"What are Occamies exactly?"
"Hmm," Newt continued rolling up his sleeves, "Didn't you already ask me that?"
"Yes," Credence said, flipping through a handful of Newt's notes that he'd brought with him, "I know about them, but I'm not so sure what they are. Bowtruckles are like—like insects and Krakens are a type of magical squid. The Niffler is obviously some sort of marsupial with a pocket dimension in his pouch, but Occamies? They're feathered reptilians. They're a bird and a snake, but also… not? Does that make sense?"
Newt hoisted the bucket of wiggling grubs he'd prepared earlier and headed out of the cabin towards the Occamy nest. Credence followed closely behind.
"You have a point there," he mused, "I suppose you could argue that Occamies are more closely related to magical beings than they are creatures. Did you know that there are accounts, back when their numbers were higher than it is now, that they would talk with nearby witches and wizards and offer food in exchange for a warm kettle?"
"I didn't."
"Magical beings are different from magical creatures, Credence. They display advanced thought and reasoning. They can communicate outside their own kind. It's because of this capability for intelligence that they're awarded certain rights and protections that magical creatures would never even be considered for."
Newt paused.
"Beings are also chimeric in nature. Take the centaurs or merfolk, for instance. You couldn't classify a centaur as human, now could you? But the second you insinuate that they're a horse, consider yourself kicked in the right shin," he said, "The same could be said of Occamies. They're not quite birds. They're not quite snakes. They just… are."
"Is that chimeric with a k or chimeric with a ch?"
"Chimeric with a ch," Newt answered and peered around his shoulder, "Why do you ask?"
But he found his answer as Credence froze mid-note.
"I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Newt," Credence stuttered out, "I should have asked. I'm sorry. I'm so—so sorry."
Prudence fluttered anxiously at Credence's lapel and disappeared into his breast pocket where Pickett, still half-asleep and yawning, emerged shortly after. They climbed up Credence's vest together and wiped away the tears that fell down his cheeks. It seemed that Newt wasn't the only hurt seeing him this way.
"Credence," he forced his voice to remain soft and calm, so as to not frighten him off, "Do you remember what I told you?"
"P—pardon?"
"What I said I would say if I was ever angry or upset?"
Credence stared at him like a deer in the headlights, blinking away tears.
"…Fizzle Whiskers?"
"Fizzle Whiskers," Newt repeated, "And have I said that world?"
"N—no."
"And that means?" he gently prodded.
Nothing would ever change unless Credence figured it out on his own: that he had nothing to be afraid of. Newt could guide him through recovery, helping him overcome his past and trauma. He'd do so gladly. But it was ultimately Credence and Credence alone who could help himself move forward.
"That—" Credence's hands stopped shaking, "That you're not… upset."
"Precisely," Newt smiled and continued down the dirt-covered path.
"I'm proud of you. I'm really glad that you're writing these things down, adding observations that I've missed," he said, "We can memorize facts and truths all we want, but they don't really matter until we write them down and share them with others. That's what magizoologists like us do."
"Magizoologists… like us?"
Newt looked back over his shoulder.
"Yes," he tapped his chin with the back of his thumb, "You're one of us now, Credence. That is… if you'd like to be."
Credence looked down, but there was the faintest trace of a smile there that made Newt's heart beat quicker.
"One of us…" he said quietly, "I like that."
Once they arrived at the nest, Newt set down the tub of grubworms and wiped away the sweat that had gathered on his brow.
"Hello darlings," he greeted the immediately curious Occamy nestlings. They slithered over and around each other, trying to peer inside the bucket that Newt had brought them. "Mummy has a special treat for you this morning. I know, I know. It's been awhile."
He scooped a handful of grubworms and tossed them inside. The nestlings acted like a hungry school of piranhas, fighting over each other for the fattest, juiciest treat.
"Careful," Newt chided, "There's plenty to go around."
He tidied up their nest while they ate, patching up holes and cleaning up their droppings. Plucked feathers and anything of the sort could be left behind. It added padding to the nest, but he still wanted to ensure that it was sanitary enough for the nestlings. At least, by Occamy standards.
"Credence?" he asked, sweeping up a pile of sticks and leaves, "Could you come over here, please?"
A shadow loomed over him.
"Yes, Mr. Newt?"
"Could you finish feeding the Occamies for me while I tidy up here?"
Credence clutched Newt's notes against his chest, eyes blowing wide and nervous, "I—I don't think you really want me to do that."
"Of course I do. That's why I asked," Newt furrowed his brows, "Unless you're squeamish around bugs? It's fine if you are."
Pickett stood up on Credence's shoulders and squeaked.
