Because J.K. Rowling likes to torment fans, Ezra Miller plays a precious cinnamon roll, and I need my thirst slaked until further answers come down the line.
A-A-A
Aurum - The Latin word for gold and the source of its chemical symbol, "Au".
A-A-A
How many lifetimes can one person have? How many dreams do you count in how many beds you've slept in over that lifetime?
The pale-faced young man with the black eyes doesn't ask these questions. They're useless to him.
His first bed was an iron-framed cot that he outgrew too quickly. It lay in a dark corner of a dark building in New York City where words of damnation sang in him to sleep. In his dreams there was nothing but darkness. The twilight and shadows greeted him in sleep and wrapped him up in oblivion where he lay immobilized until the harsh morning dawn woke him for prayers and work.
He was useless once. A whipping boy to a cruel mother and a slave to a man who promised him the world and gave him nothing.
Then he woke up. With a thunderous roar, all of the dark magic that was locked down inside of his soul broke out into a torment of fury and hatred. The other ones, the ones they call "wizards" who carry enchanted sticks, tried to destroy him. But he got away. His body turned back into that thick dark energy and vanished before he could be fully eradicated.
He woke up to a cleansing shower that was washing away the nightmares from New York City. Rain cascaded over his smooth cheeks, trickling through his dark hair like soft kisses assuring him that all the wretched tormentors were gone.
If only it was true. He staggered to his feet and examined his body, startled that it had not gained a single bullet hole or even a scratch. Either those wizards were terrible at their job or the beast within him protected him from their powers. Confused and bewildered, he stumbled through the broken remains of the Salem house.
His mother was dead. His home had been flattened. Should he be relieved or terrified? Celebrate or mourn?
What to do? Where to go?
The answers came to him in the form of a soggy piece of paper he discovered inside of an open safe. The lock had been broken off and water was streaming down the metal sides. His fingers were trembling as he opened it up and read the inky words. And in the blink of an eye everything he knew and thought about himself dissolved into nothing.
STATE OF NEW YORK CITY, DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND COMMUNITY INFORMATION
CERTIFICATE PERSUANT TO THE VITAL STATISTICS
Entry number: 69717
Date of birth: November 9, 1904
Sex of infant: Male
Name and surname/Occupation of guardian: Mary Lou Barebone / Director of New Salem Philanthropic Society
Certificate entry into the Adopted Children Register maintained in the New York State Deparment-
Adopted.
A vicious jab of pain pierced his stomach as his eyes scanned the words. He doubled over in agony, taking massive heaving gasps until he was sure he would vomit. His mouth opened wider and he let out a tormenting howl, the cry of a child cast off into the endless dismal world. Rain continued to splatter down his face, mixing with the tears and screams.
He has never felt so alone in his life.
A-A-A
He's heard the murmurs and whispers among the wizards how you can earn passage on the boats if you earn your keep. The first thing he does is cut his hair as short as possible (to prevent lice) and then changes his clothes. He burns any other papers he finds from the Salem Church before heading to the docks.
One line of passengers trickles into the massive ship with ease. Some of them are first-class people going on European world tours. They're eager to rub shoulders with aristocrats. Women in bobbed hair smile and toss their heads so diamonds sparkle in their ears. Men cast eyes of intrigue upon those shorter hemlines and hope to corner a pretty face in a quiet room. Other passengers shuffle in with more modest attire and suitcases. They're heading back to visit family in ancient villages, to share with them the wonders of America and share of their hard-earned money with the poor folk scraping by.
And then there are the scholars, sages, students, and teachers. They're mentally ticking off the list of "places to see" so they can cram more information into their hungry heads. They'll be ones visiting the British Museum, the Louve, and the Collosseum.
Fate laughs at these mortals. If only they would dare to trek into the mountains of Scotland then perhaps they would discover wonders beyond anything they could fathom.
But none of them will find Hogwarts because it simply does not exist on the Muggle map. Fate continues to chortle in amusement.
Further down the ship is were the grunt work happens. Crates of food and suitcases are stowed aboard by men who work hard like animals and keep their heads down. They're not passengers so they don't have to be pampered or paid attention to like anyone else. A massive wooden gate plastered in papers blocks people from the entrance to this magical world but Credence stands patiently at the front of the line. When the burly ringmaster arrives, his impatient eyes scan across the countless other men who are looking for a free ride. He begrudgingly lets Credence through the gates. A young thin man like him won't eat much but he'll work hard. So he'll do. Besides, they're on a schedule and have to attend to every second of the ticking clock.
Everyone else shouts and raises their fists in angry protests but their voices are swallowed up by the biting wind. He follows the big man in the bigger beard to the boxes and cages where the animals are kept. "Load them up," he orders Credence. "Fast as you can."
Credence adjusts the collar of his coat to keep the wind from nipping at his neck. His hands feel like ice. He hasn't sleep much in weeks. He gives one fleeting glance back over his shoulder to the wooden gates. It's still not too late to turn around. He could run away from the docks and back into the shadows.
