It's not the first dress.
It's not the first blouse.
It's not the first anything. It's not anything new or unusual or anything years and years haven't worn away most of the edge from.
And yet.
And still.
The glass shatters, the blonde woman screams, the bed flips, the gentle man with too many words pulls out his magic wand to protect himself.
From this. From this rushing, coiling, bursting anguish.
This wild.
Control over the wild slips away, going, gone. It rushes and screams, uncontained.
It's not the dress or the houses, or the bright pearly buttons and the effeminate colors, no. No, it is not always something that makes so much sense as all that.
Instead, it is the feeling of forever.
It is the feeling of a glass cage.
It is the feeling of trapped.
It is that everything has changed: Mary Lou is dead, Chastity gone and Modesty run off, lost in New York, Percival Graves a bad man and the world of Wizards as afraid and hateful as the rest of the whole broken world and the Goldstein sisters and this man taking care of someone no one has taken care of before, not really, and everything has changed.
And still.
Still.
The hairbrush, the clothes, the pretty mirror now shattered on the floor.
Even the knowledge that the wizards will only have to wave their wands to put everything right back together again hurts, aches, breaks, breaks, breaks. The window, the bed, the necklace on the dresser.
They'll all be fixed anyway.
They'll all go right back to how it was, as if frozen in time, unchanging, unchangeable.
No matter what changes, this stays.
The dress, the blouse.
Hairbrush.
Mirror.
A drawer—three drawers—full of a woman's things. Anything you like.
But none of it is liked.
In no words at all, the reminder exists.
In the simplicity of the world and the complication of it, in the dozens of scattered clothes on the floor and the determined, fearful look in Queenie Goldstein's eyes, in the mirror, the reminder exists. Because it does not need to be said. Whoever forgets it in the first place is a fool.
And perhaps there is something else, too, that stays the same. Men are dangerous. Women can be wicked, too, but Tina has afforded care that no one else has without, it seems, asking for anything afterward.
But Mr. Scamander… Mr. Scamander has to want something. Men always want something, always expect something in return. Demand something in return.
What does Mr. Scamander want? Not knowing is the most frightening part. Mr. Scamander is so good at it—at caring, at giving, at seeming real and genuine—so good at pretending.
He will demand something in exchange.
He is reconstructing the box and locking it, spreading out women's clothes, before it's even possible to fit inside it. There is not even a body or a voice formed before it is being confined and corrected, before it is being pressed back into the mold it's always been in.
And so the black magic inside screams, shattering the windows, trying to escape the inescapable.
When all is new, this will stay, a trap, a glass cage.
It is the feeling of forever.
NewtQueenie handles crises admirably.
The first thing they hear is a shriek, but that's to be understood—she couldn't have, in any realm of reality, prepared for this: Credence, crashing through everything like a wrecking ball.
Credence is so clearly upset it makes Newt breathless with the ache in his chest from just seeing the way the Obscurus moves, throwing itself into things and twisting into itself like a desperately sorry House Elf might punish itself.
With Newt in his safe shield spell bubble, Queenie seems to recognize that he's in no real danger.
Perhaps Credence would've been a true danger before, but with her Obscurus at the strength, it is now, the only thing in danger is the furniture, all of which can be repaired.
Queenie's eyes are lit with an indignant sort of curiosity, and Newt half-expects her to burst out with, How in the world…?
But he's underestimated her; he always underestimates the Goldstein sisters. Seeming to recognise there's a better time and place for sorting all of this out, Queenie doesn't spare them a word.
She repairs the windows quickly and then shuts the drapes with a brisk flick of her wand. Despite her clear fear, she moves decisively, casting a quick Silence spell so that the poor neighbors—and the strict Mrs. Espocito—don't suspect there's a wild fight happening within the apartment.
Even though there is. A bit.
They should have told her, Newt finds himself thinking as she goes. She can handle this just fine.
Credence, if anything, gets more upset by these spells, and necessary though they may be, Newt feels guilt weighing cold in his stomach all the same.