"N—no, I like insects," he looked down at the bowtruckle, "Honest."
Pickett stared at him intensely before sitting back down with a huff.
"I just—I want to make sure," Credence hesitated, "You really love your creatures, Mr. Newt, and I'm not exactly the best… y'know. Are you—Do you really want to give me that responsibility?"
Oh.
"Of course, I do," Newt offered his hand, "You're one of us now, right?"
Credence looked down between them and stuck Newt's notes inside his coat pocket. He slipped his hand into his.
"Right," he smiled shakily, "One of us."
Newt beamed.
"I'm going to walk you through this, if that's alright. If you change your mind, it's okay to back out," he brought him over to the bucket and knelt down, "Righty then. I'm going to have you dip your hand inside, but I don't want you grab anything. Squeezing these guys will only make them burst and then all you'll have is juicy grub goo all over your fingers and a couple of hungry Occamies."
"Wouldn't want that," Credence said softly.
"Right," Newt continued, guiding his hand into the bucket, "So, you're going to form your hand into a scoop. Gently lift it out…and then, throw!"
Grubworms cascaded from the air into the Occamies nest, the nip-napping creatures greedily devouring their meal within a matter of seconds.
"Wonderful!" Newt praised, genuinely meaning it too, and stood up, "Just do that until the bucket is empty. In the meantime, I'll be back shortly. I forgot something in the cabin. I'll only be a second."
"What?" Credence's head whipped up, alarmed, "Mr. Newt, are you sure you want me to—"
"Relax, Credence. You'll do fine," he smiled, "I trust you."
"I trust you."
Credence's heart sang.
Newt trusted him. Perhaps even more unbelievable than that, Newt trusted him with the care of his creatures. Credence tossed more grubworms into the air to the famished Occamies and watched them absolutely devour each and every one until nothing remained behind. He threw handful after handful, until his fingertips touched the plastic bottom. Empty.
Once the Occamies realized that there was no more food to be had, all their eyes became locked onto Credence.
Prudence anxiously fluttered at his lapel.
"Don't worry," Credence softly assuaged and stood up, "I won't let them eat you.
One of the Occamies squawked.
"You are not," he repeated, more firmly this time around, "Prudence is a friend. Even so, she wouldn't taste any good since she's… y'know, made out of paper."
With that being said, he reached down for the empty bucket.
Within a flash, the Occamy—the one that had squawked at him—slid up his arm.
Credence froze. Feathers and scales together slithered across his skin, constricting around his neck. He didn't dare move a muscle as the Occamy inspected him and the paper butterfly now fluttering rapidly at his lapel. That was until the Occamy let out a great big sniff, glaring at him in disappointment.
"Told you," Credence breathed out in relief and went to pet the top of the creature's head. However, when the Occamy quickly tensed up, he dropped his hands instead underneath its beak so that it could see and inspect it.
"See? There's nothing to be afraid of," he said softly when the Occamy dropped its head and sniffed his wrist, "I'm not gonna hurt you."
After a moment that lasted forever, it arched its head into his hand.
"The body of a snake and the feathers of a bird… but you have the entire personality of a cat," he mused aloud, slowly running his fingers through the Occamies soft iridescent feathers. A beautiful shining mirage of color that warmed his heart and made him feel like… like home.
Prudence crawled onto his cheek.
"Okay, okay," Credence leaned down, sliding the Occamy back into its nest, "I'm putting them down now, see? Don't worry. You're not going to be eaten."
Right when he finally grabbed the empty bucket, a vibrant flash of light blinded him. Credence stumbled backwards and rubbed them, but when he turned back around, whatever had caused it was gone. Weird. He shook his head and went to return to the cabin.
But he had scarcely taken a step when he noticed that Newt had returned.
He hadn't announced his presence, so Credence was sure how long he'd been there. But there Newt was, sitting on the ground cross-legged, leather journal balanced between them. Huh. He'd never seen that one before, which was strange all-things-considered since Newt had become fairly accustomed with all things Newt. Well, whatever it was he was doing, he looked completely immersed in it. His brows had risen into his forehead, his lips pursed into a straight line, all while scribbling a piece of charcoal across the page.
It was nice seeing him like this. So quiet. So relaxed.
The way the sunlight reflected off his hair really illuminated the golden strands hidden within that untamable mop of auburn, enshrouding his face in a divine halo. He looked like an angel. Or rather, one trapped in human form. Normal at first glance, but ultimately unable to hide their divinity. It felt positively heathenistic to look at him for too long.
They locked eyes.
Newt slammed the journal shut with a loud snap.
"C—Credence!" he bolted up, "How long—how long have you been standing there?"