But there's nothing for him left in America. He's going to the Old World to find the answers he seeks or die trying.
He and another man each pick up the handle of a crate and carry it up the gangplank. Soon the ship is prepared to leave and it eases its great mass out of the harbor with ease. Passengers cram the decks and wave their handkerchiefs at the Statue of Liberty in friendly farewells. Credence almost misses it but permits himself one last look at the copper statue on Ellis Island.
The Woman in the Harbor always was a pretty sight to see from the rooftops. Perhaps she's the one woman in his life he'll miss the most and that's why he surprises himself by blowing her a kiss out the window.
Adieu and farewell, Ma Femme.
A-A-A
He sits in the alleyway off Broadway and 14th street, cupping a piece of chipped ice in his swollen hands. Another piece is lodged between his back teeth and he sucks on it frantically, trying to distract himself and failing at it.
In some ways Mary Lou's silent glances hurts more than the punishment itself. She had yanked on his ears, twisting them with her fingers for good measure. He was on his knees begging her to stop until she finally released him, allowing him the tiny luxury to scurry off and hide in a hole.
Now a ball of tension swells up in his throat but he pushes it back by crunching down on the ice. Sometimes he wishes she'd just scream at him instead. Nothing could hurt more than this sickening sensation that is slowly transforming his heart into a lump of lead until he's drowning, losing himself in the pain and suffering, wishing he could just end his own miserable life with one breathless wish.
His prayers are answered by a shadow that winds its way into the alleyway, serpentine trails of magic trailing gracefully behind itself. The shadow smoothly materializes into the form of a well-dressed man who kneels down to meet his gaze.
"She's wrong about you." The man's velvety voice instantly soothes Credence's rattled nerves. He reaches out with both hands and cups the boy's chilled palm between his own. Black eyes widen in bewilderment at the intimate touch that is wonderfully tender, even affectionate.
"I, I'm not wicked, am I?" he whispers frantically.
The man shakes his head firmly. "She hates what she can't understand. But you're better than her. You're better than all of them."
He brushes a thumb over the back of the boy's wrist, sending a tremor throughout his body that melts into relief at this trust, this gesture of kindness that he has been denied for many years.
The hand lets go of his long enough to reach up and gently stroke his narrow cheekbones. The boy is enveloped in a heady fragrance combining newly-pressed wool, tobacco, and expensive cologne. It's alluring, even intoxicating to Credence. He could breath in this fragrance all day and never tire of it. The boy closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into the warm dry touch.
"I need you to be strong. Can you do that?"
He nods weakly. The man smiles and pats his cheek. When he takes his hand away from the boy's face, he whimpers faintly in protest. He doesn't want the man to go and leave him in his misery. As if he can understand, the man gives him a knowing nod.
"Trust me, Credence."
"I do," he echoes quietly.
A-A-A
His second bed is among the burlap sacks in the cargo hold of the ship. His coat protects him from the scratchy material and he uses his arm as a pillow. Sleep comes whenever he is restless or bored.
The journey is long, cold, and dismal. But it cost him nothing. And he's safe for now.
He doesn't talk to anybody and they don't bother talking back. The other men drink, smoke, and play cards while the caged animals twitter and ruffle their feathers in the background.
Credence sits behind a stack of crates with his adoption certificate clutched in his hand. Riddles roll around in his head. Was his real mother as vicious as Mary Lou Barebone? Was his real father as cunning and deceptive as that man who masqueraded as Graves? Or where they good kind people who were torn from their son without any reason?
"Is he dumb?" one of the men asks in a too-loud tone. He glances up and realizes they're talking about him.
"No, he can talk," grunts another. "Just doesn't bother doing it."
They all snicker among themselves as if it's the most amusing thing in the world.
Credence tucks the paper back into his vest pocket and if possible, curls himself up even tighter among the sacks. He wants to make himself so small and insignificant that nobody will hurt him.
One of them saunters over to Credence who instinctively lets out a small whimper. It's a cowardly thing to do but he just wants to be left alone. He does not want to be hurt by anyone ever again.
Not with beatings. Not with words. Not with false promises.
He remembers encountering that incredible man. Credence had felt common and filthy standing so close to someone as extraordinary as Mr. Graves but that man stood by Credence as he spoke of wonderful things. He told Credence that he was special. That he mattered. He promised to rescue Credence from his miserable life and bring him into the world of enchantment where wizards roamed. Then he would bring the boy into a tender embrace, surrounding him with feelings of love and affection that trailed after Credence like a lost puppy as he wandered back home. He knew he could endure whatever punishments came the next day as long as the lovely memories went with him.
Lies. Filthy deceiving lies. No more. He'll take the truth and nothing else, no matter how bitter it is.
Credence is brought back to the present when he realizes the man in front of him is offering out a battered tin cup. Credence eyes the offering with suspicion. It doesn't smell like piss and they wouldn't bother poisoning him. After what feels like an hour of deliberation, he takes the cup from the man and takes the tiniest of sips.
The cool liquid trickles down his throat easily. But once he swallows, the heat hits his empty stomach and flares back up into his chest. He gasps and bursts into a coughing fit.