"Credence," Newt calls over the sound of Queenie pushing all the objects and furniture to the edges of the room. "I don't know what's wrong, and I'm sorry."
He holds out his hands, palms up, and wand away. He pretends he isn't afraid, because agitation spreads like a disease, and one person's fear is another's. He kneels again.
Credence is slowing.
"I'm sorry. Tina and Queenie are busy, and I don't know the first thing about buying ladies' clothes," he continues. His voice, or his apology, whichever it is, is working, and he can't stop now. He thinks it's about the clothes, but he can't be sure. The only thing he's working off of is Credence's violence towards Tina's drawers, and the clothes that have scattered on the floor. "If you like, we can take a look at mine? I reckon they're rather large, but…."
The Obscurus stills completely, black tendrils frozen in the air as if taken in a stunning photograph. The silence in the absence of destruction is so careful, so delicate.
Credence, slow as anything, swirls, black sand eddying, hissing. And forms a sphere.
Tina's in a state when she returns.
"I let you pick out clothes, and this is what happens," she says, as if she's fuming, but she seems relieved to see them all unharmed, and the room back in order. "Still." She checks them over like a fussy mother. "I don't suppose the letter was absolutely necessary. I was at work."
"Teeny," her sister interjects, taking Tina's arm and pulling her away from checking Newt over a third time. "You and Newt saved New York. They're not going to let you go over a silly letter."
Newt hovers at the door to the guest room, trying to catch Queenie's eye and send her a thank-you look, but when she begins to press Tina for details—what in the world— he quickly ducks out. Poor Tina will have to field all the questions, but he has creatures to feed and an Obscurial to talk to.
He slips into the room, opening the curtains to the afternoon sun after checking to make sure Credence is out of line of sight of his window. Credence is, and much more peaceful than before, taking up her spot once more at the edge of her bed, just barely making an indent in the white covers (Newt's the one who gets pale pink this time).
"How are you feeling?" Newt realizes this is not a yes or no question, and quickly amends, "Are you feeling better?"
Credence gives him a decisive yes.
"Do you… not like Tina's clothes?"
This one takes a moment. Credence wavers, and wavers more, and pushes farther down against the bedspread as if in frustration.
Newt changes the question because of conflicting negatives: yes for she likes them and no for she doesn't like them, but Credence is still indecisive. "Do you like mine better?"
Bingo. Gold strike.
Credence's form jumps into the shape of a sphere so quickly, Newt starts in alarm for a moment before realizing Credence isn't lashing out at anything.
Next comes another round of trial and error.
Too small?
No.
Not your style?
Maybe yes.
Not your colors?
Maybe yes.
"You don't like women's clothes?"
Yes. A definite yes.
"Well." Victorious at last, Newt pats his case. "There's more in here than it looks. I've got to go to dinner, or Tina will be even more cross. Would you like me to be here to help you? If so, we can pick your clothes tomorrow."
Credence forms another clear sphere.
"Alright." Newt knows it's mostly about how Credence, currently incorperal, can't really pick up clothes on her own just yet, but still, it's nice to know someone wants him around for whatever reason they do.
He goes to dinner, and he chops up some meat for the Graphorns and feeds it to them, he bottle-feeds the Marmite and gives the Niffler a coin. He makes sure to find a bag and put in all the clothes he keeps in the case into it—with the help of a couple charms, the contents of his wardrobe fit just fine.
When he gets back up to the top level, it looks like Credence is sleeping—the same no-static, gentle shape from before. Newt places the bag in his Muggle-worthy compartment for easy access tomorrow and slips into bed, watching Credence's Obscurus float, no fizzing, lashing sign of unhappiness in sight.
"Here," Newt says midmorning the next day, after he's eaten breakfast and said goodbye to Tina (off to work) and Queenie (off to see Jacob again) and taken care of all his creatures' needs and helped with the dishes the girls left in the sink. "I've got all of it in my case."
