One
Chapter 2
"You should have seen what his mother did, Graves," says Goldstein. "Belt, whip, everything. It was disgusting. He's so young."
"How old is he?" asks Percival, stepping through the rubble.
It's a dim day, heavy clouds draping around the two figures. The hum of passersby with their feet thumping against the cobblestone thrums in the air. The destroyed church lay on the street corner, having not been cleaned up yet and put under "caution" for potential further gas leaks. The bricks spill out onto the street, but mostly everyone walks around it. Part of the roof remains, with the torn draperies hanging off the wall.
"Twenty-one," answers Goldstein. She lifts a belt in the ruins, darkened in some areas with what Percival was horrified to identify as most likely blood. At twenty-one… "What his mother used to hurt him and the other children, I think." There's pure sadness in her voice.
"Credence," she calls.
Percival glances around. It feels as empty and as deserted as it looks.
Goldstein tries again, walking a little further in. Percival turns the other way to look around the building as Goldstein continues calling his name. He sees the alleyway in between the church and another building. He's drawn to it—it's quiet, still and relatively untouched. If Percival was a young man and wanted to hide away but not far from what he only knows… this alleyway might work.
Unsure regardless, Percival hovers near the entrance of the alleyway.
"Credence," he ventures, after clearing his throat.
Nothing.
Percival turns to continue searching through the rubble. Where can he be?
A whoosh.
Percival's hand flies to his waist where his wand is held. He whips around, sensing a presence.
"Credence," he says again, more of a question. Nothing, again, but—he squints. In the very end of the alleyway, a shadow. A clump of shadows, actually.
"Goldstein," Percival calls, raising his voice. The cluster of shadows shrinks at the sound of his voice. Behind him, Goldstein stumbles out, tripping on a brick.
"Credence!" Goldstein exclaims, eyes on the darkness at the end of the alleyway. "Credence, please. Are you okay? We're here to help you."
"Credence," Percival echoes, a little afraid he would scare him away.
The shadows, always moving, looking like smoke, seems to grow, then shrink—then take the form of something. A body.
"Credence," Goldstein says again, and she sounds like she's about to cry. "Credence, let me help you. Please."
The shadows lift completely, revealing a huddled young man. A huddled Credence Barebone.
His clothes are torn, dried blood soaking through. It must have been all the attacks cast by the Aurors. He's bone-thin, not having enough to eat—he must have been on his own for all this time, living off scraps. His black hair has grown out, curly and long. Percival aches; it's a pitiful sight and he wishes he could take back what had happened to this innocent man.
Goldstein tentatively approaches, putting away her wand and keeping her hands open. Percival is a few steps behind.
"Miss… Miss Goldstein," Credence whispers weakly.
"Yes, I'm here," Goldstein responds. "I'm Tina, okay, honey? Look, it's me… Tina. I'm here to help you. This time, your mother can't hurt you again, okay?"
Credence's eyes are brimming with tears. "My mother…" he mumbles, shivering. Tina places a hand over his head.
"Sick, injured, starved, thirsty… Oh, Credence," sighs Goldstein.
"He can stay at my place," volunteers Percival.
At his voice, tears start flowing out of Credence, and he wails, pressing his face into Tina's lapel. Percival is a little shocked.
"It's okay," Goldstein reassures. "I'm going to take you, okay? I'll take you. Graves—your place."
Credence nods among his tears, and Goldstein takes his arm before Disapparating, with Percival following suit.
They appear outside Percival's home, where he quickly lowers the defenses and throws open the door, allowing the way for Goldstein to carry Credence in. He shuts the door after, and with a wave of his wand the living room sofa rotates to face them. He helps Goldstein lay Credence gently on the sofa. In an instant, the two are casting spells to heal the boy. Streaks of few week-old curses line the skin that's exposed through his ripped and dirty clothing. Credence seems to be vaguely aware of what is happening to him, but not completely.
Percival Summons magical fever medicine from his cupboard—Madam Pothe's Anti-Inflammatory Syrup—and a cup of water. Goldstein lights the fireplace with her wand and shuts the curtains against any curious wizarding passersby.
In the new warmth and whispered soothing words from Goldstein, Credence willingly takes the medicine, and drinks some water. He looks hazily at Goldstein and Percival, gaze lingering on Percival a little longer, before he falls asleep.
"Probably the first time he's slept properly in ages," Goldstein says quietly as Percival lowers a blanket onto his thin frame.
Percival nods before turning to Goldstein. "What did Grindelwald do to him?" he asks.
"I'm not totally sure. I just know that he did trust you—or, well, Grindelwald's impersonation of you. I guess we'll see in Grindelwald's trial. If we do make MACUSA aware of his presence, Credence will probably be a key witness. Poor boy."
"We need to separate his Obscurus first," Percival says definitively. "Before we bring him to MACUSA."
Goldstein hums in assent. "Yes. Newt can—but he's not entirely sure. He's told me he separated the Obscurus from a girl in Sudan, but she died."
Percival returns his attention to the sleeping boy. "Would he?"
"No," says Goldstein, but there isn't much confidence in her voice. "He can't… He's so strong. He's lived so long as an Obscurial."