They all laugh in amusement at him. The man before him gives Credence a toothy grin.
"Ye should've been raised on gin the moment ye could walk," he chortles.
He just drops his head in embarrassment and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
"Finish it," encourages the man. "T'will put some color into those deadened cheeks of yers. Don't girls look atta fine lad like ye?"
He doesn't bother waiting for an answer. He just saunters back over to his card game, leaving Credence with the cup.
Mary Lou Barebone raised her children on milk and water. "Alcohol is the devil's drink", she had instructed him in a brittle voice. "Never let your lips touch that bottle or you will forever be ensnared in Satan's army.
And here he is with his first cup of liquid fire. He doesn't smile or feel smug for defying his dead adoptive mother. He just sips his drink and lets the wonderful heat work its magic as it blossoms within his body and spreads tendrils of soothing calmness throughout his limbs.
A-A-A
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air."
-Lord Byron
Paris is called "The City of Lights" but to Credence it is just as sinister and twisted as New York City. No, this is a different type of darkness bleeding throughout this ancient city.
He's been in France for several months. The other circus performers don't let him starve but they'll shove a bowl of leftover soup or some bread into his hands at the end of a hard day's work. His bed has become a top bunk in a circus wagon and there's a patchwork quilt to cover his slim form. It's cramped but warm inside the wagon. He should be sleeping better but he isn't.
He realizes that he's left one cage only to be trapped inside another one. This one has iron bars he can actually touch and grip.
The ringmaster also thinks he's dumb. He does his work when needed but only when asked. He feels no desire to push himself beyond any boundaries than the ones necessary. The ringmaster barks at him whenever he thinks Credence is lagging. The Obscurus should burst out of him and tear that fat stupid man to pieces. But Credence is learning to be patient. He knows that he must bid his time if he wants to gain the answers that he desires so he muzzles up the beast inside of him and only lets it out when he knows he's alone.
He's been learning to keep his mouth shut while his eyes and ears remain open. Credence shovels the cages, sweeps the floors, and mends the tents while he listens patiently.
He hears nothing. But he sees everything. And it is in Paris where he lays his eyes upon the most beautiful woman in the world.
It starts after someone tosses him an orange fruit for his lunch. He bites into it ravenously and then makes a face when he tries to chew on the leathery rind.
"You have to peel a mango first," says a soft voice. It's a rich tone tinged with sadness. He looks around, as if to see who she's talking to. But there's no one else. Just the woman with the flowing black hair and the almond-shaped eyes who spends most of her time in the cage or in the wagon.
He can't help but gawk at her. The woman's skin is smooth as velvet and her long hair cascades over her shoulders like a velvety cape. Her lips are small and graceful as a flower's petals while her fingers are wonderfully tapered like those of a musician.
He hastily wipes his sticky chin with the back of his wrist, feeling clumsy and coarse to be in the same room as her. She must think he's an animal. But he takes out his pocket knife and cuts away the rind. The flesh inside is the brightest shade of orange he's ever seen. He places it into his mouth and chews carefully.
So this is a mango. Not that he's ever tasted caviar or champagne but they can't be as incredible as this. The sweet fragrance juices tantalize his taste buds as though they were gathered from the nectar of a thousand flowers.
He stares at the woman. She's not looking at the fruit. She's looking at him. What does she want from him? Does she want something from him?
Credence gulps down the fruit. Then he cuts off another piece and extended it to her from the window. She takes it and whispers the softest "thank you" possible. She chews with her small perfect lips. Then she smiles at him.
He can't smile back. Not when he sees something so wonderful imprisoned nearby like one of the fluttering exotic birds of the show. But his face softens just a bit, enough to show a glimpse of boyish charm peeking back into his soul.
A-A-A
They don't talk much. They don't have to. Nagini can see his forlorn expression and she goes to him and twines her fingers around his own. Sometimes she'll lean her head against his forehead or shoulder and his eyelids will drop as they lean into each other. She asks nothing of him. She takes nothing from him. She just wants him to be.
That's why he decided they should escape together. It took some planning but it wound up with a satisfying explosion that will no doubt leave the circus crippled for months. Good riddance. They celebrate their first night out of the circus by sleeping on a rooftop together. They have no blankets or pillows; they escaped with only the clothes on their backs. But Credence has a long deep heavy sleep and he wakes up feeling more refreshed than he has in years. He realizes that his arm has come protectively around Nagini as though he fears that she will transform and slither away from him. Fortunately, she remains by his side.
For days he sits on the rooftops and contemplates the future. Credence thought being out of the circus would make him eternally free.
Instead he feels nothing. No, he feels something. Sadness. Confusion. Despair. They weight him down like cold heavy stones in his chest. He tried to find his mother and found a false trail. A sweet little maid is dead and those wretched Aurors will not leave him alone. He keeps running with Nagini, hiding in alleyways and shadows. Stealing bits of food and random blankets to keep themselves alive.