Credence flutters back in what seems to be an anxious manner, tendrils coiling once more. Newt has to swallow back an unhappy lump in his throat—surely he can't be upset with anyone who's been through so much. But someday, someday, he'll prove these guys aren't dangerous.
"Don't worry, it's a different part of the case. Nothing to fear." There is not much to fear from his creatures, either, but one thing at a time.
Newt flicks the Muggle switch on his case and opens it up, sending his clothes out across his bed, neatly folded, and Credence's hissing ceases once more.
"I'm afraid they may be a bit big for you, but no matter. As long as you like them well enough."
Credence forms her hastiest yes yet.
Sitting himself on the edge of the bed, Newt smiles. "Can't say I'd fancy wearing women's clothes myself. I've never understood it. All the complications—I can't imagine trying to get much done in anything fancier than a working girl's shirt, can you?"
He glances at Credence, who's hovering over his shirts (he has quite a surplus of white button-down shirts), and realizes this is yet another of his stupid questions. Of course, Credence has already gotten things done in things fancier than a working girl's shirt, and Credence hasn't formed any real shape at all, as if to let him know this remark isn't worth answering.
But then—no—she's forming, twisting a bit. No. Newt's chest warms.
Newt props his head on his hands and smiles at Credence. "I thank you for tolerating me. Most people find me rather annoying."
Credence wavers uncertainly over the end of the bed, near enough that Newt can hear the quiet trickling of sand again, soft and gentle enough to be pleasant. He's fallen asleep to that sound the past week, and it's become almost a lullaby.
"But please, please. Don't let my talking distract you," Newt hurries to say. "Choose whatever you like."
Credence hangs a moment, absolutely still. Is something wrong? Or is Credence only thinking?
"Would you like me to leave?" Newt offers. "I suppose I'm annoying you as well."
Credence pulls in tight, twisting and fizzing again, fast and emphatic. No.
"Well." Something warm blooms in Newt's chest. "Well then."
By hovering and nudging, and, on occasion, becoming semi-solid to pick an item or two up, Credence selects a few pairs of trousers and a couple of shirts. Even a black button-down vest and, after much wavering and much assurance from Newt that it is most perfectly fine for her to choose it, if she wants it, a warm, black woolen coat.
And a tie.
Maybe Credence is a woman who dresses the way men usually do, as a fashion statement or whatnot—who simply have a more traditionally male style.
But maybe not.
It bears asking, doesn't it?
He watches Credence flutter over the tie, hesitant and afraid. They want it, he thinks. He flatters himself that he's been getting the hang of reading Credence's movements a bit more, and he's so sure Credence wants that tie.
And he's so sure Credence is afraid of reaching for it, too. The Obscurus is folding in on itself, tendrils curling once more, coiling.
"Credence…"
He isn't sure how to put it delicately, but he also thinks that if he says this wrong, Credence will react in fear first, and then they'll have yet another wrecked room on their hands—and no wonder. Muggles are so stupid about this sort of thing, and certainly their churches are the worst of them all.
"Credence, I'm not going to hurt you." He slides off the bed. It feels as if half the time he spends in Credence's presence, he spends kneeling. He puts his hands on the bed by Credence, not too close to the tie, not so far he seems to be cowering. "I'm not going to hurt you. Will you calm down for me?"
Credence flutters away from the tie, moving like the quick pounding of a heart: jerky, frantic, in jolts.
Newt waits.
Everyone, every creature, calms if they're given a peaceful enough environment and a little time.
Credence settles safely over a white shirt, away from the black tie.
Newt breathes in, steady, out, steady. "Do you want the tie?"
Credence jerks, as if shocked by the question, hurt. As if expecting to be hurt. Flinching. The Obscurial is flinching.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Newt repeats. "If you want it, you can have it. I want you to have it." He thinks for a moment that this is too much.
But slowly, Credence forms a wobbly circle, and then rounds out—a sphere.
Newt picks up the tie and sets it with the rest of the clothes Credence has chosen.
Alright.
"No harm done!" he chirps.