He looked like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. And Credence should know, he'd caught Modesty doing it almost every night. That was… before she bribed him with half a ginger snap not to tell.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, nothing. Just uhm—Just taking some notes on… erm, Dougal. Right! Dougal," Newt quickly shoved the leather journal behind his back, "Nothing to see here. Just doing your usual magizoologist type things. Nothing out of the normal."
Credence arched a brow.
"Dougal?"
"Yes, Dougal," Newt gestured over his shoulder, "The Demiguise perched next to the Occamy nest?"
Credence looked behind him and found nothing but empty space.
"Mr. Newt," he drawled, "Have you thought about glasses?"
"He's invisible. Well… when he wants to be," Newt puffed out his cheeks, "Dougal? Dougal, could be a lamb and introduce yourself to Credence?"
Right then and there, a creature with drooping white fur and great, big golden eyes, appeared within an iridescent shimmer of light. It stared at Credence, slowly raising its hand and wriggling its fingers one by one.
Credence stepped backwards.
"Don't worry. Dougal's extremely docile, and gives the best hugs, if I might add," Newt stepped beside him and twirling a strand of auburn hair, "He's the acting nanny for the Occamies and I think… he was watching you feed them. I was just documenting his behavior, is all."
"O—oh."
"Well then, if we're all finished here," Newt took the empty bucket for him, "Shall we move onto the next thing on the agenda?"
He grinned.
"How would you like to learn your first bit of magic?"
Newt had no idea what he was doing.
Funny how often that thought was becoming. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to teaching magic. No, on the contrary, he'd had years of practice with that. The only problem was that he himself was the student. His half-finished education had been supplemented by testing out new spells while dragons breathed down his neck or being chased by a pack of rampaging rougarou. He'd read through textbooks and practiced all that he could, sure.
But teaching himself was far different from teaching someone else.
"You've been consulting your Standard Book of Spells?"
"Yes," Credence nodded, sitting all prim and proper in front of him, "Every night."
"And?" Newt asked, "What have you learned?"
"I—I have my notes somewhere," he frowned, looking over his shoulder, "I can get them—"
"Off the top of your head is fine," Newt said with a smile, "This isn't a test, Credence. I just want to know what you remember. It's okay if you get something wrong."
"Well… uhm…" Credence's hands clenched and unclenched, "Magic is… It's like a well. Every time we cast a spell, it's like pulling up a pail-full of water. The well will eventually refill, but when you use too much of it all at once, it can be draining. But it's also bad to not drink the water at all, which is why we use magic even when we don't—when we don't really need to… is that right?"
"That's right," Newt said, "And what's the purpose of a wand?"
"If magic is like a well… then the wand is like a river," Credence answered, more confident and sure of himself this time around, "Magic rises from inside the wizard and flows down the arm into the wand, reacting with the core, before being released."
"And why is what the wand is made of important?"
"Because if the wand doesn't connect right with the wizard then the energy can't get through," he said, "The spell will just backfire or explode."
Newt leaned back on his hands.
"You're very good at remembering things."
Credence looked down.
"I just want to know everything I can…" he hesitated, "I have—I have a lot to catch up on."
"I know," Newt frowned, shaking his head, "You're working hard, Credence. Harder than I ever did when I was a student. And it shows."
He opened his leather sketchbook to the back pages, where he tested out colored inks and new cartons of pastels, and ripped them out. He set the parchment between them, tearing them into thirds.
"I have to give you credit. You did extraordinarily well on your first Reparo, but… you used my wand for it. Turns out you're compatible with it, but next time you might not be so lucky. So, I highly recommend using anyone's wand except yours in the future," Newt advised, "Now, I want you to do the same thing with your wand. Watch what I do and repeat."
He slipped his wand from his sleeve.
"Guide your wand through the air. Tell it what to do and trust that it will do it. Concentrate on the feeling washing through you and…" Newt pointed his wand at the parchment, "Reparo."
The paper stitched itself together with a zap, looking exactly as it had been moments before.
"Your turn," Newt slipped his wand back inside his sleeve, "Take it slow. It's not about whether you can or can't do it. You've done the spell before. I want you to focus on the feeling instead."
Credence nodded and closed his eyes.
Newt watched him.
Inhale.
And exhale.
There weren't many opportunities available to him to look at Credence this up close. The wizard liked making himself seem small, looking at the ground or trailing just behind Newt's shadow. Not to say that wasn't slowly changing as Credence became more and more accustomed with freedom. Oh no, not at all! In fact, he was making great strides – quicker than even he could have predicted. The point was… Newt hadn't noticed until this precise moment that Credence's hair was staring to curl.
"Reparo."