One day he sits atop a chimney with his chin tucked down between his knees. His thoughts swirl around like muddied waters in the bottom of a river. He wonders how much longer he'll be able to endure like this before the Obscurus inside of him finally surrenders to depression and consumes his flesh and soul.
Is there anywhere that home can be? A place where he will feel safe at last?
Nagini hoists herself onto the chimney and sits beside him. She drops her head to his shoulder and her flowing dark hair dances in the wind, strands of it tickling over his cheeks. After a long silence she suggests, "Let's walk among them".
"Them?" he repeats.
She shakes her head and points west.
"Them," she insists. "The Muggles."
He doesn't want to. Humans have done nothing for him. They have nothing to offer him.
But for her, he nods his head.
A-A-A
Nagini artfully rearranges her hair into a modest bun at the nape of her neck. Credence pilfers a shop for some plain black coats that will allow them to blend into the background. When no one else is looking, they vanish into one of the marbled statues and step back into the other world.
Life in the human world is not extraordinary for him. He lived among them in the biggest city on earth. All of the flashing lights and charming music of New York were within his grasp and he couldn't reach out and take them. But he doesn't want it now so it doesn't matter.
They walk about the streets and observe everything around them. Women push carriages, hushing whiny babies. Men feed ducks, sip wine, and paint pictures along the river. People arguing in coffee shops. Children splash around fountains. Nobody pays much attention to the pale-faced man with fathomless dark eyes and the beautiful exotic woman beside him. It's as though the rest of the city is wrapped up in light and color and he's still inside his cage, poking at the bars and unable to touch that beauty. But he can gaze at it, watch it all pass him by and let the memories pile themselves up into his brain.
Nagini saunters over to a store window where books are propped up for display. She studies their titles curiously, taking interesting in one book bound in pine-green leather with gold letter on the cover. "Le Magicien d'Oz," she reads aloud.
"I read that one," Credence says. His voice is creaky because he hasn't talked much in days. "Not in French. The English version," he explains quickly. "At the New York Public Library."
It's the most he's spoken in a long time. Nagini looks curiously at him, intrigued by what else he can tell her. "What's in the story?"
"It's about a girl from Kansas who gets sent to an enchanted land called Oz and she tries to find her way home," he explains. Credence pauses and adds, "There's witches in the book. Good ones and bad ones."
"And the wizard?" Nagini asks him.
"Humbug," he answers gloomily. "All smoke and mirrors. He's not a wizard at all."
"Oh."
On their way out they go through an outdoor market, their arms linked together so they won't get separated. People hawk their wares and offer them everything from food to baubles to glass-blown jars and soaps twined with ribbons.
Credence's thoughts are interrupted when a man at a flower vendor calls to him in rapid-fire French. One of his empty sleeves is pined up to the shoulder. Credence knows it's rude to stare but he can't help it. An accident with tools? Or another poor unfortunate soul who was in the trenches?
"He wants to know if you'll buy a flower," Nagini translates.
Credence rummages through his pockets. All he's got are one silver coin and two brass ones from the circus. He fishes out the silver one and hands it to the man. The one-armed man accepts it and studies the curious markings of the coin. Then he bites down on it. Business is business, no matter what world you live in. Satisfied with the silver, he puts it away and then offers a red flower to Nagini.
She takes it from him with a small "merci" but once alone with Credence she says, "We needed that money for food."
"Are you hungry?" he asks her.
Nagini shakes her head.
"Neither am I."
The flower is red as blood with petals that ripple like wind on the water. She lifts it to her face and inhales its scent. She smiles at Credence, the smile of a silvery crescent moon shining out of a long bleak night.
For the first time he can remember, he smiles at her.
A-A-A
It rains in Paris that night. Credence and Nagini lie curled up against each other in their coats, her spine tucked perfectly against his chest. They're inside an abandoned warehouse and are listening to endless raindrops hammering down on the tin roof. The noise is incredible but at least it's dry inside.
Credence keeps talking. Nagini keeps listening.
"It started in 1918," he began. "Spanish flu. Epidemic across the country. Everyone was told to stay home if you were sick and to wear a mask when you went out. People were terrified because the flu could kill you overnight. I remember Mom wasn't home much because she was out volunteering in hospitals and churches. I didn't mind. I had time to myself."
He pauses to rest his throat. He hasn't talked this much in years.
"In November my head was swimming and my limbs ached. I couldn't get out of bed. Mom was…patient," he concedes. He pauses as he struggles to put his thoughts into order.
"She was usually harsh but treated me kindly when I was sick. She wiped my forehead and spoke gently to me. She read Psalms over my bed. She said there was nothing to fear because I wouldn't be suffering for long. She told me I was going to go to Heaven to be with the angels.
His voice goes uncomfortably strained. He feels as though there are shards of glass in his throat scraping against his vocal chords when he struggles to get the words out.
"But I didn't die. I got better. A few days letter I was out of bed and feeling strong again." He shuts his eyes to fight back the tears. There's no point in crying over the past.
"I think that's when she began to realize the truth about me. That's when I couldn't look her in the face because I could see hatred growing in her eyes. She hated me for cheating the angels."