Credence flutters, elongating, thinning into the shape of a scarf. Newt holds his breath as the Obscurus, shivering and grating sand-paper sounds in his ears, settles around his shoulders, almost as if Credence is nuzzling Newt.
Or saying thank you.
Newt reminds himself to breathe, in and out, in and out, and to not go so rigidly still as if to send the impression of fear. Gently, he relaxes. He puts his hands in his lap.
He opens the wardrobe and traces the air with his wand, watching the clothes follow the path of his magic and hang themselves up nicely in Credence's side, which is empty. Newt's is, too, actually. He changes his movements and gives Credence the full space of the wardrobe.
Newt hasn't unpacked—it seems such a waste of time when he's got a perfectly fine set-up in his case and he moves around so much. He realizes now he may be staying here for longer than he's stayed anywhere in a long time, unless he wants to leave Credence in the Goldstien girls' care. They'd be wonderful caregivers, he knows—he's experienced that firsthand—but he wouldn't be one of them.
"There." He steps back, still unsure how Obscurials see, both wardrobe doors open, showing Credence the line of clothes. "All yours."
Credence almost seems to nuzzle Newt, and Newt can't help a smile.
They stand there for a moment, quiet.
It's the first time their quiet has felt really pleasant, easy, not the sort of awkward pauses of conversation Newt always finds himself in.
So of course he has to go and shatter it.
"I have a question for you, which you do not have to answer, but if you do want to answer, you should know that I will not hurt you. I promise you this, Credence. I won't hurt you, alright? And I know you've heard that before, but I mean it. And Tina and Queenie won't hurt you either. I don't want you to be afraid."
There's a beat of silence in which Newt swallows and thinks: how to ask it? and Credence unloops slowly from Newt's neck until Newt can see all of Credence's undulating shape in front of the white-and-gold wallpaper. He thinks if you framed this, just here, you'd capture a portrait of what apprehension feels like.
"And," he adds quickly, "If you don't want to answer, you can… how about you…" He bites his lip. "Can you expand for me?"
Credence does, obediently, so that the specks of black are spaced far and it looks almost as if the wallpaper is speckled.
"I can't help remembering how upset you were when we went through Tina's things. And you just seemed so… " Newt looks at the wardrobe. He can't physically meet Credence's eye, but turning away from eye contact is a habit hard to break. "So… unhappy."
Credence deflates as Newt speaks and after this bit, nudges Newt's shoulder a bit hard. The message is clearly impatient.
Newt has stalled this long enough. Newt forces himself to look back at Credence and remembers to present his empty hands.
"Are you a man?"
There is utter, utter stillness.
Horses and carriages clatter outside, and late afternoon New York putters on, but it only makes the space and silence between Credence and Newt louder.
There is the clinking of dishes—Queenie must be making dinner.
There is the scratch of a quill—Tina must be doing some take-home paperwork she snatched before hurrying here.
There is the gentle flutter of the curtains—a cold, nipping December wind is starting up outside, chilling the room, telling Newt perhaps he should close that window before it makes the whole apartment cold.
But Credence is absolutely still.
Credence is absolutely silent.
Newt lowers his hands carefully, slowly, so that Credence may see he is not moving to attack. "If you don't want to answer," he says quietly, "Expand."
But Credence doesn't move.
Newt swallows. He's never been good at this—as far as he's concerned, everyone can be whoever they are and it doesn't matter to him, not unless they're hurting someone else. A man is a man if they feel they are a man, and a woman is a woman if they feel they are a woman, and if they feel neither or in between or both, then they are. Now he wishes he'd paid more attention to it all.
"I… I mean by your heart." Heart is not the right word. "By your—" He breaks off before he says soul; the things Credence must've learned in that horrid Muggle Church could only have been bad things pertaining to souls and whatnot. "Your body doesn't matter," he tries again, murmuring. "Do you feel like a man?"
There.
A flicker of movement.
Newt, still slow as anything, reaches for his wand. Slow, so slow. He hardly breathes.
