's eyes. "And?"

Koshnikov's eyebrows crease.

"What leads have you uncovered?" Graves enquires coldly, met with silence. "What commonalities are there between the victims, the location of the murder? Were there witnesses? Is there any clear indication that magic is involved?

"Sir-"

"You don't know, do you?" There's more intense silence, as the young man studies his shoes. "You overheard a snippet of a hurried conversation, deduced it related to your case, and hurried home for a pat on the back. Well I am not going to give you one. Far from it."

"Why would you return from the scene, when there is so much you don't yet know?" Graves demands harshly. "Any auror worth their salt is the first one there, and the last to leave..."

He adds, "Worse still, you came to me. I'm not your supervising officer, am I?"

Koshnikov splutters, trying to interject. "Sir, I- the officers-"

"I don't give a damn about the no-Maj police, Koshnikov, unless they committed the crime, or saw something of import," Graves snaps irritably, niceties long gone. "There has been another murder on your watch, and you're telling me you have no leads whatsover. Poor form indeed."

"So stop wasting yours and my time, get the hell back out there and find some," he says with a deathly stare.

He adds to Koshnikov's murmured apology and retreating back, "Do not come back to this office until you have something. A witness, a lead, something."

"For f*ck's sake," He murmurs to himself, shaking his head in disgust. The young Auror knew full well he reported to Carneirus, not Graves, and had the gall to try and impress him with news of another murder. Typical junior; blinkered by their need for praise, unable to see the full picture. A few more months in this battle-hardened department should straighten him out. Maybe he should put another Junior on the case too, possibly Vance, and have a word to Carneirus about educating the new recruits...

Something drips off Graves' finger, and he finally notices the ruined quill, crushed between his fingers during the altercation. Ink smears across the parchment, making it majoratively illegible.

"f*ck!" Graves hisses, slamming his ink-slicked hand onto his desk, as that ghostly voice breathes inside his mind.

Who are you?

*****

"Arresto momentum."

The sofa pillow Graves has thrown in the attic stops midair. With practiced precision, Credence flicks his wand and the object thumps softly onto the attic floor.

"Very good," Graves praises him, before thinking ahead. "Now..."

With a wave of his wand, all the lit lamps in the room go out, plunging the two wizards into the night's oblivion. For a long moment, where the darkness lingers, a fist clenches Graves' heart, beating faster and faster.

"Lumos." Credence's wandtip bathes the room in light, and Graves forces a smile upon his face. His breathing evens out again.

"Well done, Credence." With a wave of his hand all the lamps flick back on, and the boy extinguishes his wand with a quiet "Nox."

"Are you ready?" Graves asks as he meets Credence's keen eyes. When the young wizards nods, he taps his own head with his wand, and the cold trickle of the Disillusionment charm runs down the back of his neck.

Almost silently, Credence counts to ten with closed eyes as Graves creeps away between the furniture. It's like a magical parody of hide and seek, but much harder when the hider, Graves, was invisible.

"Apparecium!"

Immediately, Graves is visible, charm reversed. Reaching for his wand slower than usual, he calls, "Quickly, what next?-"

"Expelliarmus."

His wand flies out of his hand and across the room, but Graves claps. The perils of his work day forgotten, he spins around, limping around the furniture and back to the centre of the room to Credence.

"Well done!" He embraces the younger man. Credence's shoulders sink in relief. The grin of elation on Graves' face is utterly genuine as he pulls back.

"Fantastic work, Credence. You've been studying hard," He says.

His protegé ducks his head with a shy grin. "Finishing the first and second year syllabi in under three months, with flying colours. Well done," Graves adds.

"Thank you, Mister Graves," Credence murmurs blushingly, delighting in the praise. "It's all down to you, and a little bit from Queenie, but mostly your lessons."

"You're a fast learner, that can't be taught," Graves reminds the boy as he retreives his wand from a dusty corner. What a fine young wizard the man was going to become. Pride swells in his heart.

"I just enjoy reading," Credence protests modestly, setting the fallen cushion back upon the chair. "It's all the books."

"Half the spells you're taught by Miss Goldstein or myself aren't in those books," Graves reminds him, raising his eyebrows in appraisal. Credence holds the piercing look for a moment, then averts his eyes, contemplating.

"And I doubt Jane Eyre and that Mr Dancy are teaching you magic," Graves remarks with humour. He gently claps the boy on the shoulder, bringing him closer.

"You're a very talented, powerful young wizard. Take a little credit."

The raven-haired wizard caves. "Alright," he acquiesces, lifting his eyes from the floor with a small smile.

"It's Mr Darcy, not Dancy," He adds reproachfully, and Graves chuckles to himself. When he wasn't housekeeping, or falling over in eagerness to help, Credence always had his nose buried in a spellbook. Or one of the no-Maj novels Graves managed to select from a local bookshop. Jacob had recommended a few to start, which Credence devoured in no time at all. Now he chose his own from a no-Maj catalogue, which Graves was happy to order for him. If he remembered correctly, Credence was halfway through Pride and Prejudice, whatever that was.

"Can I show you one more spell, Mister Graves?" Credence asks suddenly, with hope.

"Of course you can," Graves says encouragingly. He haltingly backs away to give his charge some space.

Yet after such a burst of confidence during his impromptu exam, Credence becomes quiet. He lowers his head once again bashfully, twisting his wand between his fingers. A quietly whisper, he says "Orchideous."

A handful of brightly hued lilacs sprout abruptly from the end of the larch wand. Pulling them off with his free hand, Credence, with a perplexing mixture of confidence and timidity, walks over and hands them to Graves.

Stymied, Graves can only stand stock-still, arms full of the blooms. He doesn't particularly like flowers. Yet these ones swiftly become more precious than any other gift he has ever received, when Credence announces, "For you, for being such a wonderful teacher."

Those doe eyes are locked with his. A nonsensical, far too liberated voice in Graves' head wants to lean closer, and closer, and closer....An unfamiliar warmth spreads to his cheeks; is he blushing?

But he quickly comes to his senses. Some semblance of stalwart, sensible Graves returns, and he thanks Credence for his beautiful gift, before both retire separately for bed.

The flowers take pride of place in the kitchen the following morning.

*****
Credence sleeps past sunrise, unusually. The cityscape sounds of cars and civilians usually rouse him as the apricot sun peeks over children's block buildings. But today, he wakes to Saturday's mid-morning sun streaming through his curtains, and he's far too warm beneath his coverlet.

Oh, and it's his birthday.

Twenty one looks the same as twenty did, Credence muses, standing before his wardrobe in his pyjamas. But that's a blatant lie. Twenty was ghostly pale, sallow skin, greasy hair and gruel, fear was his best friend and darkness beckoned.

But twenty one; twenty one was healthy, glowing skin, and freshly washed hair from the night before, that wasn't painfully combed but fell in soft, wavy locks half an inch past his chin. It was bright eyes, and standing taller, in a warm, cosy room that was all his own. Collarbones that didn't jut harshly out from the collar of his pyjama shirt, but gently arced towards the column of his throat. It was the wardrobe of beautiful fine clothes, not fraying black rags, and someone...

Someone to trust, Credence decides cheerily. Internal voice quieter, he thinks, someone to care for, who cared for him too.

He doesn't pick anything overtly spectacular to wear today, just a clean white collared shirt and grey trousers, with an emerald green cable-knit vest. Credence hadn't told anyone it was his birthday, after all. What with the extravagant kindness Mister Graves showed him daily, there was no need for extra fuss. Not when the level of genuine decency and affection shown to Credence daily still makes him feel a tiny bit guilty, as though he hasn't earnt it.

Birthdays at the orphanage didn't exist, anyway. They were for children with two parents, filled with sweets and cake and sunshine smiles. Unnecessary extravangances, Ma had preached, 'Simply being here to observe the Lord's prayer is reward enough.' It didn't matter to Credence if his twenty first year wasn't overtly celebrated; in his mind, it was already going to be the best birthday ever. He had a home, a wand, and friends. He had Mister Graves.

The bed is made, and Credence takes to the stairs in his socks, comfortably trotting his way downstairs. A happy little whistle comes out of his mouth as he clears the last step, and strides into the kitchen-

Red and gold sparks fill their kitchen, cartwheeling around in the air. They pop and crackle and fizz, as Credence screams with shock, hand going to his wand. Before both hands fly to his mouth, streamers and glitter raining down upon his head.

"SURPRISE!" Shout Queenie, Tina, Jacob and Newt, jumping to their feet from behind the loaded breakfast table as the birthday deluge ensues. A canvas banner is unfurled from the wall with a rap of Tina's wand, and written upon it in swirling, glittery scarlet ink, is:

"HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY, CREDENCE."

Everyone's dressed in their daytime best. Tina opts out of her usual wardrobe of practicality, wearing a deep violet underdress and a lush navy blue beaded scarf coat. With latticed panels in indigo, taupe and brown, the tasselled hem of the coat skims the back of the eldest Goldstein's knees, and the bell sleeves dwarf her dainty hands. Queenie cleans up in floaty pastel sage, with silver embroidery at the chest and delicate tiered ruffles, finished with split flutter sleeves. Both sisters wear black flapper heels.

Newt ditches his usual faintly dishevelled look for a blue collared shirt partnered with a gingham taupe waistcoat. With chestnut oxfords, tan trousers and a jaunty plum bowtie, Scamander looks presentable, with no creatures or smudges of dirt in sight.

Jacob has also shucked his jacket, likely onto the coat rack in the hall. A crisp white shirt partners nicely with a pebble waistcoat, similar in design to Newt's, yet the no-Maj opts for grey slacks and an auburn tie to accessorise.

The streamers and sparks continue to sputter and flash around the room. Credence's eyes fill with inexplicable, joyful tears as five faces beam at him. Because there's someone wedged behind gangly Newt and stout Jacob. Wearing his usual white shirt, black vest and slacks, but the rarest, most stunning smile of them all, is Mister Graves.

There's no avoiding it, Credence is lost for words. Utterly tongue-tied at his whole world gathered in a sunny kitchen on a Saturday morning, as pieces of streamer rain softly into his dark hair. Happy tears sting his eyes.

"But- how?- you all-wha..?!"

"You didn't think we'd forget your birthday, did you?" Queenie winks at his mischievously, arm in arm with Jacob.

"Especially such an important one," her beau declares.

"We know we're not your blood family, obviously...," Tina starts, and Newt finishes her sentence.

"But in a way, we're a family of our own. And nobody is forgotten in this family. Especially not on their birthday,"the Brit says earnestly.

"Happy birthday, Credence," Mister Graves says softly, but with such emotion. Tears leak steadily from Credence's eyes and drip into his mouth.