Credence thinks he might break down once and for all until he feels a cool hand rest upon his chest, fluttering gently as a butterfly.
Nagini's feathery voice floats nearby. "I am glad you didn't die."
A-A-A
He sleeps again, traveling through half-dreams and misty shadows.
In his mind, Credence is back in the Salem church and Mary Lou is whacking at his arms with his metal-laced belt in her hand. She does not rebuke him with heat but with cold biting words that nip cruelly at his heart. He is an ungrateful child, a wicked boy. This punishment will drive the evil out of him.
He has no will, no fire within him to fight back. He can't muster the courage to run away let alone rise to his feet. Fear has consumed him, paralyzing him in his place. So he does nothing but cower and submit to her like an animal beaten into submission. The belt cracks and sends lighting through his arms, sending mixed signals of numbness and white-hot pain screaming into his brain. He bites on his lower lip so that he won't cry and instantly feels liquid copper seeping on his tongue.
Credence braces himself for the next blow when he hears a woman's voice pierce the room.
"Stop!"
It's like a moonbeam shining through the bleakest night.
He dares to lift his head and see a slim figure some distance from them. It's a young woman in a long gray coat. She rushes forward and with an elegant swoop of her hand, Mary Lou is sent flying across the room. She crashes to the wall and lays there unconscious.
Credence stares in awe and a bit terrified of the newcomer. He withdraws even further when she attempts to move towards him. Perhaps she'll do the same to him. But then she realizes he's starring at the slim wooden rod in her hand and wisely slips it into her coat pocket.
"It's okay," she says in the softest of voices. Her tone is as light and delicate as a spring breeze. Is this what a prayer should sound like?
She kneels down beside him. Her body language is open, patient. Her face is not pinched up in disgust but open with integrity in his presence. It does not command him to move but waits for him to open up.
"She's not a flapper," Credence thinks to himself. She's wearing loose trousers instead. Mom said trousers were "unsuitable" for a woman but this person before him is clearly a lady. A gold necklace glitters atop her white blouse and a cloche hat covers her dark hair.
His savior wears no makeup, not even a touch of lipstick. Yet she is utterly breathtaking to him he finds himself wanting to approach her. Timidly, cautiously, Credence crawls on all fours towards her. When they gaze at each other he realizes that her eyes are dark, but not like Mom's eyes.
This woman's eyes are soft yet strong. Gentle but courageous. They glow with compassion.
Her eyes are like fire in deep water.
His swirling thoughts and sensations run still as he stares enraptured into her tranquil face.
"It's okay," she repeats to him. She offers him her hand. He stares down at her pale unblemished palm and timidly reaches out to it as though it is a lifeline. When he puts his own palm into hers, Credence is surprised at how warm it feels.
He wants to kiss her palm, to weep into it, and beg this angel for mercy.
Instead he falls asleep and when he wakes up, everything is back to normal. The angel has vanished. She continues to haunt Credence's dreams, accompanied by a golden-haired Apollo with a suitcase of magical tricks and a merry twinkle in his eye.
A-A-A
"What do you want from me?"
"From you, nothing. For you, everything."
A-A-A
"Nature's first green is gold."
-Robert Frost
A-A-A
New York City was loud. Brash. Young. Daring.
Austria is ancient. Proud. Majestic. Dignified.
He's inside Nurmengard Castle that is shielded by mountains on all side. The sun towers over the mountains and pours its magnificent light into the castle, allowing everyone inside to drink in her radiance. Even Credence.
No, not Credence. Aurelius. A name fit for an Emperor. The Golden One.
Credence died in New York among the ashes and broken bricks of the Salem Church. It is Aurelius who stands here in the sun's glow.
He was given, no—restored, this new name by the silvery-haired man with the silver tongue who said it was his birthright. Aurelius has been drawn to him like a dying man in the desert drawing to a pool of water. It may all be a mirage, yet he cannot help himself when the siren sings the sweetest song to him.
Slivers of doubt are still embedded in his soul. He must know more from Gellert Grindeldwald.
"You lied to me." Grindelwald can hear the tinge of anger in Aurelius' voice. The boy is hurt.
"Back in America you told me I was special. You said you'd protect me," Aurelius insists. "Then you abandoned me. All this time I was the prize you couldn't see with your own eyes."
Queenie Goldstein looks nervous and mentally steels herself for a violent attack. But Grindelwald assures her away with a wave of his hand. Relieved, the witch leaves the room so that the two men can speak in privacy.
Aurelius takes out the wand Grindelwald recently gave him and points it between the man's mismatched eyes. "How do I know you aren't lying to me again?"
Grindelwald is unflinching. "Because both of us gain everything from the truth and nothing from falsehood," he answers as calmly as though they are having tea. "Since our time apart, I have used all of my resources to confirm your true identity. It is your decision to believe it or not."
Aurelius' dark eyes flash once with anger. "I haven't forgotten what you did in New York."
"Nor should you discard past grievances. The error is all mine," Grindelwald says. "Strike me down if you will, Aurelius. You have every right to be furious with me."