Credence, he thinks, may be a man. And if he does this wrong, he could break Credence's trust forever, he could make Credence forever afraid of being themself…
And if he does this right, he can help Credence out of the torrent of hate they must have been dealt all their life, he can break the cycle—and Merlin, he wants to help more than anything in the world.
He wants to cry for how much he hopes he can get this right.
Credence seems to be almost forming a sphere, but it's so evident how afraid they (he?) are.
Carefully, he holds out his wand, both hands, and watches Credence form a solid black hand shape, the shadow of a limb behind it, reaching for it.
Everything happens so slowly.
Credence's fingers close around his wand, and a gentle ripple seems to pass through the Obscurus, solidifying the arm that the hand reaches from, and then cascading down.
Newt only meant to give Credence his wand as a gesture of peace and of trust. He can tell from the way Credence moves, and the way Credence freezes when the ripple passes through the Obscurus, turning the flickering spread of particles into a human figure, that Credence only meant to take the wand.
Neither of them expected this.
There's a tugging in Newt's stomach and a rushing, warm tingle running through his body, surging towards his hands—the same feeling wandless magic gives him, but much, much stronger.
Credence's body colors in, as if the color drifts into the shape of Credence as the last of the black sucks in, and he realises their magic has linked—presence swells at his fingertips, murky and unstable, the sheer power of which astounds him. It is like a sea that he could drown in, waves forceful enough to tear him apart, so large he cannot even guess how far he could fall before he hit the bottom.
The fingers are the first to fully form, brushing just a bit cold against Newt's palms where their skin touches over the wand, firm and flesh-like, human to the last.
They stand there a moment, looking at each other. It feels like all the air has left the room, and time with it, Credence's hair flying up just a bit as if the breeze comes not from the window, but from the magic they're sharing. Neither of them are breathing, but neither of them, Newt thinks, is afraid.
They are simply standing in a moment in time, Credence's human form solid from head to toe.
Credence blinks, slow.
Newt lets his breath go gently.
Credence's hair ruffles, chopped short and jagged. The afternoon sun through the fluttering drapes catch on the edge of Credence's jaw and paints Credence pale as snow, but miss Credence's eyes so that Newt sees them as dark pools of black—better, he finds himself thinking, than Credence's all-white eyes when the Obscurus gains control.
Credence is thin enough to be worrying….
And Credence is naked.
It takes Newt a moment because he's so intent on Credence's face—on Credence's human presence—but once he notices, the moment is broken.
Credence sees Newt notice, and Credence looks down and—
The hand disappears, Credence's form dissolves, and in the flash of a moment, a lashing Obscurial is hurtling out of the doorway of the guest room.
Newt hears plates shatter in the living room.
He closes his hand around his wand, the thrilling rush of their magical connection broken, the wild, overwhelming sea of magic he could feel in Credence no longer churning at the brush of skin.
The sounds of the city fade back into focus. Shouts, clatters, the whinnying of horses. The breeze flutters in, cold. He should have closed the window to the December wind—now the room has lost all warmth.
He doesn't close the window, though.
He listens to Queenie gasp and Tina shout, and the breaking of glass, and he closes his eyes.
Newt goes into his case and he stays there for a while. He's not even sure why he feels like this.
Only—only.
Only that somehow, through yes and no and the way Credence moves only, he's come to care quite a bit for the person.
And Credence has been through so much. Merlin, so much. And to think—granted, he doesn't know whether Credence is a man or a woman or neither or both, but he thinks, from today, that Credence doesn't care for their female body and to think of the things they must have suffered at the hands of the church….
Newt finds a Diricawl cawing and nuzzling at him and—oh, he's crying. He hadn't even felt it until he noticed the droplets sliding down the Diricawl's feathers, but here they are.
He's only crying a little bit.
It certainly doesn't warrant the crowd that has formed around him, really. Really.
It's just—oh bugger.
Credence.
He wonders if Credence has been able to be themself… ever.