The ripped pieces of paper that remained between them stitched themselves back together, but that was only the beginning. Dried ink and swatches of colored pigment lifted from the pages, its aged yellow appearance brightening to a crisp ivory until it looked as new as the day Newt bought it, however many years ago that was.
He'd used too much magic.
Credence opened his eyes.
"How did that feel?" he inquired.
Credence's eyes shimmered with bottled moonlight, practically trembling with equal parts excitement and awe.
"It was… different. From before, I mean," he answered, voice shaking, "Last time, when I was using your wand, I had to focus really hard to cast that spell. It was like… I was pushing past a barrier that didn't want to give. But now… it didn't resist at all, like the barrier wasn't even there."
Newt's brows furrowed.
"And how are your magical reserves?"
"Not a drop missing."
Newt sucked in a breath.
Normally, releasing the much magical energy to return something to that pristine of condition would've made anyone feel an effect. Merlin, even the great Albus Dumbledore would've at least felt a twinge. If Credence barely felt a thing… well, it was no wonder he had survived this long with an Obscurus. It could gorge itself to its hearts content and still have plenty left over.
A sudden gust of wind blew the parchment away.
Credence stuffed his wand inside his coat and rose to his feet, "Don't worry. I'll get it."
However, Newt recognized the direction the pages were going and sprung up, "Credence, wait."
But he disappeared behind the tent flap into the dark, winter terrain.
Credence stared into the swirling ball of captured midnight, papers in hand.
Something about it… Something about it sparked a feeling of familiarity within him. And it wasn't because it resembled one of those crock-psychic crystal balls lining store-front windows downtown. No, this was something… personal, intimate. The Obscurus clawed against his ribcage and squeezed his heart, begging for a release that Credence refused to give.
Newt quietly entered the tent behind him.
"That's an Obscurus," Credence surprised himself with the hollowness of his voice.
"…yes."
"It's smaller than mine."
"Yes."
"Is…," Credence swallowed over the mysterious lump in his throat, "Is there a person inside there?"
"…no."
His stomach turned. Vomit crawled up his throat. The Obscurus slammed against his bones, begging for freedom. It tore his muscles to shreds and eviscerating everything that came into reach of its claws. It wanted out out out—
But Credence endured it.
"You separated it," every word was a chore, "But they can't exist without each other. So that means—that means…"
Oh God.
"…I thought that if I used the right spell… then maybe I could save her. I was desperate. She was out of time," Newt's voice was so quiet that Credence had to turn around and face him in order to register what he was saying, "…I was too late. I failed. I—I failed and she suffered for it."
"Is that what's going to happen to me?" Credence asked and Newt jumped.
"Absolutely not!"
"But you don't know for sure, do you?"
Newt didn't answer.
It was true then. Credence had always known deep down that he was living off borrowed time, but it hadn't entirely clicked until he was forced to face what could possibly be his future. Stuck in the cold, an eternity of rage and pain.
Alone.
As far as he knew, any day now could be his last.
"Am I going to die?"
Newt looked him in the eye.
"Not if I have anything to say about it."
His voice held such strong conviction in it that Credence shuddered. Or maybe that was just cold.
"I will help you, Credence," he continued, "Even if it's the last thing I do, I'll help you figure this out. I won't let you die."
The Obscurus quieted.
Credence stepped forward and took his hand.
"I know."
Journeying from New York to England had seemed endless, but the trip from England to France? Well, now that was a breeze.
Credence thanked God for that.
The sheer compactness of the passenger ship had made him feel trapped—caged, even—and every little bump and twist made his breakfast crawl up his throat. When they'd briefly hit rough waters, Credence had found his refuge next to a bucket.
After that, he'd spent nearly every waking moment inside the suitcase. He peeled raw potatoes for Dougal, spared the occasional knut and sickled for the Niffler, and wandered out into the Mooncalves enclosure for no other reason than they were cute. He patched up holes in the Occamies nest, watched Newt dive into the Kraken's tank to clean it up, and practiced magic.
And every night, before he went to bed, he wandered into the artic terrain and spent time with the host-less Obscurus.
It's just… there was something about it that sparked this agonizing sense of loneliness inside him. Every time he gazed upon that miserable, little orb, he felt like he would fall to pieces. He never wanted to see it again.
And it was precisely because of that feeling that he visited as often as he could.
Talking with it.
Telling it about his day.
Telling it about everything that he'd done.
Telling it about everything that he'd learned.
Telling it about the fear in his heart.
And he swore, it listened.