He watches several emotions crawl through Aurelius' eyes: concern, suspicion, and doubt. "You'll admit you were wrong?"
Grindelwald inclines his head to Aurelius. "I admit it. I have carried out the most terrible of crimes against you for underestimating your potential. All I can do is compensate for my sins."
His arms widen generously. "That is…if you will allow me to show you the proper courtesy that you deserve. For you deserve so much more than what life has given you, my boy."
He shouldn't, he mustn't listen to these words again. But he can't help it. They're more beautiful than any music he's ever heard. And he's been starving for truth for so long, to have it now within his grasp is too much to ignore. The cool mesmerizing gaze of Grindelwald holds his own and slowly, gradually, Aurelius' arm lowers and his wand falls limp in his hand.
"You must think I'm crazy," Aurelius suggests.
The older wizard gives him a knowing smile. "On the contrary," assures Grindelwald. "You crossed an ocean of secrets to learn the truth about yourself. Defied Aurors. Escaped a prison. Walked through fire."
He steps closer to the young man. "That makes you braver than all of my warriors combined."
A flattering compliment. If only Aurelius could accept it. But a greater concern has been growing in the back of his mind.
"At the rally you showed us visions," continues Aurelius. "One of them was a conflict even bigger than the Great War."
Grindelwald's expression grows melancholy. "I wish they were not true. But the future does not lie," he declares gravely. "That is the fate in store for this world if the Muggles continue on their current course."
Aurelius' body goes numb with shock. "But-but the League of Nations-" he begins to stammer.
Grindelwald says nothing. He just looks at Aurelius out of his wintery face and the boy falls silent. He lets the question hover in the air for a moment and then it melts away.
A shiver of fear run down the boy's spine.
"It is a castle build on sand," notes Grindelwald sadly. "And the tide is coming in. They will slaughter each other again. It is inevitable."
"No..." Aurelius hears himself protest feebly.
Grindelwald shakes his head. "All your life you have seen them as civilized beings. But when you strip them to to their cores, they are savages. Their blood has always cried out for war the moment man picked up his spear."
Hot water instantly swells up within him with a rushing surge that cannot be suppressed any longer. Months of hidden tears burst from the dam and suddenly they are streaming down Aurelius' face like raindrops.
Why he is weeping, he does not know. He covers his face and turns to a corner to hide himself. Aurelius shouldn't care about the humans or their evil petty ways by now. Let them murder each other again. They deserve it.
Maybe he's just crying because he realizes they are going to burn the earth again and make it uglier than ever. Maybe it's because he's found out his birthright was stolen from him by an ungrateful brother. He doesn't know why but his eyes will not stop watering as he presses his head against the stone wall and angry sobs tear out of his throat.
"My boy."
The pale hands gently cup his face and turn it back to the great wizard. His one yellow eye gleams with the knowledge of the unknown. "It is who they are," Grindelwald tells him. He shrugs his shoulders. "They cannot help themselves for being monsters."
His thumbs affectionately stroke down Aurelius' face, lightly brushing away the tears. When he is done crying, he pulls the boy's head securely against his shoulder and cups the nape of his neck. Aurelius does not resist the embrace. He lets the Obscurus swarm within as he is enveloped in power and majesty.
This young man is a lost treasure who has only recently been pulled out of the muck and mire that has kept him down all his life. He needs protection and guidance. He must be cherished and revered. Never again will he be overlooked or kicked aside like a common pebble. The wizard will see to that.
Grindelwald's voice is barely above a whisper as it echoes inside of Aurelius' head.
"But we can save this world."
A-A-A
Aurelius is given a grand room in the castle. There are tapestries on the wall, tapestries on the floor. The carpet is purple and gold, so thick that he sinks into it up to his ankles when he walks across it. He could easily sleep on the carpet, but the bed is even more magnificent. It is a four-poster bed surrounded with warm red drapes so that when he lies down, he feels as though he's reentered the womb. The mattress is a feather-bed that feels light as a cloud beneath his spine. There are four pillows adorned with golden tassels to rest his exhausted mind.
He is administered a potion to calm his nerves and it works wonders for Aurelius. No sooner does he swallow the tonic down then his head hits the pillow and he is pulled down and under into deep dark waters for hours. While he sleeps, the black streams of energy rise from his palms and dance above his body for hours. They seep back into him before his eyelids open again.
Sometimes he dreams of nothing. Other times he dreams of everything, of witches and wizards, of cauldrons bubbling up with enchanting brews and dragons who breath out tendrils of fire.
And in one dream Aurelius imagines a small boy with bright green eyes and a scar on his forehead. It is a boy who was once lost and alone as Credence but finally finds his place in the world. Aurelius enjoys this dream before it dissolves away like sand streaming through his fingers.
When he wakes up Aurelius is refreshed and wonderfully calm.