Newt spends a while staring at the Obscurus in the bubble he keeps. Nothing really comes of watching it swirl in on itself—nothing ever really comes of it, but he thinks of the little girl, brown eyes wide and wet, her whole body leeching black tendrils into the air. His gut twists, black and cold, and he watches it.
This won't happen to Credence, he hopes. Credence is stronger and more capable, more powerful than any Obscurus in history.
But if anyone can mess it up, it's Newt.
And still… he can't bring himself to leave the Goldstein's and move off back to England, now that Frank's gone—he does know far more about Obscurials than most, and if nothing else, he knows what not to do.
The Obscurus hisses and curls.
Her soul isn't attached to it, of course. It isn't like a ghost.
Still, Newt can't bring himself to consider how he might go about getting rid of the Obscurus, so he doesn't have it floating around in his ice enclosure for forever. It's just…. It serves as a reminder. He hates being reminded of that little girl and how he failed to save her, but he ought to be reminded of it.
He deserves to be. She deserves to be remembered.
He watches the Obscurus float a little, expanding and contracting infinitesimally. As if somehow he could learn something from the way it moves after she's gone.
The Nundu roars, distantly.
Newt's late.
He pulls himself together, takes care of everything that needs to be taken care of, and heads back up above.
Whatever he does and doesn't know about Obscurials, he's calmed Credence down before. He can do it again.
Queenie pulls him aside as soon as he's up, her expression urgent.
Newt can hear Tina running about the room, calling to Credence and casting mending spells left and right. Through the doorway, he can see items flying about, flashes of color and then flashes of black, a much bigger mass than before. Something about sharing magic for that moment must have helped Credence grow back faster.
"Don't worry, silencing spells are up, no one can hear," Queenie assures Newt, her voice breathless and quick. "I need to know what happened. What happened in here?"
Newt fumbles for the doorway, nearly tripping over his own limbs. "Is she chasing him about the room? She's doing it all wrong."
Tina wouldn't, Tina knows better than that, doesn't she? But he's noticed everyone reacts differently when it's their house in peril.
Queenie's brow wrinkles. "Him? Do you mean Credence?"
Oh.
Oh, bugger.
Oh, bugger everything to hell.
Two hours with a secret and with the first person he sees, it comes out—and he's not even sure what the secret is. He's not even sure if he is right.
Oh, Merlin.
"Queenie," he manages to say, "Queenie, please."
Something wooden thuds heavily to the floor. A quick spell sounds after it, and then the gentler thud of the furniture falling back into place.
"Mr. Scamander." Queenie shakes her head. "We need to get Credence to calm down, and so we need to know why sh—why Credence is upset. I'm trying not to read your thoughts, but you're so upset."
Credence hurtles past the frame of vision Newt has through the doorway, battering a cabinet open.
"Queenie—please let us do this later."
"And I felt something—I can't read Credence's thoughts, but I thought I heard something from this room, and it wasn't in your accent." Queenie, though she's still talking, steps aside to let Newt through.
"We can't help Credence if we don't know what's wrong," she laments.
Yes and no, Newt thinks.
It's neither that complicated nor that simple—they can help without knowing what's wrong at all, as long as they know what's needed. As long as they listen, they don't need to know why until Credence is ready to tell them.
Plenty of his creatures have been just the same, and Newt is. Newt is terrible with people, but he thinks the properties rather carry, from what he's seen of the human race. Needs express themselves far before trust ever does, and that's something so many people have a hard time grasping.
But to give support, of course, is easier said than done, and that's the complicated part.
"Then let me help Credence, and we'll see if Credence can tell us."
Queenie smiles a brave sort of smile—Credence is deadlier now, powerful enough to destroy the apartment building if they Queenie or Tina or Newt make a wrong move.
He steps into the room and takes it in. He sees that the cabinet doors are thrown wide open, broken glasses and plates on the shelves, shattered tea-cup shards on the floor, the faucet spraying water over the counter. He sees that the lightbulbs on more than a couple of the lamps are blown, evening sunlight catching on the glass edges, and that the curtain rod has come down.