"We'll be remaining here while I arrange for a couple of overnight trains going Southcoast," Newt planned aloud, weaving effortlessly through the packed Parisian crowds, "Couple weeks here, couple days traveling. I think we'll be able to make it before the winter chill comes in. That'd be ideal. Kraken hatchlings do most of their growing during summer and—"
Credence didn't pay attention, struggling to keep up. Carrying his suitcase long distance rubbed his scars in all the wrong waves, making them grow puffy and red with irritation. He switched to carrying it with both hands.
"Laurent de Laurent owns a townhouse nearby. Used to stay there whenever I'd come down to visit—ah, that doesn't matter," Newt said, seemingly oblivious to Credence's plight, "He rents out the front rooms as a bed and breakfast for Muggle tourists, but he reserves the backrooms for wandering wizards. Like us!"
He glanced behind him and looked thoughtful for a moment before offering Credence his hand, "We're about to go down into the metro. I don't want you to get lost."
"I appreciate the offer," Credence held up his suitcase, "But I can't carry this with one hand."
"Oh! Let me help."
"You don't have to do that—"
But Newt had already slipped his hand around the handle, lifting half the burden off of Credence's shoulders. His scars still ached. That much remained the same. But having someone share the strain… well, that wasn't so bad at all, now was it?
He smiled.
"Thank you."
Meanwhile, a shadow within a shadow disappeared down a dark alleyways. There was flash of apothic green flame one second, and was gone the next. All was well on the streets of Paris.
Rain pitter-pattered against the bedroom window.
Credence turned a page.
He'd already reached Chapter Four in The History of Magic, which was impressive considering that it had taken over 500 pages to get there. Newt had gone immediately slack-jawed when he saw that and had wondered aloud how Credence hadn't fallen asleep reading it. Apparently, it was the bane of existence of Hogwarts students everywhere. Needless to say, he just about had a heart attack when Credence said that he enjoyed it. What wasn't there to love about history, let alone the history of magic?
Credence plucked up a blueberry from the bowl of fruit he'd brought to bed and raised it to his hair where Pickett quickly snatched it from him and gobbled it up quicker than you could say Fiddlesticks.
"You're insatiable," he laughed softly and plopped a halved strawberry into his own mouth, saying around it, "Take it slow, or you might bite my finger off next time.
Pickett blew him a raspberry.
"Rude."
He turned another page and glanced over at Newt, sleeping in the bed across from him.
Newt often preferred sleeping in the cabin, close to his creatures. It was habit, Newt had said when Credence inquired why. He'd gone for so long living out in the field, where the only roof over his head provided was the one in his suitcase, that he'd just gotten used to the routine. That and he hadn't wanted to pressure Credence with sleeping around a total stranger when his world was already in such an upended state.
So, when Credence insisted that he didn't mind at all, Newt… stayed.
He'd never seen him sleep before.
Newt cocooned himself in the threadbare quilt, his pinkened cheek pressed flat against his pillow. His lips parted and the faintest bit of drool dribbled down his chin.
The wind outside quickened, the rain growing louder and pelting the window like miniature water bullets.
Pickett pulled at his hair.
"Do that again," Credence warned, "And I won't give you anything else for the rest of the night."
Pickett pulled at his hair again, harder.
"Alright, that's it," he carefully plucked the bowtruckle from his hair and put him down onto the blanket, "Off to bed you go."
Pickett made a run for the bowl, but Credence was already one step ahead of him and grabbed it, holding it out of reach.
"I warned you, didn't I?" he set it aside on the nightstand, "I'm not rewarding your bad behavior. When you can ask nicely, only then will I give you more berries."
He stuck an emerald bookmark between the textbook pages and set it on top of the bowl, so that Pickett couldn't get into it during the night. He quickly cast a quiet Nox, and slipped his wand underneath his pillow before finally laying down to sleep.
Prudence nestled next to him.
Lightning crashed, illuminating the bedroom.
Newt bolted up in bed, eyes as wide as dinner plates, and fell onto the floor.
"Mr. Newt?" Credence sat up, "Are you alright?"
Newt flinched and stumbled backwards into the dresser. He gazed from underneath the pile of arms and legs at Credence, as if suddenly remembering that he wasn't alone. He opened his mouth to speak however, right at that precise moment, the thunder outside boomed and cracked, interrupting any possible answer that he might have received. Newt slammed his hands against his ears with a shout and buried his face between his legs, rocking back and forth.
Credence rose to his feet, alarmed.
"Mr. Newt?"
Newt hummed a tuneless song to himself, sounding almost like the static that came over the radio when the scheduled programming finished for the day. Was he trying to drown out the noise? Was he scared of thunderstorms?