He has never been treated better in his life. Grindelwald has seen to his every need. House elves bring Aurelius generous meals on silver trays, plates of tafespitz and apple strudel pipping hot from the oven. Wizards dress him in fine garments and warm cloaks. He used to dump a bucket of icy water over his shivering body to clean himself. Now servants fill a porcelain tub of boiling water for him where he can soak his thoughts away for hours.
Adjusting to this new lifestyle is a peculiar experience. Pleasant for most of the time but not without its setbacks. For example, Credence Barebone never tasted chocolate cake in his life. One night Aurelius is introduced to the delicious confectionery delight known as sachertorte. The luscious layers of cream and fresh chocolate are so divine that he gorges himself crazy. He eats three quarters of a cake and washes it down with several glasses of schnapps. He wakes up in the morning with a monstrous stomachache and his first hangover. Before Aurelius can even get out of bed, he bends over and promptly vomits all over the Persian rug.
He was sure Grindelwald would be furious, if not disgusted by him. But the wizard showed not even the faintest flicker of negativity. He merely advised Aurelius to exercise some restraint in the future for the benefit of his own health. The elves cleaned up the mess, the hangover went away, and Aurelius was more careful to eat conservatively at mealtimes.
He's aware that this is all escalating and going somewhere. Grindelwald needs him. This war will need him. But for now, he should savor the luxuries given to him.
Grindeldwald has given him free reign of the castle. When he isn't on the rooftop befriending the local birds, Aurelius is in the library studying the books. Most of them are about magic but several shelves, oddly enough, contain books written by Muggles.
Aurelius is intrigued and surprised. His fingers stream across the leather spines, taking in the authors' names that he recalls from him past life. There's Keats, Dickens, Shakespeare, Dumas, Hemingway, Cervantes, Alcott, Bronte, and other classics.
"I thought you said they were savages," Aurelius aloud with mild confusion. Grindelwald has been observing him in the doorway.
"I did," the wizard agrees. He enters the library and his fingertips brush across the copy of Gulliver's Travels resting on a table.
"But a handful can rise above their status. Among mortals are rare individuals capable of creating art, literature, and science. Should we wizards deprive ourselves of satisfaction by ignoring the gifts of others?"
Aurelius says nothing. Grindelwald can sense his uncertainty.
"If these books offend you, I will have them burned," the wizard offers benevolently.
"No," the boy replies quickly. "There's no need. The books are fine."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes," Aurelius insists with more firmness in his voice.
"As you wish."
Grindelwald picks up the book and gives the spine a loving caress. He replaces it upon the shelf with the uttermost reverence.
"Not all humans must die," he explains. "Those who swear their allegiance to us and use their gifts for the greater good shall have a place in our new world. That is the honorable thing to do."
Aurelius slowly digests this new information and then stares back at the shelves, admiring the displays of literature.
"I don't see anything by Mark Twain here," he comments aloud.
"Ah, Samuel Clemens." Grindelwald smiles at him. "You're the first to notice his work is not in my collection. Do you want to know why?"
Aurelius nods, hanging onto every word.
"Clemens' writing is amusing on the surface, but he lacks conviction," explains Grindelwald. "His stories have two flaws. First, he lacks respect for hierarchy. He makes a mockery of teachers and raises children up to speak words of sages. Such foolishness is a danger to society. It breeds anarchy and contempt for the old ways."
The young man's dark eyes glow with curiosity. "And the second?"
"He overestimates Muggles. Gives them narratives that they are incapable of carrying out." Grindelwald takes a step closer to his apprentice.
"Tell me, Aurelius. Can a Muggle man do whatever he pleases? No. He must have the proper skin color. The proper bank account. The proper accent, origin, and religion. Clemens overlooked all of this. He wrote about a boy with white skin befriending a man who has black skin. It is Muggle fiction, not reality. A future that will never exist, a world that is impossible for them to create. And we cannot have lies in our future."
"No, we can't," he hears himself echo somewhat mechanically. He's never thought about stories that way before. He wonders if he ever will again.
The wizard clasps him by the shoulders. "Fear and love are two sides of the same coin. Humans will fear us at first. But when they see our true power, feel in their hearts what we are capable of, they will come to love and serve us," assures Grindelwald.
Aurelius has barely been breathing this time. Now as Grindelwald lowers his arms, the boy can hear his lungs working again. "I was afraid of you," he blurted out.
"And now?"
An invisible hand has reached inside of Aurelius, squeezing something within his ribcage. "Now I want to stay in the sun beside you," he admits.
"And you shall, my boy. Every day the sun will rise just for you," the wizard promises him.
"I have a new gift for you." Aurelius isn't sure what else Grindelwald can provide for him. He's provided the young man with a name, a home, and a future. He lacks nothing in this new life.
But Grindelwald opens a door and a stunning witch walks in. Her legs are slender and encased in silk stocking beneath a crepe dress that twitches and rustles with every movement she makes. Her eyes are palest blue and fringed with thick black lashes. The fragrance of her perfume sweeps across the room to Aurelius, tickling his nose and making his lungs burn.
He ogles and stares at her as though she's made of spun-gold. This is exactly what Grindelwald expected to happen.