With a sobbing noise, he makes an abrupt gesture, and all five of his favourite people ever cross the decoration-strewn floor and give him a stumbling yet comforting group hug. And as he stands there, crying soggily into Tina's shoulder, Credence thinks he might just burst from the force of their love.

Breakfast is utterly extravagant; a Lengthening charm, performed by Credence on the first try with Mister Graves' instruction, extends the tiny kitchen table so it takes up the majority of the sunlit room. What seems to be half of Jacob's bakery is arranged on delicate plates. Little cakes and pastries, with fruit and honey and icing sugar, intermingled with platters of steaming sausages, toast and bacon, stacks of freshly fried eggs and dishes of cream, baked beans and yoghurt. There was enough food to feed the gathering twice over, with room for snacking after. Or as treats for Newt's beasts; Pickett the bowtruckle delights in pilfering from the serving plates, carrying off a strawberry tart even as Tina scolds him gently.

In the course of conversation, Credence learned that the Goldstein-Kowalski wedding was to be in July. Barely a month away, small and intimate, due to the whole major law-breaking issue. And of course, Tina, Newt, Mister Graves and Credence were all invited.

"I'll help you plan, if you like," Credence offers, as Queenie gripes over venues and wedding dresses. He already has several places in mind.

"You're crazy," Tina interjects humourously. "You can take my spot, if you like. She talks of nothing but wedding this, and wedding that..."

"Oh, stop it." Queenie swats at her elder sister, but there's a grin on her face. "Pickett's stealing your toast, by the way."

An irate Tina confronts the cheeky bowtruckle about his unhealthy eating habits, as Queenie gasps happily. "New York Public Library, now there's an idea, Credence!"

It's still a little unnerving, the way she scans through Credence's thoughts. But he knows she means no harm as the witch squeezes his hand across the table, before hailing down her fiancé with the new suggestion.

Newt delights in re-telling, in good humour, the story of Credence's first day volunteering in the beasts' suitcase. "I turn my back for one moment, to bandage that grindylow's leg..."

"And when I spin back around, all I can see is Occamy scales from out the window!" He exclaims to everyone's mirth. "Credence made the mistake of bewitching the co*ckroach with an Engorgement charm."

At the centre of the kitchen table, amidst the crush of crockery, chatter and clink of cutlery, Credence's flowers from last Tuesday's lesson bloom infinite. Strange that they should last so long, Credence ponders for a moment, slipping a paín au chocolát between his lips. Tina, though lacking in Occlumency, quite literally seems to read his mind.

"Those flowers are lovely," Queenie smiles, catching Mister Graves' eye. Tina, Newt and Jacob engage in their own lively chatter obliviously.

Mister Graves makes no movement, other than to say, "Hmm."

The blonde gives Credence a fleeting look, and he immediately absorbs himself in his food, eager to avoid her piercing gaze as his heart rate spikes.

"So what's this drama I'm hearing about in Magical Maintenance?" He hears Mister Graves say, seated on his left. And absorbed in Queenie's animated discussion of workplace drama, Credence gives the mystery of the flowers no further thought.

Finally, all stomachs are well and truly stuffed. The ample remains of brunch are littered about the kitchen. With an efficient wave of his wand, Mister Graves enchants the soap and sponge to do the washing up, and the cheery party migrates to the lounge. But just as Credence reclines on the chesterfield after pulling back the curtains, massaging his full belly, Queenie chirps, "Present time!"

"Oh no, please,you mustn't," Credence tries in vain, as the Goldsteins and their hangers-on jump back to their feet. But Mister Graves' hand on his leg and the man's reassuring gaze makes all his protestations dissolve in his throat. Even when the hand leaves, and their guests advance, each with a gaudily wrapped gift.

Jacob's gift is a Kowalski's apron, enchanted with the help of Queenie. It flys right out of the box when Credence opens the lid, and when he slips it over his head, ties the waist string of its own accord. However, his first present seems a little too attached, with the string refusing to budge. It takes the combined effort of Tina, Mister Graves and Newt to get the apron back off him.

Tina, ever practical Tina, gives Credence a heavy crate of spellbooks.

"These were Queenie's and mine from Ilvermorny," She explains, as Credence studies the cover of a fifth year Potions book with wonder. "I know they're a little dog-eared, but they've got some useful annotations-"

Credence's rib-crushing embrace seems to work as well on silencing the eldest Goldstein.

From Queenie, Credence receives a gorgeous embroidered silk scarf. He doesn't need to ask to know the Legilimens sewed it herself, and his initials are monogrammed at one end of the shimmering material. It's a beautiful, deeply thoughtful gift, just like the others.

Credence says thank you to his friends so many times that he feels like a broken record.

The birthday present Credence receives from Newt, however, is rather perplexing. A small, shiny silver whistle.

"Only creatures with magical blood will hear it when you blow," Newt explains, a twinkle of something mysterious in his eyes. "It will draw them near."

Credence tries it out, giving the whistle an experimental peep. No sound comes from it, yet an almighty shudder wracks Newt's suitcase. Mister Graves and the tawny-haired wizard share a peculiar glance.

"One moment," he says, and dragging his case to the centre of the lounge, he clambers inside.

There's curious silence in the lounge, as odd noises filter up from the depths of the case. Scraping sounds of wood on wood, a few dull thuds, yips and scuffles, before a loud "Shhh!"

But then feet sound on creaky stairs, and Newt reemerges, with a large giftwrapped crate.

"This isn't from me," he announces, as he clambers from the case with some difficulty. With a flick of his chin, Newt draws Credence's eyes to Mister Graves, sitting casually to his right on the sofa. An emotion that intermingles anticipation and trepidation rises in his chest.

Credence gets to his feet, and cautiously approaches as Newt sets the box on the floor, closing his suitcase and retreating to sit cross-legged by Tina's knee. The box shudders slightly as Credence kneels by it, and he shoots Mister Graves a questioning glance. But the elder wizard gives him another encouraging nod, a smile twitching the corners of his usually solemn mouth. Credence takes a deep breath, ready to jump back at any second, and lifts the lid.

There's a tension-fraught millisecond of silence. The thing inside the box jinks and bounces as his hands close around it, silky fur tickling his hands. Abruptly, he lifts it into the light.

A high-pitched cry of sheer joy erupts from Credence as he lifts the wriggling Crup puppy from the box. There's exclamations of joy and happiness from his guests as the fluffy creature slobbers all over him with its damp little tongue, tail wagging furiously. Struck dumb with sheer elation, all Credence can do is hug the tiny beast tightly to his chest and sob. Tears cascade down his smile-stretched cheeks.

"She can keep you company, when I'm at work," Mister Graves explains, unable to keep his own grin off his face. Credence can only imagine how he must look to the older man, hiccoughing tears and mucus all over the softly yipping puppy. But he's so overjoyed, he doesn't care.

He carefully sets the chubby puppy on the carpet, and watches it wobble off towards Jacob, before catapulting himself at Mister Graves.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!- thank you."

Mister Graves returns the embrace, patting his back a little dazedly with a modest murmur, before Credence turns his affection to the other attendees of his birthday party.

The tiny crup yaps once more, then pees right in the middle of the spotless carpet, to everyone's amusem*nt. Mister Graves' eye twitches, but he says nothing.

After much deliberation, in the evening after-hours of the party, when everyone has left, Credence names her Martha.

Such a wonderous day ought to chase the shadowy wraiths of nightmares from a person's conscience. Shouldn't it be that on a person's birthday, they are granted momentary reprieve from their inner demons?

It appeared not. Because just like most other nights, Credence flails and screams himself hoarse in bed. Only the strong grip of Mister Graves ripped from his own slumber, his soothing murmured words can calm the tempest. Shushing the tears from Credence's eyes, hugging away the panicked shudders from his limbs, murmuring the same phrase until the jagged gasps of breath even out.

He lays Credence back down, and stays with him until the witching hour weights his eyelids closed.

Until another strangled scream slices through the wee hours.

Credence sits bolt upright as the bed tilts and heaves. Martha gives a low whine from her new cushion on the floor. It takes a moment for syrupy sleep thoughts to harden into conscious reason.

The scream hadn't come from him.

Mister Graves jerks and thrashes on the bed next to Credence. His eyes are squeezed tight shut, teeth gnashing, sweat pooling on feverish skin. It soaks his onyx nightclothes, as he groans, gasps for breath, fisting his hands in tangled sheets.

Mister Graves never stayed after Credence had a nightmare, no matter what. He was always so proper and careful. But tonight, by exhausted accident, he had let his eyes flutter shut.

"No-please!...Don't-"

Another long, terrible scream rips from the older man, who arches his back off the bed. Credence, frozen with shock, jumps into action.

"Mister Graves!" He crawls across andshakes the man's broad shoulders, as he groans, the whites of his eyes visible. "Mister Graves!"

His protector continues to whine and shudder uncontrollably, moaning piteously. Credence shakes harder, calls louder with urgency.

"MISTER GRAVES!"

Obsidian eyes snap open, and Mister Graves lurches upright. His eyes are unfocused, and his expression...

He's never seen anything close to this on the elder wizard's face before, he registers dimly. He looks exactly how Credence feels after a nightmare.

A nightmare.

They're in the city that never sleeps, but New York seems to be on mute. Especially when Credence breathes, face stricken with horrified comprehension, "You have them, too."

Credence doesnt know who's breathing faster, as they sit staring at each other.

"Is this why you don't stay?" Nothing.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He tried softly, beseechingly. With every passing moment, Mister Graves looks more and more like a cornered wolf.

A trickle of sweat runs from the man's askew hair as he replies hoarsely, "You have more than enough on your plate."

"And what about you, who has even more?" Credence argues quietly, absently gripping the other man's shoulder. Even through the fabric, the wizard's skin is feverish, like some sort of living furnace. "It's far too much for one person to handle alone. How have you even kept it together, after everything?"

The question hangs in the blackness of the bedroom. Mister Graves studies his hands for a long moment, twisting his fingers together. Credence waits. The other man looks up, and he finally sees.

Fear emblazons Mister Graves's face. Choking, poisoning, malevolent fear, crowding in the night's shadows of his features. And pain, no shortage of it, that burned muscles and nerves and the soul indscriminately. Pure suffering, of carrying the proverbial cross of trauma for too many hundreds of miles. Of concealing, keeping it all inside, playing the role of stalwart director, Credence's protector, unruffled survivor.

Nothing astounds Credence more than this new haunted, naked vulnerability in the wizard's eyes . It feels so wrong to see it on an all-powerful, stalwart man who didn't need anybody. Usually so cloaked with prestige and propriety, now stripped bare of his bravado, his paraylsing presence. This man before him didn't command respect. He deserved pity.