"We'll have to explain to him everything. But—I don't think I can get him to trust me," Percival remarks. "Grindelwald definitely broke his trust, that's for sure."
Goldstein smiles. "I think that's why Newt told me to put him here in your house. It would make more sense for Queenie and I to take care of him, but… there must be a reason."
Percival turns to her in shock. Scamander wants Credence under his care? Well, he had volunteered his house, but hadn't expected Goldstein to be entirely okay with it. Then again, he would be home a longer period of time, while Goldstein and her sister leave for work. That's right, he would be able to take care of him. Maybe that's why Scamander wants him to take care of Credence.
"I will, I'll take care of him. Mr. Scamander will come back," Percival decides. It seems to be one of the only things he can do, just to redeem himself. Redeem his failing to protect against Grindelwald. He scoops the sleeping Credence, who doesn't wake, and easily carries his alarmingly light weight upstairs to the guest room.
Screams, sobs. Percival bursts into the guest room door, alert, wand hand ready.
In the moonlight, Credence is writhing, a cold sweat on his skin, soaking through Percival's old clothes that he had put on him earlier.
"No—please—don't hurt me—I didn't do anything wrong—"
It's heartbreaking, because Percival is sure Credence is having a nightmare about his adopted mother. He puts a hand on Credence's shoulder, trying to shake him awake.
At his touch, Credence's eyes open, and he gasps, almost as if he's inhaling for air. He focuses on Percival for a second, recognising who he is, and crumples into his sheets.
"Mister—mister Graves," Credence says meekly, unable to make eye contact.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," soothes Percival. "Call me Percival. Percival."
"I'm sorry I attacked you, Mister Graves. I was angry. I—I didn't… I didn't like what … you said…" Credence seems unable to get his words out. He's shaking, almost as if it's taking all of his courage to voice his sadness. "Please… Don't hurt me…"
Percival is stunned. Grindelwald must have hurt him, and maybe it's Grindelwald in his dreams. Just like his mother. Anger at the dark wizard curls up in his heart, but compassion for Credence overtakes it. He sits down beside Credence on the bed, who seems to be even more terrified, unable to even look up.
"Wait—call me Percival, okay? Look, I have to tell you a few things." Credence's eyes flicker towards Percival at the calm, gentle tone of his voice.
Percival softly grasps Credence's wrist, in a hope that the touch will soothe him. Credence's eyes are wide and staring at his hands.
"Look, Credence, you probably do not know, but…" Percival rolls up his sleeve, where the marks left by Grindelwald still remain, dark red and immutable. "The Percival Graves that was communicating with you all this time is not me. There is an evil man, a man named Gellert Grindelwald, who has been impersonating me—"
Credence's head snaps up, a look of shock.
"Mister Graves—you—"
"Yes, I am Mister Graves—no, wait, call me Percival. He attacked me five months ago. Almost six now. He made me unconscious, gave me tons of scars like this, and broke my arms and legs, and, well, you've not heard it before, but there's a potion that makes him look like me. And I promise I'm not him, I promise the man that you knew is not the man I am, and—"
Tears are filling up Credence's eyes, and they glimmer in the moonlight. Percival's heart rate rises, and he blames it on the fact he's afraid Credence would burst into the Obscurus form again. Something in his heart keeps him blabbering about his situation. It's a sort of desperation, a terror and a frenziedness to prove that he is not the same as Grindelwald. That he is his own person, that he can't be like Grindelwald, that he wouldn't hurt this boy—
"—and I want to help you, I really do. It's like—it's like I'm meeting you for the first time, and I'm sorry that it had to be like this." For some reason, Percival's eyes are stinging with tears also.
Credence's lip quivers and he looks down. In the silence, he curls his fists. Percival watches him, heart hammering. He's entirely at the mercy of the Obscurus—his wand's in his back pocket.
"You mean—to say… the Mister Graves I know is not you? You are the real Mister Graves? I have not known the real Mister Graves all this time?" His voice cracks.
"Yes," whispers Percival. "My name is Percival Graves. Please, call me Percival." He hesitates, and lifts his hand to touch his cheek. It seems like the right thing to do. Instead, Credence jerks away.
"I'm—I'm sorry," gasps Percival, taking away his hand instantly. A wave of black smoke-like wisps blow through the room.
"The old Mister Graves did that," Credence says quietly.
"I won't—I won't touch you, I'm sorry," Percival instantly replies, and scoots further away on the bed. This man—this man, Grindelwald, abusing such a simple gesture? Were they this similar? Percival feels defeated, feels violated. His actions are not his own anymore.
Credence looks up despite this, and clutches on to Percival's wrist. "No—but you're… you're not the old one. You're the real one, right?"
Percival nods silently. He moves back, a little closer. Credence sets his jaw, trying not to flinch.
"My name is Percival," he repeats. "What's yours?" He knows, but he wants it to feel like they're really meeting for the first time.
"Credence Barebone," Credence answers, after a pause. It's barely audible, just below a whisper.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Credence," Percival says, voice level matching his. He gently encircles Credence's wrist, holding on: a firm, strong presence. "I hope we get to know each other, properly."
Credence swallows, nods, and his eyes continue to shyly look up at his before returning to his lap.