"This is Blanche De Luc. She has been sent here at my immediate request."
He gulps. "To do what?"
The wizard gives him an enormous smile.
"To please you."
The witch named Blanche takes Aurelius by the hand and guides him out of the room. He follows helplessly, though gives one apprehensive look back to Grindelwald, who only nods encouragingly at him. Blanche guides him across the castle and Aurelius allows her to gently tug him along as he follows with obedient footsteps and a blank mind, like a man in a trance.
She brings him to a new room in the castle that he hasn't seen before. It's light and airy with a warm fire roaring along one wall. Everything has been decorated in white and gold.
Aurelius and Blanche. There's poetic irony for you.
She shuts the door, locks it with her wand, and then turns around to face him with an upturned chin and patient lips.
His body goes rigid with fear as his heart bangs back and forth against his ribcage. He's more terrified then he's ever been in his life.
"It is all right," she soothes him. "The first time is always peculiar."
"First time?" he repeats. His brain immediately jumps to the conclusion: "So there will be other times?"
She reaches to his shirt and touches a button with her fingers. "Has anyone ever told you what a handsome man you are?" she asks approvingly.
He's gawking and blushing like a stupid child again. But he manages to nod his head. "Once," he croaks out.
"You should hear it more often," Blanch croons. "Many wizards must use charms or herbs to make themselves pleasing. You do not have to do that. You have eyes like the ocean at night."
While she's talking, she's already unbuttoned his shirt. When Blanche finished she walks around behind him and gently tugs the shirt from his shoulders. Aurelius does not resist and allows it to fall off his body. Despite the pleasant warmth from the fire, he feels goosebumps rising on his bare arms.
"His excellency says you have not had a happy life." Blanche's voice ghosts over his shoulder. "From now on, I will make you happy."
A pair of lips touches the sensitive skin between his shoulder blades and he is lost, plunged into something that is not black and bleak but glowing red and pulsing with life. He loses himself for hours in Blanche's arms, experiencing new tastes on his tongue and new textures with his fingertips as she guides him through the motions. She fills him with raptor and the Obsucurus within him is no longer a wounded beast growling in the dark. It has been soothed for now and it purrs within him like a content feline.
After they have completed their ritual an exhausted Aurelius lies back on the bed. Blanche sits next to him and sings to him in French while her fingertips trace patterns and spells upon his bare skin. Just before he nods off to sleep, he feels her kisses on his lips and temples like blessings bestowed onto him by sacred beings.
Making love to a witch. If this is hellfire, he is more than content to burn for an eternity.
And if this is heaven, he never wants to leave.
A-A-A
Ilvermorny in Salem can hear the drumbeats of war carried across the ocean's waters. Headmaster Jeremiah Jefferson and his South American comrades in Castelobruxo agree to postpone the Triwizard Tournament until Grindelwald is defeated. School continues but the students are aware that there's a change in the air. There's less parties, more defense classes going on. They go about their business while keeping a glance over one shoulder.
Life goes on. But war is coming.
Tina Goldstein sits by a window in a London flat and watches the rain fall gently outside the window. The tea she sips is warm and should soothe her thoughts but she is anxiously waiting for Newt Scamander to come home. He will walk through the door with that charming lopsided smile of his and she knows she will instantly be smiling affectionately back at him. How odd that the most perplexing of characters who stumbled into her life has brought her so much joy. Tina knows she can face the storm with him by her side.
"Salamanders", she says aloud with a smile.
War is coming.
Newt's nifflers frolic around an empty classroom while he and Albus Dumbledore put their heads together over a map. There's much to do. Old friends to mend bridges with. New allies to seek out. Newt offers a suggestion about the Ukrainian dragons he's worked with and Dumbledore wisely nods his head in agreement. In the back of his mind Newt still feels guilty for something he failed to do in New York. He wonders if he will ever see that boy with the too-dark eyes and hopes that he can free him someday from Grindelwald's grasp. But first they must find a way to bring that dark wizard down.
War is coming.
Aurelius opens his eyes and pushes the sheets away from his body. He rises from his bed with the most confidence he has ever had in his life. Ignoring the velvet slippers placed at the foot of his bed, he walks barefooted across the room towards the windows. With a sweep of his hand he pushes away the heavy curtains. The sun has already risen above the mountains and is blazing proudly in an empty blue sky. It streams in through the glass, warming his lips until he is smiling at that glorious star.
Sometimes when he was a child in New York he would try to look directly at the sun. But it would blind him and he'd turn his head away, squinting in discomfort. He was punished for resting his gaze upon something so magnificent.
But he's no longer that child. He is a golden prince come to take back his kingdom. So he keeps his face to the sun, daring the world to bring the fight to his door. This time he will be ready.
END
Author's note: I was so hungry for details that I checked out "The Archives of Magic Film Wizadry" for the film to read. Inside is Credence's adoption certificate and date of birth. He's a Scorpio, which favors truths and facts and despises dishonesty and secrets. The illustrations of Art Noveau and different styles of wands are beautiful. I recommend checking the book out of your local library.