How had he not seen it, in the subtleties of the man's movements? How had he been so blind to the trauma? That he couldn't say the Name, couldn't even look at his own reflection?

It never had occured to Credence to check if there was a Muffling charm on Mister Graves' door. If the other man might not be as fine as he made out to be.

But now, Credence saw. The image Mister Graves projected of himself, of this pillar of strength, an unbreakable wall...

It was all an illusion.

There's so many silent words, but he doesn't need to hear them to know the truth.

Percival Graves was just as scarred by Gellert Grindelwald as Credence was.

And the tears that fall from Mister Graves' bloodshot eyes hit Credence harder than any belt ever could.

"I don't know," the man chokes out, caving in on himself. "I don't..."

Credence's arms are there to catch him and draw him close, as Mister Graves sobs. The poignant first step of familiarity that he had always vaguely hoped for but never imagined happening so dramatically. He reels for a moment, at the weight of the revelation. Until the grains of determination plant deep in his chest.

He had been blind. But now it was time to open his eyes and look ahead.

"It's alright," he murmurs, cradling the back of Mister Graves' sweaty head, just as the other man had done for him for so long.

"It's gonna be okay."

The man gasps for breath into his shoulder. But Credence lifts Mister Graves' wet face out with his palm, studying those tragic eyes with his own.

"I'm sorry, don't fret, I'll be okay," the other wizard tries unconvincingly, wiping away the tears with the back of his palm, hair flopping wildly into his face. "I'll be fine, I'm just-"

"Mister Graves."

Credence's murmur is still gentle, but with a firmness he'd never been able to muster. It stuns the other into silence.

"You're healing me, Mister Graves." By some miracle, Credence's voice is steady as tears slip down his cheeks. "Let me return the favour."

There's hesitation. The guarded gaze of the older man flickers. But with an almighty crack, Credence sees the walls of Mister Graves' resolve, now worn paper-thin, burst.

It's a flood of pure emotion. Agony, and stuttered sobbing words. Tears from both sets of dark eyes as the older tells of curses and ambushes, weeks of unadulterated torture, his deepest thoughts torn from his brain and laid bare. Utter humiliation. Complete loss of control. The petals of a blackened, horrific flower opening up, one by one.

The regret in the darkest hours, locked away in that suitcase with nothing but his hurt for company. Not having family, true friends. Having nothing but his work to live for, which could not sustain him forever. Paperwork couldn't keep one from the doors of death. The accolades of a stellar career didn't fill a starving belly. And those words Mister Graves tortured himself with....

Liberation felt no better. How could he be a fearless leader, when he checked over his shoulder for a white-blond wraith at every waking moment? How could he be brave, when dark hallways and tight spaces stole his oxygen?

"What kind of man is the wonderful, mightyPercival f*cking Graves," Graves grits out, voice breaking. "If he can't bear to look at himself in a mirror, because he's terrified of what he'll see looking back?"

Credence listens, and holds him. Weeps for him, but understands. Because when Credence's heart cracks clean in two, as Mister Graves miserably details his powerlessness, he sees it all in duality. His and the other wizard's ordeals, mirrored in sick synchronisation.

"Why didn't they care, Credence?" Mister Graves whimpers, digging his fingernails into Credence's back. "My position, my influence, it meant nothing. Everything I take pride in, means nothing. Why didn't they notice it wasn't me?"

"Why?!" He howls so piteously, Credence can't help but sob sympathetically with him.

All he can do is hold him closely and tightly, as they ride out the waves of intermingled anguish and fury together.

It's hours later of confidance and crying, when their voices are all but gone. They lie side by side on the mattress, staring up at the shadowed ceiling as the stars begin to wink out outside.

Mister Graves asks, "Do you know what it feels like? To be surrounded by people, but to feel completely alone with yourself? To have everything, but also nothing?"

Credence hears the man shift his head to look at him. He should respond. His tongue is so heavy with words unsaid that his throat and eyes burn. For a moment he sees the other Percival Graves. The imposter; crueller, shrewder. A hand around his throat in a midnight alley, crushing his windpipe, pressed up against a wall-

Stop. Don't think about it.

Strange that one devil of a man could so intrinsically ruin two others, with careful yet careless abandon.

A whispered "Yes," drifts from Credence's lips, and lifts like helium toward the ceiling. But he finds his reason, and props himself up on an elbow.

"You're don't have nothing, Mister Graves." Credence's hand tentatively grazes the man's stubbly cheek. "You have me. You're not alone anymore."

Pushing himself up against the headboard of Credence's bed, the wizard extends his arms. Credence obliges with a tight hug, which he tries to put a lot of things into.

They stay unmoved, each man needing the contact as much as the other. Credence's nose is in the crook of the other man's neck, breathing him in, when he croaks out, "Call me Percival."

Chapter 15: 15.

Chapter Text

Two men wake on Sunday morning, June 20, 1927 in the same room, and something is different.

At first, Percival can't put his finger on it. He wakes alone in the late morning, exhaustion purpling beneath his eyes. Credence is nowhere to be seen, but noises of movement come from the depths of the house below.

He feels raw. Like an open wound, exposed to air and light. His throat is rough, and face sticky with salty, dried tears. And he can only lie there, immobile, as blurred memories of last night come crashing back onto him like tidal waves.

Percival had always been so careful never to fall asleep with Credence after the boy's nightmares. The young wizard had been through enough, lost enough sleep. He didn't need to be woken, to know the demons that stalked Percival in his dreams, too. It wasn't Credence's burden to bear. Percival could handle it.

Until last night. He didn't even remember dozing off, back against the cold headboard. Only that he was tired, so very tired, and that closing his eyes for a few seconds while Credence's breathing evened out was harmless...

He'd cracked through the last of his resolve with that careless flutter of eyelids. And now the boy knew. Knew it all, despite Percival's best efforts to internalise it, ignore it, shove it all down to his soul.

Credence knew about That Man. More than he had ever known before. The memories that clawed at Percival's sanity, both in darkened dreams and the false security of daylight. The heartrending powerlessness he felt, shut up in his office doing f*cking paperwork, taunted by a silent voice. And the numbness of fear, that a cell in maximum security wasn't enough to keep Percival safe from Him. That That Man could and would break through the defences like tissue paper, and come to destroy Graves and everything he loved for good.

But now, Credence also felt Percival's crushing hurt. His painful realisation that no one at work noticed or cared that a doppelganger stood in his place. That his career, his life's toil and dedication, all his prestige and status, meant nothing. To the people around him, he was just a barking voice and a pointing finger. Barely even human, and not noticeable.

Until after Him, when he'd almost cracked. Crying and babbling like some fool, in front of Tina, in front of his f*cking boss. Those admissions to those who didn't know how to help him had donenothing. Nothing but humiliate him, make him look weak. If anything it had strengthened his resolve to keep up pretences, build those walls higher. Fake the walk, fake the talk, fake the whole f*cking show until they forgot. And the resentment, the embarrassment, had been threatening to bubble over within Percival for months. The fog in his head that weighed heavier and heavier, seeping into his veins.

But until last night, he'd had been handling it. Handling it just fine, he lies to himself. If only he'd had stronger resolve. Remembered to go back to his own bed. Cast that Silencing charm on himself before sleep.

There's a small crack across the whitewashed bathroom ceiling, slim as a single hair. He'll fix it later, Percival tells himself, water dripping from his washed face as some small, painful part of him acknowledges the truth. That he had thought he deserved it all; the endless suffering, the anxiety, the nightmares, the black abyss of sheer misery that threatened to engulf him. And that he wasn't handling it at all, and never had been. It was all a ruse.

But Percival's laxness before Him had made Credence suffer. Wasn't it fair that he endure this all, as penance?

Credence is flipping through the Sunday paper when Percival thumps into the kitchen. He looks as exhausted how Percival feels, when he murmurs a quiet, 'Morning.'

"Are you feeling any better?" Comes the muted question, as Graves fumbles with the kettle for coffee.

He doesn't know what to say, fingers stilling around the handle. That Credence now probably learnt more about Percival in the space of six hours than he had in six months? That the last person he had been so open with, his mother, had been six feet under for nigh on twenty years now? That Percival felt more vulnerable than ever now the words had been said, yet inexplicably so much better?

"Percival?"

"Yes," he tries, but grimaces as the word slips out. It sounds like grinding gears rather than his usual smooth tone. Wrong, so wrong.

A chair scrapes back from the table, and soft foosteps approach. Graves concentrates his eyes on the jar of coffee grounds on the bench, willing away the burning in his eyes.

"Mis- Percival..." Credence states, tone tentative at Percival's shoulder. "Look at me."

Steeling himself, Percival turns on heel to meet the boy's eyes.

He's been avoiding gazing at Credence. Stopping himself from meeting the young wizard's eyes.

Credence always looks so fair, even when fatigue pales his skin and tugs his eyelids slightly down. He's still in his striped nightclothes.

Percival had always tried to establish some unspoken barrier of propriety between them. Respecting Credence's privacy, his personal space, his autonomy, the rights to which had been denied at the orphanage. But that barrier had clearly been obliterated in the witching hours of the night. There's nothing separating them. And the other, younger man seemed to not care a whit.

The searching gaze he lays on Percival almost brings him to tears again. There's far too much concern on Credence's youthful features, and Percival's belly coils with guilt at what he was putting Credence through. Whatelsehe was putting Credence through; he'd already survived a lifetime of anguish in his young years, no extra suffering was needed. It was all his fault, if onl he-

But Credence seems to care not, when he says baldly, eyes soft, "Stop it, Percival."

"I'm fine," he continues, smiling painfully as Percival's eyes traitorously fill with tears. "And that's all thanks to you."

"It's because of me youweren'tfine," Percival whispers with anguish, chest uncomfortably tight beneath his dressing gown. "I didn't get you out in time. I should've, I could've- You're still healing, Credence, I won't ask you to-"

"Percival."It's a simple statement, but Credence edges the name with newly forged steel. A gentle, pale hand cups Percival's neck.

"Stop blaming yourself for what He did.It wasn't your fault."

It's not proper he does this, the polished part of Percival's conscience sniffs at him as he erupts into sobs again, practically falling into Credence's arms. But that voice seems to get fainter and fainter as Credence's arms wrap around him, and comforting words fill his ears.

"You can't just keep it all in, Percival. It'll consume you. You need to heal, too."

There's a long moment as Percival's snuffles subside, before his beautiful companion pulls back to study him.