Credence had been frightened of them too back when he was younger, before becoming responsible for others. Children from the orphanage had often found refuge in his bedroom from the howling winds and booming noise. He'd rubbed hundreds of shaking backs, whispering soothing words into their ear and reassuring them that everything would be alright. There was nothing to be afraid of even if the sights and sounds were scary.
But this… this seemed different.
Credence's feet moved on their own. He grabbed Newt's scarf from the dresser and crouched down low beside him.
"…Newt?" he asked softly, "Can I come over there?"
Newt opened an eye, the fear inside palpable.
"It's okay," Credence lowered his voice even more, trying to be gentle and understanding despite not knowing what was going on. All he knew was that his friend was in trouble, and he couldn't just stand by and watch. "I won't come nearer if you don't want me to. Whatever you need… I just want to help."
Newt didn't respond.
Instead, he stretched out an arm, and pointed at the bundle in Credence's arms.
The scarf disappeared the second he held it out to him. Newt quickly wrapped faded fabric around his neck, looping a second around his ears, making the end result look like a war-torn dental patient after four consecutive root cannels but… he looked better. His shoulders relaxed and the humming stopped.
Until the lightning crashed again, louder and closer this time around. Newt jumped into Credence's arms. He placed Credence's hands over his ears so that he doubled—tripled if counting the scarf—his protection against the noise.
"K—Keep," Newt breathed through his nose, as if every word was a struggle, "Keep those there. Please."
"Of course," Credence said quietly, "Anything."
Every breath came out ragged and pained.
"I'm not—I'm not scared of thunderstorms."
"I know. I figured as much."
A smile. Small and quivering, but still there.
"Expected nothing less," Newt murmured, "But still. This—this must seem strange to you."
"Yes."
"Then why aren't you asking why?"
"Because you'll tell me if you want to," Credence responded, soft and genuine, "I'm not going to pry if you don't want me to."
Newt didn't respond. Instead, his fingers tapped restlessly against the tops of his, the humming having returned anew. Everything about him screamed vulnerability. Everything about him cried out for—for something, anything to make whatever it was that he was dealing with stop.
It was in that moment that Credence realized just how human Newt was. Of course, he knew that. But, all this time, he'd been putting him up on a pedestal and looked up at him like some sort of god—a savior. He walked the shadows as Newt trailblazed forwards, not a care in the world. But he was just a person like everyone else. Even the strongest people needed help sometimes.
And right now, Newt needed him.
"If it's alright with you… could we lay down? My bed's right there," Credence asked softly, "I—I can't hold my arms up like this for too long."
Newt emitted a low noise.
Credence furrowed his brows.
"I… don't understand."
"…Talking…" he grunted between clenched teeth, sweat dripping down his forehead, "…talking…hard…"
Oh.
"Tap once for yes, twice for now," Credence said, "Can you do that?"
He tapped once against his knuckles.
"Perfect," Credence beamed, pleased with his suggestion, "Is it okay if we move us backwards?"
Another tap.
"Okay, I'm moving now. Let me know if you change your mind."
With immense difficulty, Credence maneuvered them onto the bed. The simple act proved harder than he thought trying to walk backwards with his hands pressed against the sides of Newt's face; but, they managed. When they finally laid down together, Newt's eyes had slammed shut. Tremors coursed through him. He curled up into the crook of Credence's neck, his fingers tracing the scars across his knuckles over and over in odd repetition.
"Is this alright?"
A tap.
"Is there anything else I can do to help?"
Two in quick succession.
"Okay," Credence said quietly, "Anything you need… I'm here for you."
Time stood still, or at least, it seemed like it. Nothing else existed outside of Newt's repetitive caresses and the thunderstorm raging outside. It could have been an hour. It could have been five minutes. Either way, it seemed like an eternity when the rain finally stopped and was replaced by night's silence. Credence could literally see the tension leaving Newt's shoulders.
A collective sigh washed across the bedroom.
Newt remained there for a moment, still and silent. His labored breaths grew quieter and quieter. The gentle sweeping of his fingers slowed to a stop. Credence nearly thought him asleep and was self-occupied with the thought on how to remove the blankets out from underneath them when Newt finally spoke.
"…I don't take too kindly to loud, unexpected noises."
Credence remained quiet.
"It's… manageable when I have some idea of what to expect. Did you know that I actually like the sound of rain? When I had Frank, I'd sometimes go out to his enclosure just to listen to the sound of thunder. But when I don't see it coming…" Newt grimaced, "It's indescribable. The closest I can get is like a cross between a lightning strike and walking face-first into a spiderweb. And it just… doesn't stop."
"That sounds painful."
"It is."
Credence frowned.