Credence has blown the door to Tina and Queenie's room off its hinges and scattered the clothes again. Sometimes, Newt has noticed, Credence is in control of the Obscurus. Other times, it is the other way around.
And what drives Credence's Obscurus is Credence's pain.
So when he steps in, he doesn't see the destruction of an apartment, although Tina certainly does—this is her home and he doesn't blame her. Nor does he see what Queenie sees—a problem to solve and a mind to decode and a person to unpuzzle in order to have everyone safely understood again.
No, he sees the destruction of Credence.
The mirror is shattered on the floor again. The glass always seems the first to go, right along with the dresses and blouses and the vanity of make-up and jewelry, a hairbrush knocked to the floor.
Credence rushes through the doorway of Queenie and Tina's rooms and upends the dining table, sand-sounds so loud they sound like a scream—
But then they seem to notice Newt, and they slow, just a bit.
Infinitesimally.
The world goes breathless yet again—
And then Credence is rattling the cabinets, sending remaining dishes to the floor, and Queenie is refreshing the Silencing Spell and Tina is running with her wand raised—
"Tina," Newt shouts, "Tina, stop."
"I love those plates," Tina shoots back. She's admirably stubborn until it's no longer so admirable.
"You can repair them later," Newt insists. "Come on, you're an Auror, aren't you? Auror."
"The Aurors—" she says, but stops. Neither of them need reminding how the Aurors dealt with an outburst from Credence, and Credence needs it even less.
"If you act frantic, it only amplifies the general distress." Newt steps further into the room, and Credence stops, slows, swerves to avoid him. "You can't be frantic, and for Merlin's sake, don't go waving your wand about."
Credence is only whirling and twisting now, no longer slamming into things, but the pain is still etched into every movement the Obscurus makes, and Newt can feel the agitation radiating off of Credence as if it is a tangible thing.
"Credence," he begins.
He kneels.
He spreads his hands.
When Credence is calmer, hovering right in front of Newt, Newt asks a few questions, feeling as if he is giving an alcohol test.
"Can you give me a yes, Credence? Good. Can you give me a no? Good."
The requests seem to give Credence a well-needed dose of peace, and the sand noises die down to a thick trickle.
Newt resists the urge to reach out and touch Credence. His brain still can't quite grasp that an Obscurus is not something you can check over for wounds, and the persistent reminder in his mind to look Credence over for blood won't go away.
"Are you alright?"
A wavering yes.
"Do you want to talk about it? Or should I leave it alone?"
Tina makes a noise behind Credence, surveying the mess that the apartment is in. "I don't think leaving it alone is an option for us, Mr. Scamander."
"Tina, please." Newt watches Credence waver, too focused to pay Tina much mind. "Would you rather talk in private?"
Credence pulls in tight. A sphere.
Tina groans, throwing her hands up. "I suppose that's a yes?"
Newt smiles. "That's a yes." He focuses on Credence once more. "If you tell me what's wrong, I can help you. Do you want to change back?"
There's a long moment. Tina knows to stay quiet.
Newt stays kneeling. "You don't have to. Tomorrow, perhaps?"
Credence forms a sphere.
He stands, and he opens the door to the guest room, which Credence miraculously didn't break down. Or perhaps it wasn't a chance miracle at all.
Credence, hovering for a moment among the broken pieces of glass, follows him in.
"I'll help you fix the apartment in a bit," Newt promises to Queenie and Tina, who are watching him with a touch of hurt, and notable incredulity. "But you don't mind if I take a word with Credence, do you?"
Queenie smiles, another brave smile. "Not at all."
Tina waves him on, sighing. "Please, go ahead." She sighs, surveying the room wearily. "I've been looking for a chance to redecorate."
Newt laughs.
They don't talk in the guest room, though.
Credence is in a scarf shape by the time Newt ducks back in, and Credence loops about his shoulders again, shaky and hesitant. Almost apologetic.
They sit like that until Tina calls dinner.