"Maybe instead of going it alone," Credence mentions softly, chestnut eyes locked onto Percival's. "This can be mutually beneficial. We can help each other, get through this together."

The care in the wizard's voice squeezes his windpipe. To let someone so close to him, after years of emotional solitude behind fortified walls, was almost overwhelming. But there's something about Credence that helps him slip through all of Percival's defences like no other. How was it that a young man he had known for only a year could coax such trust and affection from his heart?

But Percival wouldn't couldn't deny him. So he whispers a teary, "Alright."

When Credence pulls him close again, Graves ignores his damaged bravado, his crumpled pride. The spine-crushing agony of his burden is diminished to a painful but dull ache.

Because Credence isn't just his self-assigned responsibility, his charge that he had become unfathomably attached to. Not anymore. He was a housemate, his companion. A true friend, who saw Percival for everything that he was rather than just the battle-hardened Director of Magical Security. Something else, so personal and wonderful that Percival can't put his finger on. Credence knew him and all his flaws, and liked him anyway.

There was no place for the Percival Graves with cold propriety and gritted teeth, guarded words or the impassive face. Who he'd convinced himself he'd become so independent and stalwart, that he didn't need anyone. But that lonely Percival was no more. A front, a coat to be shucked off and hung on the stand when one came home from work.

"I made eggs for breakfast," Credence mumbles into Percival's shoulder, soft locks of hair tickling his cheeks. "Do you want some?"

All that bullsh*t was over. His shoulders carry but a husk of their former load, even as the wounds on his soul burn afresh.

Because Credence isn't hurting as much. He's healing. And almost reluctantly, yet oh so gratefully, Percival thinks he might be able to start doing some healing of his own too.

"I'd love some," he said.

****
July speeds in faster than the clouds on the horizon.

It's spellbooks and sparks from wands, and Ilvermorny's third form syllabus learnt in what feels like a heartbeat. Credence is a sponge to all this wizarding knowledge, sucking up every drop he can find, each incantation and regulation burned into the fabric of his brain. The larch wand feels like an extension of his very soul. And any anxiety about controlling his magic, performing new spells has dissolved, giving way to excitement, familiarity, and biting eagerness to learn.

"Yo doinf thaalrefy?" Newt mumbles through a mouthful of lunchtime sandwich as Credence proudly passes him a vial of Strengthening solution. The Brit swallows deeply.

"God that's good," He murmurs at the sandwich, before he pokes the vial. "Can I have this? Dolores is approaching her season again, as you just saw. If I use this, I might be able to avoid Stunning her next time she sits on me."

"Of course you can," Credence says brightly from across the kitchen table, grinning at the memory of the lovesick Erumpent. And at the fact that Newt seemed hell-bent on inhaling whatever Credence put in front of him.

The auburn-haired wizard was giving Credence the finer points on house-training a young Crup. Martha was Credence's enthusiastic, warm-bodied shadow, and tailed him around his movements with nothing short of adoration. The puppy bandies around his legs at that very moment, panting happily as she searches for scraps. A small embarrassed part of Credence wonders if he had acted like Percival's very own Martha earlier in their acquaintance.

He gives her an absent scratch behind one ear. The energetic crup was extremely intelligent, fiercely loyal, and was starting to master not peeing on the carpet. The Crup is strangely not outrightly hostile toward no-Majs, a notoriously hereditary trait. She adored Jacob as much as any other wizard, if not more. He constantly slipped the tubby puppy treats.

But Martha's furry face and bright eyes bring such inexplicable joy to Credence's life. He couldn't wish for a better beastly companion and a more loyal best friend.

Newt practically licks the plate clean. The Briton was about to leave for a short foray into Mexico; Something about aMimblus Mimbletonia,whatever that was. He had been planning to go to Sweden, but according to Scamander, Tina had banned him from leaving the continent until after the wedding, which was in just over three short weeks. All hands were needed on deck.

The Kowalski-Goldstein wedding fast approaches, but Queenie and Jacob doesn't seem flummoxed like most fiancés. The no-Maj goes about his business as usual, running his popular bakery, while the witch seems perfectly calm and organised. Even cheery, as she chatters away to Credence.

"I really don't see why brides get so....flustered 'bout this sorta thing," She declares, arm in arm with Credence as they traipse through an overcast Central Park. It's just gone twelve o'clock, her lunch break, but it's unusually chilly for a mid-summer day.

"The cake; Jacob's making it, he won't let me into the shop to see it. The dress; I'm making, Teeny's helping. There's no dress code, ya'll can wear whatevah you want. And the food will be made-"

"But we still don't have a venue," Credence reminds her as Martha the crup jingles her leash, trotting along gaily to his right. They get a few funny looks from passersby, mostly at Credence. His long, wavy hair is the direct opposite of a gentleman's usual properly clipped cut, reminiscent of the previous generation. But while once he would have cringed at the attention, Credence merely lifts his chin and strides on, paying the occasional stares no mind.

"Indeed," Queenie muses, narrowing her eyes in contemplation. Or maybe she's picking the brains of the no-Majs that they pass along the pathway for wedding venue inspiration.

"So all the churches in NYC are out of the question?" Credence recaps for clarification. He's answered with a pensive 'mmm.'

"Wizarding folk go to no-Maj churches, we don't got our own," Queenie sighs, flicking a stray blonde lock from her fair face. The weak sun gives no warmth, and her cheeks are a cute cherry red. She looks vaguely put out for the first time during planning her own wedding."We usually have 'em there, as a no-Maj ceremony. But can't risk it."

Credence swallows the new information and adds it to his growing understanding of the American wizarding community, as Queenie whispers conspiratorially, "Cos' itreallywouldn't do to have Percy's Aurors bursting in and ruining everything."

How could just a name affect him so? Pinken his cheeks, and render him bashful at the thought?

A name that brought such sinful fantasies to mind, that were so wrong, yet so right. Of large, capable hands caressing Credence, passionate kisses falling from the Director's lips and his husky voice crooning Credence's name...

In secret, he came undone to the forbidden image far more often than not.

Mortified by his brazen, impure train of thought; 'In public, of all places!'His horrified conscience whispers; Credence urges his brain towards the task at hand. His hand brushes absently against the necklace beneath his clothes as he stares absently through the park. The sunburnt grass, the clumped thickets of dark-wooded trees.

He has it.

"Queenie."

Baby blue eyes meet his chocolate ones, and narrow characteristically.

Percival has been teaching him the art of guarding his mind against intruders. But Credence clumsily lets them down again, and Queenie sees.

She stops stock-still in the pathway, making some no-Majs behind scoot around irritably. Realisation dawns, and the glumness is erased from her as her mouth pops into a comical, lipsticked 'o'.

"Credence!" She shrieks excitedly, and curious eyes turn their way. Not a moment later, Credence is pulled into a rib-crushing embrace by the pink-coated witch. He's surprised his eyes don't bulge.

"Credence, you're a genius!" She adds in a quieter, but no less enthusiastic tone. Gripping his arm tightly, she drags him off the path and into expanse of grass. Martha gives a happy yap at the much softer terrain.

"The park, it's perfect!" The younger Goldstein breathes, face upturned to the sky as she marches determinedly onwards. They pass a grandstand being erected for the Independence Day celebrations in three days time, the workmen giving them a raft of funny looks. "All we need is a thick patch of woods with some space in the middle, a few good No-Maj repelling spells..."

"And longer legs," Credence adds as she sifts through his thoughts, stooping to pick up his diminutive pet. Martha's tiny legs could hardly keep pace, and she was straining towards a piece of red, white and blue fabric that had blown off the grandstand.

"C'mon, let's find the perfect place!" Queenie shrieks again, and takes off at breakneck pace. Trudging across the lawns after her, a thimble of golden heat burns in Credence's chest.

He's come so far. Further than he ever imagined. But tending to the house, learning magic, training Martha, seeing his friends, Credence has a purpose. And he flourishes because of it.

It feels good to give back, after accepting so much charity. In more ways than one.

It's been eleven days since...Percival finally opened up. Mister Graves.Percival.The name still tastes a little strange on Credence's tongue.

But it's not a bad taste. Not at all. Not when with every passing day, Credence knows Percival just that little bit better. When he felt he and the older man were not just individuals forced together by trauma, but two people who genuinely wanted to know each other. And know each other well, as equals.

It feels even better than being showered with Percival's protection and wealth at the start of their....relationship.

Credence doesn't know what to call it, as he meanders through the no-Maj grocer two days later. It's Percival's turn to make dinner tonight, but he had no time to go to the store, so Credence went in his stead. And they needed supplies for their Fourth of July weekend barbeque with their friends; Percival's townhouse had a uniquely good view of the fireworks, apparently.

But he and the other man knew each other, Credence deduces as he considers a vine of fresh tomatoes; on a level that few came to. He didn't think anyone else knew Percival Graves hummed symphonies when he brushed his teeth at night. That his favourite food was fried chicken, like his mother used to make it, and that he was partial to a doughnut or two at the end of a hard week. Or that the man drank at least five cups of coffee a day, which explained why he twitched in his sleep even without the nightmares. Thatstill happen. Almost every night.

It's been thirteen days since Percival opened up, and changed everything about their bond. Credence has forgotten what a good night's sleep feels like, but he doesn't care.

Not when cries sound from down the hallway, and his sirensong of comfort can rip Percival from the grip of a white-haired demon. There's no God in that hellscape of trauma, but Credence's embrace alone can squeeze the life back into fear-frozen limbs. If he can convince Percival that he isn't alone, that he is someone, not nobody, it's worth it. Worth the exhausted yawn that escapes his mouth as he pays the grocer for her purchases, the newfound reliance on Pepper-Up potions and dozing off on the lounge in the afternoon.

"Do you know something?" Percival murmurs into the wee hours, tone honeyed with drowsiness. The frantic tattoo of his pulse has slowed beneath Credence's calming touch, and his once wide eyes have fluttered closed. Worlds apart from the panic just moments prior.

"Mmm?" Credence responds, propped up on one elbow atop the duvet.

"I never..." A yawn truncates the Auror's sentence, and he shifts comfortably.

"I knew you weren't gone," He slurs, barely conscious. "When I was in...in the Infirmary, they told me you were dead."

Credence stays silent, a still shadow bleeding with emotion as the older man breathes, "Didn't wanna believe 'em. Knew you weren't. You'd be okay, 'n come back to me."

He can't see a thing in the utterly black room. Percival slips into sleep moments later, filling the silence with his even breathing.

It's worth it all, as long as Credence can be close to Percival Andric Graves. When in the inky depths of the night, two souls can touch, and the guarded daytime demeanor melted away.