"The scarf helps. A lot. When I rub it up against my ears, I can hear the scratching and I can focus on that instead. I usually like the feel of it too, but your hands—" he trailed off and finally opened his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, "How did you know to get it for me?"
"Hortencia."
"Ah Orti," Newt smiled, "Always looking out for my peculiarities."
"It's not strange," he said softly, "Or peculiar. You're just… you."
Newt didn't respond.
Instead, his eyes fluttered shut. He slowly slipped off his scarf from around his neck, gathering it up in his arms and tucking it underneath his head in a makeshift pillow. Credence took advantage of that opportunity to pull out the blanket from underneath them and drape it over.
He didn't mind sharing his bed tonight. In fact, the moment Newt had stumbled out of bed and looked up at him with those wide, frightened eyes of his, Credence had all but resigned himself to it. He might have preferred it to sleeping alone, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. He had shared a bed with Chastity back when they were younger. When Modesty came along, she'd often sneak under the blankets after a nightmare—either his or hers. Every winter, both sisters would bunk with him, gathering up their blankets to conserve what little warmth they had. Credence honestly couldn't remember a time when he went to bed alone. Until now, that was.
But then again, he wasn't alone. Not really.
"Credence?"
He looked down at him.
"Yes, Newt?"
"Hmm," he smiled, half-asleep, "Finally dropped the Mister, have you?"
Credence flushed.
"I—" he pressed his face into his pillow, "I suppose. Friends don't—they don't address each other so formally. If it makes you uncomfortable though—"
"No, I like it."
Newt's breathing grew softer and softer, beginning to doze off.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"Anything."
"What happened to your hands?"
Credence sat up.
"You don't have to answer," Newt murmured, his kind meadow green eyes opening only to flutter shut seconds later, "It's just… you hold them a lot. And you—you shift your suitcase between them and… I like the way they feel. I like holding your hand. But if they hurt…"
The rain plinked against the windows, remnants of a storm that had all but passed.
"Ma would punish me whenever I did something bad," he swallowed, "Or whenever I took the blame for my sisters so that they wouldn't have to go through it."
Credence slowly laid back down and tucked his hands underneath his head. Newt's cheeks had grown pink again and his mouth hung open just the faintest bit. He wasn't sure if he would remember this in the morning, whether this was a genuine inquiry or a sleep-driven conversation of the unconscious. But somehow… Credence didn't care.
Because this needed to be said. He needed to acknowledge what had happened to him. Maybe then, and only then, could he move forward.
"She would hold her out her hand and I'd—I'd remove my belt. We'd go upstairs to the balcony and I would—she would give me thirteen lashes," he said quietly, "She said since the Savior endured the thirteen strokes of a whip, then I could too. Only this was could I—could I repent."
His palms ached.
"The hands were to hold the weight of our sins. To remember when had been done, and how to learn from there," a watery laugh escaped his throat, "They're ugly, I know. And I know that I'm—that I'm weak. Pathetic. I used to get so scared when I'd have to go up those stairs. I'd cry for hours and hours later."
"Credence, your perseverance isn't a weakness. Feeling fear doesn't mean you aren't brace," Newt murmured, "You didn't deserve anything that happened to you. But… it still happened. And you volunteered to endure something horrible so that your sisters would not. To be afraid and still push forward, knowing what is to come, isn't a weakness, Credence. It's a strength."
Newt smiled a little, "I think they're beautiful. Your scars. They show how strong you are. You really are amazing and I—I hope you know that."
And with that, Newt was asleep.
Porpentina Goldstein's footsteps—strong yet timid, holding distinctive power and authority yet reluctant to use it—resounded through the empty halls, echoing loudly even down in MACUSA's supermax holding cells. Grindelwald had learned early on how to distinguish Tina's footsteps from the others, long before he'd gotten caught. It'd been prudent to know when she was about to interrupt a meeting and annoy him.
Even if he had any doubt as to the footsteps source (which he didn't), the pungent aroma of Coney Island hotdogs lathers in mustard and relish always followed her around like her own personal, stomach-turning perfume. He much preferred it when she smelled like vanilla or powdered sugar. That way, he could also expect Queenie to make her rounds around the office bringing everyone cookies and cupcakes.
He could devour an entire batch of strawberry ones any day.
The door to his cell opened.
A metal chair was dragged inside and his interviewer for the day (or would it be torturer?) situated herself in it, one leg crossed over the other.
He smiled charmingly and greeted her with a polite nod, "Ms. Goldstein."
"Mr. Grindelwald."
"I would normally prefer standing like a gentleman before the lady takes her seat but…" Grindelwald attempted to raise his hands, magical restraints quickly pulling them back into position, "It seems I'm unable to rise to the occasion. I hope you don't take my impoliteness to heart."