There's a guardian angel who sleeps soundly in this bed. With haunted eyes and clipped wings, and locks of midnight hair stuck to his cheek.

But Credence is fledging black-feathered wings of his own. And they'll be strong enough to carry the both of them, through the long night and beyond.

*****
Where there was a will, there was a wedding.

Or where there was a no-Maj baker and a witch born as a Legilimens, there was a wedding that might not entirely be legal. But it was still a wedding, and Credence hadn't been to one of those before.

The big day, or night, rather, had screeched into view like one of the sleek automobiles that cruised New York. Days of excitement, then hours. Now less than one, as Credence combed at his wavy chocolate locks, straightened his suit jacket. And beamed at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

They'd gone shopping last week for suits at a no-Maj tailor's. Or Mister Graves had, while Credence, disguised with ginger hair and a moustache, accompanied him into New York's finest; Hindmarsh & Son's Distinguished Gentlemens' Wear.

Credence had to admit the rake-thin Hindmarsh worker was a connoisseur of his craft. The shop asistant had been ever so stuffy, bragging on about serving the No-Maj vice President, a celebrity and some overseas dignitary earlier that week. But the monochromatic slate-toned suit, complete with jacket, trousers, vest, and a matching traditional cravat, was exquisite. It all fit like a second skin, the fabric echoing every jut of bone and muscle. But it was meant to. Percival insisted all of Credence's clothes be bespoke, like his own.

How would Percival react when he saw Credence all dressed up? A small current of thrill runs through the young man, eyes cast to his closed bedroom dooras he contemplates, dreams, of who lay beyond, doing some preening of his own. Credence knew how hewantedthe older man to react. For his jaw to drop, sparks to flicker in depthless eyes, pink to tinge the tops of stubbornly colourless cheeks...

But it's not like that. And even if Percival felt that way, Credence acquiesces as he turns, admiring his reflection in the mirror, he would never be so brief about it.

Cufflinks are secured to sleeves, and flicking a speck of dust from his spotless black oxfords, Credence pulls his slate tophat from the back of his door and lopes out to feed Martha.

He doesn't have to wait long in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, before halting footsteps sound on the stairs. He doesn't have to see Percival to know he'll look otherworldly. He'd helped the man shave after his shower just over half an hour ago. It had taken all of Credence's resolve and concentration to ensure the razor glided cleanly when Percival sat on the edge of the bath, wrapped in his robe and not much else.

So as his pulse runs a marathon, Credence arranges his face like he imagines Percival must, every single day. Impassive, unbreakable. He swallows hard as the man in question limps into the room.

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus. But the way the air curled and fizzed around Percival like some otherworldly spotlight, he might just have been. His hair has half grown back in the months since he returned, and there's not a strand out of place, slicked back by practiced hands. His usual soot overcoat is left unfastened, baring a snow white collared shirt, inky bow tie, and matching dark trousers.

Credence had seen the waistcoat Percival had chosen in the tailor shop and its intricate, almost delicate pattern. But that glimpse paled in comparison to its glory when the wizard himself wore it; white silk, trellising the finespun black flowers and darkly glittering leaves that cascade down the length of the material. Vines curl, leaves unfurl, and more midnight flowers seem to sprout in winking bunches before Credence's eyes as Percival approaches.

It almost takes forever and a day for the man to reach him. The Director could command the roots up from the trees, the clouds from the sky when he looked like that. A halo seems to engulf his profile, sparking and hissing behind such a living embodiment of strength and steadfast confidence.

That power, like the the man's presence, is solid and unfaltering. But there's a different tang in Percival's aura, in these stolen seconds. Plain in his handsome face.

Gossamery vulnerability is woven into that white silk, like flakes of jet snow landing upon the fabric. And the duality, the juxtaposition of the two in one person, leaves Credence breathless.

Percival Graves really did only wear black and white. But God, Holy Father in Heaven, did he wear it well.

Credence voices the former in a jovial tone to try and still his pounding heart, which only earns him a look of mild amusem*nt from the mortal god in front of him.

"Black and white are classic," Percival argues without bite as Credence gets to his feet from the chesterfield. "Simple, yet effective."

Too right.Credence's skin prickles beneath his sleeves. "You look like a funeral director," He teases.

"But a very handsome one," He adds to soften the blow. A soft, almost shy smile touches Percival's lips, and he ducks his head. Credence busies himself with turning the lights off in the house, one 'nox,'after the other, because if Percival keeps looking like that, he might just collapse from heart failure.

They Apparate into Central Park. It's a hot night, and the pea-soup breeze hits them like a brick wall. No sane No-Maj would be out in this smog at nine o'clock, so hopefully the wedding would go without a hitch.

"You could've let me have a go at it, it's not far," He pleads the elder wizard as they stomp off the beaten track. He's been dying to try Apparating, but as of yet, Percival won't hear a bar of it. "The house isn't even three blocks away..."

"Credence,no,"Percival enunciates with annoyance, as Credence almost pouts. "I've told you seventeen times this week, and my answer has not changed, no matter how much you compliment me."

"You're not far enough along in your education," He says into the dark. Credence can see him looking his way out of the corner of his eye. "Once you've finished fifth form, then I will consider it."

"Fifth form is rubbish," Credence protests, unable to keep the sulkiness from his tone. It's the only one he's having any difficulty with; stupid Disarming charms and Stunning spells.

"It's one of the most important years, Credence," Percival admonishes, his silver-tipped cane thumping against the grass. "Very defensive-oriented. If you can't defend yourself if a duel, you may as well be a Squib."

They wander in silence for a moment on the ankle-high grasses, but there's no residual tension when Credence points into the blurry, dim distance. "Look!"

A barely visible glow emits from a wild wall of trees and untamed scrub. The wizards pick up pace towards the tiny pinprick of light, disguised behind a thick clump of bushes. Closer and closer they go, until the source of the light is lifted free by Percival.

A glass lamp, filled with softly floating fireflies. The pair stood transfixed for a moment, before another small light flickered to life further into the undergrowth.

Tina has tried to keep the path to the venue as clear as possible. Credence and Percival tramp through the dense woodland with minimal difficulty, avoiding disturbing the plants wherever possible. The trail of delicately flickering lamps persists, beacons of gold in the distance, and the sweaty heat melts away between the cool trunks of trees as the two wizards traipse further in.

It doesn't take long before the forest thins slightly, and a gold light tinges the trees beyond. A gritty carpet of leaves and soil crunches underfoot, as Percival and Credence reach the edge of the glowing copse.

Sturdy tree boughs arch above from tall trunks, intertwined with those of their neighbours to create a natural high ceiling. Rebel stars twinkle on the night's fabric between the small gaps in the leafy branches, and lanterns twin to the ones that led Credence and Percival to the copse dangle from the trees, casting the lushly grassed area in a soft bright glow. Crickets chirp softly, and faint harp music plinks always. It reminds the younger wizard of a cathedral as he steps forward, face lit with wonder. And a more beautiful cathedral he has never seen.

The toe of his oxford catches on something, and Credence spots the embroidered champagne-coloured aisle carpet stretching along the length of the grassy lawn. His eyes follow the fabric along until it ends beneath a floral wedding arch.

Jacob finally looks nervous. The No-Maj's hands are clammy when he gives Credence a hearty hug hello, and he hurriedly wipes them on his immaculate black groom's trousers before shaking Percival's hand familiarly.

"Finally see what they mean by wedding jitters," He chuckles nervously. Percival gives him a reassuring clap on the arm, murmuring some quiet words into the other man's ear.

"Who would've thought it, at the start?" Newt quips quietly into Credence's ear as they greet each other heartily. When Credence deigns to look confused, the plum-suited best man nods in the direction of their two companions, grinning impishly. "The no-Maj and MACUSA's finest, happily rubbing shoulders..."

"Don't jinx it," Credence warns, and the pair laugh comfortably, the Brit absently sweeping his auburn hair out of his eyes.

"You did a nice job on this," Credence said, gesturing around the twinkling copse. He contemplates whose side of the aisle he should stand on; both Jacob and Queenie have done so much for him, and he loves them both dearly. It was impossible to choose. "It looks absolutely lovely."

"Oh that wasn't me," Newt laughs, giving their surroundings a casual glance. "It was-"

But whatever the wizard is about to say, his words die quietly in his throat. His very features seem to lock up, a soft exhalation emitting from his lips. Credence can do nothing but follow the line of Scamander's gaze, and hop off the carpet and out of the way.

Tina treads out from the edge of trees and onto the golden aisle carpet, making her way slowly but steadily through the copse, silent but for the harp. A posie of mauve bellflowers, hepaticas, salad bernet and cowbane is clutched in her delicate alabaster hands. Her hair is sleek and coiffed, with a small feathered fascinator to one side. With a knee-length dress of deep blue, embroidered with silver thread and with a scalloped hem, the brunette wears the very sky above them all.

Smiling shyly with berry lips as she approaches up the aisle, Tina's eyes land on Newt. The magizoologist makes a choked noise, pulling at the collar of his white paisley shirt. Credence has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Percival across the aisle.

When the elder Goldstein is in place near the archway teeming with flowers and what looks like more fireflies, Queenie appears. A fairy queen, stepping out of her deep forest home and into the light.

A shawl so delicate it seemed to be made of transluscent spidersilk hangs off her slender shoulders, patterned with curling lace filigree. The ivory bodice is intricately sewn with similar graceful adornments, and gives way to a floorlength skirt. Branches the width of a single hair stretch down the fabric toward the ground, decorated with tiny white flower buds. A bouquet twin to her sister's is clutched in hand. There is no other word for the blonde, as she practically floats down the aisle;

Ethereal.

Queenie winks at Credence as she glides past him and Tina, and a wide smile he didn't know he wore grows even wider.

Jacob looks as though he might just faint as his bride to be stops beneath the glimmering arch, shining brighter that all the fireflies nestled in the blooms combined. The groom seems to be kept upright by sheer shock; and Newt, of course.

"Um," Queenie questions, peering around the resplendent copse. "Where is the celebrant?"

There's a strange kind of silence as her words drift away, and the group peer around in cautious confusion. The lights that sparkle around them seem to dim.

"I thought you were organising it, hon'," Jacob offers weakly, as Queenie arches an eyebrow in surprise.

"Ditto," She replies, concerned. There's a nervous murmur around the wooded area. Credence's chest feels tight; all that hard work planning, organising to a fault, and now everyone was in place in their finery, with no wedding to show for it.

Until a voice cuts through the building panic, and wraps around his shoulders like a blanket.

"I'll do it," Percival offers, stepping forward. Seeing the perxplexed expressions of bride, groom and wedding party alike, he shrugs. "The role of Director of Magical Security hardly encompasses officiating weddings. But we're in a bit of a pinch, and I'm a government official..."

Credence can do nothing but stare in awe at the man, as Jacob and Queenie weigh up his proposal. A year ago's Percival Graves would have been raiding this wedding with a team of his finest Aurors, rather than offering to facilitate it. This kind of openness with their friends, this level of kindness from a man notorious for his closed-off nature; a year ago's Percival Graves would never. And though Credence has always liked Percival for everything that he is- director, housemate, protector and friend- he likes this Percival infinitely more. The true Percival beneath the layers of iron and concrete that were sloughing off, crumb by crumb.

"We would be honoured, Percy," Queenie gasps, a tear shining in her brilliant eyes, before she pulls Percival into a bone-grinding hug. Jacob grabs him as soon as Queenie releases him, gruffly whacking him on the back. A slightly shellshocked-looking Graves takes his place beneath the wedding arch, straightening his jacket and clearing his throat.

"I'm going to have to speak off the cuff," Percival apologises, but everyone waves away his apology. After a few more covert whispers of preparation, he clasps his hands, and the ceremony begins.

"We are gathered here on this blessed night, to celebrate thehighly illegalunion of a wonderful couple for all eternity."

Everyone has a bit of a chuckle at that.

"Rappaport's Law was established in 1790, named for the female President of the same name," Percival continues, running his gaze along the outline of the small gathering. "It came to fruition after a foolish young witch employed within MACUSA befriended a no-Maj gentleman, and spilled the secrets of our society to him without abandon."

"The young man in question, was unfortunately a Scourer; a no-Maj hell-bent of eradicating any hint of witchcraft or wizardry in North America over the centuries," the older man directs at Credence. He nods absently, remembering Percival telling him the same story they day they went to Madame Morgotha's; but curiosity and concern curls in his stomach. This didn't sound like a wedding speech, thus far...

"The following events caused mass panic, hysteria and no small amount of difficulty within the magical community," Percival recounts. "Wizarding families were hunted down, or forced into hiding; an exponential amount of Memory Charms were performed on all parties the Scourer informed, but MACUSA could never be sure if they tracked down every no-Maj who knew."

"So the law was made, and passed," the Director persists, but Jacob interjects.

"Save us the essay, Graves."

"I'm getting to my point, Kowalski," the wizard shoots back, but there's no venom in his words, and an amused twitch in his lip. The light in his eyes makes it hard for Credence to breathe.

"As I was saying....the law specifies that No-Maj and wizarding interactions be kept to a bare minimum, keeping the two societies segregated. Marrying, befriending, or even fraternising with No-Majs is forbidden and punished harshly. But we are allowed to interact with them, on the basis that each interaction is 'essential to performing daily activities.'

"We are taught from an early age the difference between right and wrong." There's a strange timbre in Percival's voice, different from that before. "That there is good, and bad; right, and wrong. There is the law, and then there's breaking the law. I used to think that way, in white and black. Grey was nonexistent for me."

There's a moment of silence, and Percival catches Credence's gaze. The nature of the look, while fleeting, burns him to the core. He looks away from the older man, fiddling with the corner of his steel-hued shirtsleeve. But inevitably fast, like a moth to flame, his eyes are drawn back.

"There are times where things happen, and there is no logical explanation for it." The parkland forest is utterly silent apart from the soft chirping of sleepy crickets, the sounds of the city a distant hum. "People cross paths in the strangest of times, and contradict the laws we live by. In these slim cases, circ*mstances may be at odds with the law; But despite all appearances of law-breaking, it may not actually be so."

Percival's eyes jump from face to face as he speaks, but they always linger on Credence. Maybe it's the atmosphere, in this few square metres of golden love in the middle of Central Park's forest. Or maybe the stars have aligned between the crisscrossing branches above their heads. Credence's head is swimming through space and time and God knew what else at the sight of that wizard.

"Just because the law says one thing, and a circ*mstance is another thing, does not dictate the latter is wrong. Not white, nor black, but grey; a disarming, sometimes terrifying, but ultimately enchanting exception to the rule."

Percival's words ring out, and as quickly as the moment begins between them, it ends. Credence drops his eyes as Percival looks to Queenie and Jacob, and seems to refocus. "But in the context of Rappaport's law," He establishes. "I think we can all agree that Queenie Goldstein and Jacob Kowalski are an exception to this rule. For even after every barrier they have overcome, against all the odds, this witch and no-Maj are essential in each other's perfoming of everyday activities. They cannot live without each other. "

A quiet "Aww," escapes Newt's mouth before he can stop it, and pink embarrassment coats his cheeks. Percival smiles slightly ruefully, like he always does, to all those assembled.

"Now, for the vows," He asserts, looking to the couple positioned in front of him on either side. "Do you, Queenie- wait," he pauses, something akin to mild sheepishness on his face. "Er, do you both have middle names?"

Credence suppresses a tiny laugh at Percival's unfamiliar gaucheness, his earlier transifixion lessened back to normalcy. Everything, even social faux pas, looked good on him somehow- so strangely lovely. Tina gives him an amused look out of the corner of her eye.

"Right," Percival looks relieved as Queenie and Jacob offer the names up. "Alright, sorry. Let's try that again."

"Do you, Queenie Eudora Goldstein, take this man, Jacob Herschel Kowalski, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Credence has never been to a wedding before. But he stands here in the aurous firefly glow, with the people he loves most in the entire world, while two of them bind themselves to each other forever. There's joyful tears and a little bit of laughter in these vows, like flaxen threads binding Jacob and Queenie's souls together. And a man that Credence's heart doesn't have the words to describe pronounces them married in a shower of golden sparks, as the overjoyed couple kiss deeply. Tina, all decorum abandoned, crosses the aisle to sob happily into Newt's shoulder.

But in the honeyed witching hour reverie, playing out like a live action picture, Credence only has shy eyes for one.

And he might just die if Percival, smiling that private smile just for him, keeps looking back at him like that.

*******
"Come in, come in," Queenie ushered her guests into the front doorway excitedly, and Percival, Jacob and Newt stride inside, fresh from the ceremony in Central Park. The sisters and Credence had gone ahead to prepare the newlywed Kowalskis' brand new house for the reception. But the men had stayed behind to disassemble the wedding venue, returning the grove's celestial magnificence back to it's natural charm, no lanterns or fairy lights in sight. Out of habit, Percival can't help but scan the street for watching eyes before Jacob closes the front door behind him with finality, kissing his new bride hello.

It's a decent sized house, to say the least, located in a nicer slice of Hell's Kitchen. Smaller than Percival and Credence's, as was to be expected, but bigger than the sardine can of an apartment Tina and Queenie had formerly shared. Either way, it was on the fancy side, especially for a baker and a Wand Permit Office witch.

"Nice house," He comments to Jacob as everyone removes their jackets and overcoats, warm chatter echoing through the hallway.The scent of wood and fresh wallpaper lingers in his nostrils.

"Thanks," Jacob returns sincerely, a smile curling the corners of his waxed moustache. "A bit of a fixer upper; the second floor's not too flash," he explained, hanging his tuxedo jacket on the coat rack. Graves does the same with his own. "Stairs could do with replacing, too. But once we fix her up, there'll be plenty of room for the missus, me, and the kids once they come along."

Jacob wasn't one to be slow off the mark, Percival acknowledges not for the first time, raising his eyebrows a little at the new groom. Kowalski's wedding band wasn't yet warmed on his finger, and he was already talking about children...

Newt pulls him up on it immediately, as best men at weddings should, and Jacob makes a somewhat troubling remark about life being short. But Queenie just laughs as she ushers them down the hall and into the kitchen and living area. "C'mon, boys, let's have some fun..."

For having only been home close to half an hour, the Goldsteins and Credence sure worked fast.

The chatter of the group precedes the six as they trundle into the kitchen and living area. "So I'm keeping my maiden name, for work," Queenie explains to Newt, as Percival observes the decorated space. There's garlands of flowers and fairy lights like the ones on the wedding arch, that border the walls of the two connected rooms.A veritable flotilla of crockery teeming with salads, canapes, cold cuts and sweets is piled on the kitchen counter, buffet style. Most of the furniture has been pushed to the edges of the living room to make room for a dance floor, with a battered looking brass phonograph plonked on a side table, warbling upbeat jazz.

It's hardly the fanciest setup he's seen. But somehow in this moment, it's perfect.

There's a grey-suited fellow supervising the cutlery. With a wave of his larch wand, the wizard sends the knives and forks skipping out of the kitchen drawer and across the crowded bench to lay down in a cutlery dish. Credence smiles a hello at him, something bashful in the nature of the gesture, and there's a pang of something mournful in Percival's gut.

"So I hear you're keeping our dear parents' name?" Tina remarks to her sister, and Graves loses himself in the younger's explanation of how it was safer at work if she did so.

He didn't know what made him offer to officiate the wedding. The words slipped from Percival's lips before he knew what he was saying, but their hopeful faces and his own affection for all gathered had trumped any remaining reason. It wasn't as though his name would be on the official marriage certificate, anyway.

"We're going down to the registery office tomorrow at noon to be officially married, but we'll ask 'em not to publish it in the newspaper," Queenie tells her sister, pouring her a glass of gigglewater. "Anyone else want a drink?" She offers.

It's a practical plan for the future, and Queenie wasn't without brains. But something in Percival felt a little sorry that the witch and her love had to hide their happiness from the rest of the world forever.

God, he was so oddly emotional tonight. One would think he'd emptied the dam of his feelings quite entirely the night of Credence's birthday, Percival mused as the hours ticked by in what felt like moments. Rather than riding on a cloud of euphoria like the rest of the wedding party, roaring with laughter at a joke Jacob tells them around the dinner table, he feels like Newt's Erumpent has sat on him.

He pushes through it, of course. Percival Graves wasn't about to mar his impressive facade withfeelings, of all ailments. No one apart from Credence even knew he was still dealing with.... things, a good six months after everything.

He chatters politely, but not impersonally, to all of them. He eats the food on his plate, chuckles at the wedding speeches, and smiles at the right moments.

But something tells him That Man, the continual murders that were still unsolved or sh*t at work aren't the source of this inner turmoil he feels right now. And that keeps Percival quiet.

Maybe he should add the role of wedding celebrant to his job description, Percival muses later with a tad more distracted amusem*nt, watching Jacob and Queenie jitterbug happily across their living room to the music of their first dance, whooping and giggling. Percival Graves; Director of Magical Security, Head of Magical Law Enforcement and Marriage Celebrant. After four glasses of wine and a tumbler or two of firewhiskey, that title had a nice ring to it.