"Hardly," Tina rebuffed his charms and opened the files in her lap, "But if you really wish to repay me for your rudeness, you could start by telling me why you're here."
"I'm appalled by the state of your education system," he tsked, "You see, when my mother met my father—"
"That's not the question I'm asking, Mr. Grindelwald."
"Is it not?" he arched his brows in mock-surprise, looking around the otherwise empty cell as if surveying an imaginary audience, "You asked me why I'm here. I'm merely giving you a response."
"You know very well what I meant," Tina droned.
"Do I now?"
"What made you come to New York?"
There it was. The big question. The one that all who entered his cell eventually asked.
"There was something that I could only find here," he hummed, "An Obscurial. What was his name again?"
Grindelwald smiled, all teeth and no compassion. Much like the cat that caught the bird, playing with its dinner before going in for the final strike.
"Credence?"
Tina bristled.
"Save it. You're fooling no one, Mr. Grindelwald. You and I both know that that plan is just too simple for a man of your caliber," she flipped through the file, hands shaking in either rage or fear, "You wouldn't bet everything you've worked so hard far on an Obscurial that wasn't guaranteed to live for more than a couple days at most. You're up to something."
She met his eye, cold and unfeeling. It sent shivers down his spine.
"And I intend to stop it."
"Clever, clever witch," Grindelwald hummed, "What makes you think that?"
"You practically threw away your cover when we lost Cre—the Obscurial," she said, "And you surrendered yourself to our custody far too easily. Don't think you've pulled the wool over my eyes, Mr. Grindelwald, there's no way you've given up the fight that easily—"
"No," he leaned forward, leering, "What makes you think you can stop me?"
Tina froze.
What was MACUSA thinking sending her down here?
"As I said before, you're a clever witch, Ms. Goldstein," Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, looking at his nails, "I'm sure you can figure it out. You don't need me to tell you what I intended. Now, where' Richie? I do believe he's supposed to be coming around with lunch sometime soon."
"I'm not finished here."
"Oh, but I am," he tutted, "You have all the answers you seek in that cute little file of yours there. All you need to do is look. Until next time, Ms. Goldstein."
Tina ground her teeth together. She stood up, thanked him for his cooperation, and stormed out.
Moments later, a man arrived carrying a tray of food.
"Finally," Grindelwald sniffed after the noxious scent of hotdogs disappeared, "I can breathe again. I'd be half-tempted to spill all my secrets if she only brushed her teeth after lunch. Blech. So, what do you have for me today, Hugin?"
"A bologna sandwich and milk, sir."
"Always with the bologna," he wrinkled his nose and remained still as Hugin removed his bonds, "Please tell me it has Mustard, at least. It's been a while since we've had any of that."
"Sorry," Hugin rasped, "No Mustard."
"Not even Strawberry Cream on the side?"
"No Strawberry Cream either."
Grindelwald pinched the bridge of his nose. All of Tina's efforts at getting information out of him had been fruitless, and now it seemed, so had his. If the lunchroom didn't get any Mustard or Strawberry Cream soon, then he'd just have to withdraw his request altogether. What a pity.
"Hugin—"
"That isn't to say, though…" he interrupted. His scarred lips pulled into a twisted smile as Hugin focused his gaze—golden in one eye, milky white in the other—onto him. "…that we don't have dessert."
Oh?
"Do tell."
"I bring you a tale from the North," he said, "A tale of Odin—God of All and True Ruler of Asgard—and his crows Hugin and Munin having caught sight of a demonic beast made of twilight and anger plaguing the good folk of Midgard."
Another Obscurus?
Grindelwald leaned forward, "Go on."
"I feel that I must forewarn you, sir, since this is a tale similar to one that I've told before," Hugin seated himself in the chair that Tina had left behind. He swiftly unbuttoned his jacket, denoting all the refinement of a pureblood of wealth and fortitude, and crossed his legs over the other, "For the beast is one that Odin had faced before. A beast once thought lost, defeated."
He steepled his hands together.
"But now travels along the shadow of a Beastmaster, growing in power."
Credence.
Credence was alive. Not only that, he was thriving.
"Interesting," Grindelwald reclined in his seat and tapped his chin, resembling more of a throned king with a crown and scepter in hand than a shackled prisoner, "Tell me more."
Please leave your comments and constructive criticisms below ! All comments, big and small, are welcome here !
I'm also edelweissroses on Ao3 and Tumblr.
(( This went from two chapters, to nine chapters in like... 5 seconds lol. I had a bunch edited laying around and I've just been forgetting to post them here ! But they're here now, and I hope you enjoy ! ! ! ) )