Then again, everything did. Percival takes a long sip from his fifth glass of red, and the room seems to glow brighter. Unconsciously, his foot taps along to the jazzy rhythm of the phonograph's latest tune, and he's sitting in a cosy chair, comfortably full of delicious, homecooked food. The atmosphere should fill him with contentment; curse his traitorous heart.

"Percival."

Credence singsongs his name as the younger man approaches, flopping down in the chair next to his. All the seats and furniture have been shoved to the corners of the room to make way for an impromptu dance floor, and after two hours of drinking, his charge was well on the way to tipsy. His voice singsonged higher and limbs grew more languid every time Percival laid eyes on him.

"No, Credence," Percival admonishes tactitly, all too familiar with what the wizard was about to proposition.

"But I haven't even asked you yet!" The man whines crossly, as Percival swills the scarlet wine in his glass distractedly.

"My answer has not changed. I can't -and won't- dance with you."

"Blast your leg," Credence announces, head flopping backwards on the fabric-backed chair, eyes cast to the ceiling. "I can dance enough for the both of us."

"No, Credence," Percival says again gently, and with a huff, Credence stalks off to grab another glass of God knew what, wrapping his arm around Tina's shoulders.

Oh, what a lovely boy.Percival hurriedly downs the rest of his wine, and peers around for the firewhiskey bottle. This would not do at all; wasn't alcohol supposed to help one drown their feelings, rather than give them a grandstand and megaphone?

He can't take his eyes off him. Conversations with Newt, with Tina, then with Jacob and Queenie, again and again, in any and every order. Nothing could distract his eyes from searching for grey. Not when Newt asked about Martha, who was owned by Credence. Or when Tina mentioned the reception food, that Credence helped Jacob cook. When Jacob's mention of the weather had Percival recalling the walk through Central Park with Credence; and Queenie's relief that the wedding went smoothly reminded him that Credence had helped plan the whole damn event.

He was everywhere. He couldn't be escaped, as much as Percival gritted his teeth and tried. Hating himself for every minute he denied himself a glance.

He can't think about why Credence's eyes meeting his mid-stare, smiling, sent lightning bolts through his chest. That when Credence tries to bully Percival into dancing with him, under the pretence that "Everyone dances at a party!", there's a tiny part of him contemplating throwing it all to hell and letting Credence do it. Why when Credence slipped and called him Percy-yes, Percy,a nickname he hated beyond measure-he isn't the faintest bit annoyed.

Percival Graves can't understand, won't understand as the numb organ in his chest keens, reaching out with trembling hands towards a wizard with chestnut eyes, and cheekbones that could cut ice; begging to touch just a corner of the light that exuded from the human supernova that was Credence Barebone.

But if Percival has one thing left, it's titanium self control. And it doesn't take much to pour himself another glass of firewhiskey and remind himself he doesn't deserve anything as good as that young man. His f*ck-up had dulled those eyes once before. He wouldn't get close enough to do it again.

It was just wrong. All wrong, regardless of his... allurement.

Percival preferred to think that he was attracted to people, rather than gentlemen or ladies specifically. He'd had dalliances with both over the years; his days fresh out of the Academy had seen Percival hopping continents and beds. Nothing unusual for a cub Auror, and nothing more than mutual comfort in a new city. Ships that passed in the night, and woke in the day as colleagues, as if naught had occured between the sheets.

He'd felt affection for a few companions overseas, maybe, infatuation, sure. He'd never forget blonde-haired Andras from Hungary in '08, or Sydney's long-lashed Lottie at Christmas in 1909. But nothing akin to love. The only person he'd ever loved for sure was his mother, who died in 1910 while he was posted to Shanghai. And even then, that had been a stretch. Eileen Graves had loved her son, but after the abuse she suffered from her husband, motherhood hadn't been a good fit.

Percival knew there had been whispers about him within MACUSA for years now. Not about his attraction to men, no. That sort of thing wasn't an issue in the wizarding world like it was for no-Majs.The whispers at work came from the fact that he was an attractive, eligible older bachelor, who showed no plain interest in, well, anybody. And that perception was perfectly fine by him.He wasn't ashamed, just professional; nobody, not even Picquery or Carneirus, had ever needed to know who warmed his bed. Noone had dared to ask him anything about his personal life in recent years, anyway.

He wasn't an attachment sort of person. He'd never told any love interest how he'd felt, and after his mother's death, he'd been string free. Maybe He had started it all, Percival muses, staring into the depths of his drink once again. Maybe when Percival's very foundations of existence had been shaken out of the ground, and his facade of cool, calm professionalism had gone down the john, this black cloud he'd lived with for years had shifted slightly. The whole ordeal had left him looking for an anchor, a support system to rely on. But Mother was long buried, and not a soul from MACUSA could be counted on in this post-Him world. Not since Picquery turned ice queen, and Carnierus had made a mockery out of his ordeal.

Credence's laugh emanates across the room, and Percival's heart nearly collapses at the sound. God, he's getting tipsy, too. Time to stop, if he's to Apparate them both home later. He doesn't want to drop them five miles out to sea like he and Limus ended up once, drinking themselves blind when he bagged the Director role years ago.

A lone wolf, he was. Anchorless, until he found Credence. Or Credence found him, and the little pseudo-family their companions had created. Percival had forced himself to hold it together for Credence, to be strong for him. The boy couldn't have another let-down, not when his entire life had crumbled around him after He ruined everything.

But somewhere along the lines of this existence the two of them were carving out, there had been a point of role reversal, or equalisation. Where instead of, or in conjunction to Percival being strong for Credence, Credence was being strong for him.

It was wrong to want what he couldn't have, Percival's brain hisses.Wrong, on so many levels. And Percivalwholeheartedly agrees, as he staggers up from his chair and limps out onto Jacob and Queenie's rickety balcony. He needs to get out. It's just too hot in there, he lies to himself. But his aching heart said differently.

His feelings, his sexuality had never lost him sleep in the past. Not once. Back in the day, there had been a few lookers Percival had kept his eye on, but he'd never gotten close enough. Never attached enough to feel as though when his heart thumped in his chest, another close by beat to the same rhythm.

'What was different about this?' He lies to himself, back against the brickwork. Just a fleeting, tipsy feeling. But no amount of alcohol can hide him from the truth.

Because Percival needed Credence. And Credence needed him, too.

Because with one look back into the room at his lanky-limbed charge in all his stumbling, slurring glory, Percival knew he would climb up into the sky and rip each star from its place in the heavens just to keep that boy safe.

And that should be enough to sate him, f*ck his traitorous heart. People like Percival weren't worthy of happy endings. Not when they caused so much pain.

The cool breeze soothes his hot skin, and he inhales, gripping the creaking railing tightly. Time for a cigarette.

"Hey, stranger."

Queenie leans against the balcony doorway, smiling softly at him. The moonlight makes her ivory wedding dress glimmer softly, emitting a light of its own. She almost doesn't look mortal.

"You look lovely," he murmurs, leaning his elbows on the creaky balcony railing.

"And if you're giving me compliments, you're drunk," Queenie remarks cheekily, and Percival just shakes his head, smiling a little miserably.

"Need a light?" The witch asks, and Percival lets her wandtip touch the end of his cigarette. Moments later it glows, and he takes a grateful drag.

"I'm not hiding out here, if that's what you're wondering," he says, but as soon as the incriminating words are out he regrets them.

Queenie arches an eyebrow knowingly, but doesn't press the matter. "M'kay, Percy."

"My name isPercival,"he emphasises, exhaling smoke into the night.

"That's not what Credence has been calling you..."

She knows.Was hetruly that obvious? There's a pregnant pause that makes Percival feel nauseous. The new bride fiddles with her wedding band, the weight clearly unfamiliar on her finger.

"How are the flowers?"

Smoke goes down the wrong way, and Percival coughs once, twice, three times.

"Flowers?" He asks in disbelief, swallowing dryly. "What flowers?"

"The ones on your mantelpiece from Credence's birthday celebration," Queenie says sweetly, looking up at him on her right. "They're not faux, but they've been there for quite some time."

"Almost as though they have a Preservation charm on them," she comments, a keen look in her eye.

"I like flowers," Percival spitballs evasively, flicking ash off the balcony railing. He was nothing if not a good liar.

"You've told me and my sister on at least three occasions how you cannot stand flowers, or even plants of any kind," Queenie reminds him matter-of-factly.

"Convenient how these flowers have lived so long... and appeared not long after Credence asked me to teach him to conjure them."

A weight he doesn't like falls into Percival's stomach.

"It was a kind gift," he says, trying to muster some iciness, but failing. Why, in his hour of need, was his heart flopped on the floor, curled in a hopeless ball?

Queenie softens beside him. She leans her elbows on the railing next to his.

"You don't have to be that sharp-tongued, impassive force of nature all the time, Percy. Especially not with him."

He doesn't have the heart to correct her. And they both know which him is implied.

"Oh but I do," He murmurs, all pretence of decorum abandoned. f*ck it, she already knew. "It's so innapropriate, and you must think I'm... if- if I even- it's just-"

"It's not," Queenie argues gently, and Percival's surprised he stays standing. Not only did the witch have some inkling of how he felt- God, could she read his thoughts?f*ck, he hoped not- but she somehow.... approved?

He exhales, at a loss. "This way, no one gets hurt."

"Wrong." Queenie's voice is less honeyed than moments earlier, yet somehow just as beseeching.

"You- both of you- are hurting one other with all of this.... tomfoolery," she gesticulates in the air.

He snorts. "Tomfoolery?"

"I'm not blind," She says a little bluntly, and he ducks his head. "All of us- we're not blind. There's something different about you now, and things between you and Credence seem, well- your familiarity seems more potent."

So much for putting on a brave face. Percival exhales again, trying to play it off, even as his heart beats become uncomfortably heavy.

"I know you're probably not keen to discuss this," Queenie continues carefully, searching his unreadable face for emotion. "But after everything you've been through, which I can't hope to understand or speculate about..."

"What I'm trying to say is, a change in you was imminent, and we'd have been more worried if after that whole fiasco, there had been no change," The witch finishes finally.

"We; I mean Tina, Newt, Jacob and I; we just hope that you're okay. And know that if you need us, for anything, we're right here for you, just as we are for Credence."

It suddenly occurs to Percival that he had never needed to tell any of them not to say That Man's name. And that each of them, the witches, wizard and no-Maj, had been in this for Credence, but had accepted and accommodated Percival, too. That he'd always referred to them as Credence's friends, when Newt, Tina, Jacob & Queenie probably knew him better from a handful of months than Seraphina Picquery and the rest of MACUSA, who had known him for twenty-something years.

There's a funny little warmth spreading in the cold coals of Percival's chest, that has nothing to do with Credence or the liquor. He has to duck his head, as tears threaten to sting his eyes. Maybe he wasn't as invisible as he felt.

"You're not just Director Graves, Percival. You're a human being," Queenie implores, looking in his direction. "And that means that no matter the outcome, favourable or otherwise, you need to let yourself feel something."

"There's a young man in there," She continues, before narrowing her eyes in that characteristic Legilimens fashion.

"And right now he's sitting over there next to Jacob, desperately hoping he'll convince you to dance with him next time he plucks up the courage; which will be soon."

"I'm protecting him," Percival protests wearily.

"You're doing nothing but amplify your own suffering, due to your own refusal to let yourself feel," Queenie says stoutly, holding his gaze evenly.

"You know, I've been saying the same thing to Tina," she trails off, and Percival peers at her sharply.

"Her and Newt?" He asks curiously.

"Who else?" Queenie sighs, pinching the cigarette from his fingers to take a drag of her own.

"She's adamant he isn't sweet on her, even though I know damn well otherwise," She mutters around a mouthful of smoke.

But if Percival thought he was in turmoil before, it's nothing compared to what burns within him now. The roiling waves of guilt, doubt and sadness, that crash and mingle with the sandy beach of... Credence.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. It wasn't proper, how he felt- he shouldn't, no-

Some kind of struggle must show on his face. Because Queenie smiles at him sympathetically. There's a tiny piece of confetti in her perfectly styled hair.

"I'm a Legilimens, Percival," she adds quietly, face half-lit by the rich lights inside. "But like I said to Tina; you don't need me to tell you what you already know within yourself."

Handing him back the lit cigarette, the witch wanders back inside to leave him with his tumultuous thoughts.

Who are you?Whispers that voice.

Percival Graves,'he whispers silently back, staring out into the shadow-draped street below. Something makes him look back into the house, craning his neck over his shoulder. Credence is dancing with Tina, spinning her around so fast the witch nearly staggers, both of them shrieking with laughter. The sight leaves him with no air, cigarette smoke curling out from between his teeth.

What are you?

Credence's doe eyes locked with his in the dead of night, fatigue-laced but no less beautiful. A gentle, scarred hand smoothing back his sweat-streaked hair and whispering sweet nothings until the terror of his nightmare fades, and Percival falls asleep.

What are you?

Credence whistling to himself, hair tied back in a messy bun as he pulls a fresh batch of cookies out of the oven. Percival's eyes watch him over the edge of the newspaper he's only half reading.

What are you?

Every casual meeting of brown eyes, every absent brush of limbs. The familiarity of conversation over breakfast and dinner. He wishes he didn't force himself to pull back so quickly every time Credence hugged him; that it wouldn't feel so wrong to want to hold on longer. To never let go.

What are you?

The last repetition hits Percival so hard, it might have been shouted in his ear. He whips back around, breathing fast with trembling hands.

I'm in love.

Percival's muttered "Oh, sh*t," falls down into the silent street with his cigarette butt, but there's no one there to hear him. Just as there's no protests on his lips when a while later, he allows himself to be dragged from his seat for a dance. Credence's head weights down Percival's shoulder as they sway for a song, then two, then three, as a Legilimen's eyes observe carefully from the distance.

******

The stars are beginning to wink out when two wizards reappear in their hushed house. It's pitch black, and staggering limbs bump into furniture to a chorus of whispered swear words and giggles.

"Where's the bloody light," Percival mutters, massaging his banged knee, and Credence keels over on the carpet in a mixture of laughter and sheer intoxication.

"Lumos-Credence, get up for God's sake-,"

"Nooo, I don't wanna," The younger wizard slurs, thick waves of hair thrown over his face as he lies spread-eagled on the floor.

"Jesus, you're a lightweight," Percival grunts as he hauls the man to his feet with some difficulty, but no pain. The copious drinks have lost their fuzzy edge, and he's on the downhill slope back to sobriety. But the insult is affectionate as he slings an arm around Credence's shoulders securely and makes for the stairs.

That goes about as well as making a fish run a mile. Credence has all the grace of a newborn giraffe when drunk, as Percival has discovered during their speakeasy adventures with their friends. And tonight, Credence is more inebriated than ever before; he succeeds first in tripping himself over on the rug, then nearly taking Percival with him to the carpet. Cursing quietly as Credence hangs onto his clothes, laughter emitting from the younger in breathy gasps, Percival hauls him upright once again.

"Right, let's get you-whoa."A hand that isn't his own is sliding suggestively down his back, and Percival catches those sneaking fingers promptly as he fights the urge to shiver. Sighing deeply through his nose, Percival raises an eyebrow at his unabashed charge, who leans his head on Percival's shoulder innocently. So shy, yet so brazen. How did positively dangerous drinking habits look so good on Credence?

"Really?" He said with a note of faux disdain, fighting quietly to keep from bursting into laughter at Credence's antics. Another hand sneaks up his front, petting at his chest, and he bats it away. "I think I've indulged you enough tonight."

It had taken another strong drink, but Credence had rabbleroused enough to get them both to dance together. It had felt strange, such an intimate activity exposed to their friends' eyes. But by then, everyone was so psycho-high on drinks, joy and wedding cake it would be a miracle if they even remembered it the next morning.

But in the refuge of the jazzy melody pouring from the phonograph, Percival had let his obdurate resolve peel back, if only just a little. And prayed that the universe wouldn't punish him too fiercely for swaying tipsily along. For relishing in his hand on the graceful dip of Credence's clothed spine, or the way his heart squeezed when their fingers interlocked together...

He'd always been a mournful drunk, Percival recalls somberly, even as his spirit spirals in circles of fluttering euphoria at the memory. And what sweet, sweet pain cuts at his veins.

But he has to be the sensible one right now, against his tipsy judgement. No matter how enticing delirium is, in a grey suit with pink cheeks and bright, heavy eyes.

"Carry me up the stairs, Percy," Credence commands with a flourish, pointing dramatically up the steps.

Gladly,his deviant soul purrs,Up the stairs, bridal style, and straight into the-

"No," Percival says pointedly to all, giving the other wizard a firm push up the first few steps. It accomplishes nothing; Credence simply throws his weight back petulantly, and refuses to move.

"C'mon, Credence," Percival groans in frustration, giving the boy a less gentle shove. Careless locks of hair fall into his eyes, and he distractedly flicks them out of the way. "It's nearly 3am; I want to go to bed. Don't make me levitate you up these stairs."

"Fine," Credence draws out the 'i', and begins to stomp childishly up the stairs, bumping into the walls and rattling the picture frames as he did so. Percival follows closely behind to prevent any more staircase collapses. His wand lights the way for them both as they traipse up to the second level.

Percival's feet scuff on the second floor carpet for nigh on a second when Credence's legs fail him again. Brimming with a mixture of amusem*nt, annoyance and something he doesn't want to feel but does, Percival grabs him under the shoulders and hoists.

He's still only halfway to sober. And it's only by that excuse that Percival finds himself pinned to his own wall seconds later, with Credence looming in close in the caliginous hallway.

Credence wasn't a master of hiding his feelings as Percival was. Even less so when he'd had a few drinks. And without the heavy coat of anxiety and cautiousness weighing down his slim shoulders, the young wizard stood taller- maybe taller than Percival, even, if he didn't slouch. Their faces are breaths apart.

"You smell nice," Credence murmurs, nose dragging along Percival's shoulder through the fabric of his suit jacket. 'It's puppy love,' he tells himself, tense, back rigidly straight beneath the other man's touch. Just drunken, fleeting puppy love. It takes everything he has in him not to just cup his face, run a thumb along that jawline, and...

"Credence," he says warningly before the other can touch his chest, but his voice comes out a little hoarse. Because Credence is beautiful. Even when he's drunk out of his mind, making moves Percival doesn't want to contemplate the implications of. He's smooth, pale skin with ivory cheekbones, delicate dark brows and a slim, perfect nose, punctuated with plush cherry lips. It's a witching hour dream, one that makes it so hard for Percival to listen to his moral compass. Not when his heart- and something else, located a few feet lower- ached to just give in.

"I love you, Percy," Credence blurts out of nowhere, swaying a little on his feet. He co*cks his head to the side as he speaks, like Martha did sometimes when she was waiting for dinnertime scraps.

So Percival takes his drunk, slightly tearful happiness into his arms, and whispers into that thicket of sweet-smelling hair, "I love you too, Credence."

Hand absently rubbing Credence's back through his clothes, Percival knows he's found the grey area he'd spoken of in the copse; between the blinding, painful white of outright nothing, or the black of giving in to twisted, carnal desire in a drunken fumble. Even as Percival dreams that in another world, another life, he says those three words differently. When they're both sober, and there's no hiding; and he's the person that Credence deserves. Not so tired and old, with no ruined leg and considerably less f*cked up.

By some miracle, he manages to coax Credence into his own bed, tucking the comfortable covers around the boy's shoulders. Martha, woken up by their late night return, jumps onto the mattress and curls against Credence's side, a warm, furry croissant. Percival allows himself the luxury of tucking a few loose strands of hair behind Credence's ear when the boy's eyes drift shut, and he extinguishes his wandlight before he begins to step away.

"'N where'd d'you think you're goin'?" Credence remarks groggily, making Percival stiffen halfway to the gloomy doorway.

"Stay." The young wizard whacks the half of the bed that isn't occupied with a flailing arm.

He's at a crossroads, once again. Not drunk enough to agree to stay, but Percival's definitely not sober enough to make himself leave.

"Stay," Credence whines again, before sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and chanting.

"Stay, stay, stay, stay-"Martha yaps along excitedly, tail thumping against the mattress.

"Alright!" Percival says exasperatedly."But only because I don't want to explain to the no-Maj neighbours why there's shouting coming from my house at half past three in the morning..."

The smugly drunk smile on Credence's face is getting the older wizard into all sorts of trouble as he quickly heads down the hall to stumble into his pyjamas. But he needn't have worried. Credence is practically comatose by the time Percival returns in the darkness, curled comfortably around the warm bundle of his pet.

"I'll leave you be, I promise," he mumbles, eyes fluttered shut as Percival slips inbetween the sheets with a satisfied sigh. There's silence for a moment.

"But only if you spoon me."

"Credence."

"Fine, I was joking, I know that's only for after nightmares...."

It takes time for Percival to fall asleep, long after Credence's breathing has evened out. And he hopes, for both their sakes, that the new pathway they tread so close to heaven won't lead them to hell instead.

They sleep long into the next morning. There's not a single nightmare between them.