A/N:

Hello again!

Thank you for the great feedback you've been giving me thus far; I love you all.
Chapter 2 is inspired by 'Genghis Khan' by Miike Snow.

Hot cocoa and hugs all around,
Wil.

Part II

I know there's no form,

And no labels to put on,

To this thing we keep,

And dip into when we need.

And I don't have the right,

To ask where you go at night.

But the waves hit my head,

To think someone's in your bed.

Genghis Khan – Miike Snow

He had begun to teach the boy magic.

After everything that had happened because of his own carelessness, it was the very least Percival could do.

The man who wore his face had told Credence that he was weak. That he could never be taught.

(Queenie had refused to disclose anything more to him, and he understood. Still, when he thought about how much damage Grindelwald had inflicted, he couldn't help but seethe with rage.)

He'd been wrong—obviously.

Graves's only doubt was whether he was skilled enough to teach someone with so much potential, and so much raw power.

The best he could do was try.

At the very least, it would keep him distracted from his own demons for a while.

Credence would come up every other afternoon, sometimes escorted by Tina, sometimes by the young Scamander. When it was the latter, Graves always seemed to grow a little more tense. That day was no exception.

It wasn't that he didn't feel fondness for Newt—he did.

But there was something in the wizard's quick eyes and prudent demeanour that sometimes made Percival feel like he was, yet again, the enemy.

It was as though he were a cornered beast, guilty of some terrible, unspoken crime that everybody but him had witnessed, and refused to speak of.

(Some days, he almost wished he would remember.)

Both men greeted Graves politely, and the Auror was pleased to note Credence's tone sounded a little more assured than usual.

Newt gave the younger man's shoulders a squeeze before letting him go. Graves watched them silently; something in his stomach twisted. He ignored it.

Perhaps his unease with Mr Scamander had something to do with the way Credence would cling to his arm – or to his sleeve – without the slightest trace of hesitation or fear. He didn't want to think about that just yet.

Besides, he couldn't blame the boy.

To Credence, his face would forever be that of a tormentor, of a man he had trusted with everything—and who had done nothing for him in return but keep him in the clutch of an abusive family, for months on end.

Yet some days, Percival caught himself wishing Credence would, just once, look at him without dread in his eyes.

'How's my wrist?' the young man asked under his breath moments later, as he practiced his shield charms diligently.

The Auror knew the spell was a touch too advanced for a wizard with so little experience—but after what the boy had gone through recently, he would take no chances.

'Much better than last time,' Graves replied gruffly. 'But your posture's not good,' he added, stepping towards Credence. 'Your legs are too close together—it compromises your balance.'

To prove his point, he gave the young man's back a gentle push, sending him stumbling to the side.

'See?'

'Yes,' Credence replied after a bit. He resumed the position, widening his stance slightly.

'Good,' Graves commented. 'Now, try again.'

'Protego!'

A thin wisp of colourless smoke flew out of Credence's wand and swirled between the two men for a moment, before dissolving into thin air. The young man was so surprised he let the wand slip from his fingers, and clatter upon the floor.

'Excellent, Credence!' the Auror exclaimed before he could think better of it.

Admittedly, it wasn't quite the blast of energy the spell should normally have created, but the young man's progress kept on exceeding his expectations in every possible way.

Credence turned to Graves, the ghost of a smile grazing his lips for the first time in weeks.

'How was that?'

'Much better,' Percival replied, reaching Credence in a few strides. 'You must have felt it yourself.'

'I think—maybe?'

'Good. Now all you require is regular practice,' he added encouragingly. His left hand was ghosting over the boy's shoulder, not quite daring to touch it.

Credence straightened his neck to look at him, silent yet unmistakably expectant. When their eyes met, the thing within Graves's stomach began twisting again, like a heavy serpent coiling slowly around his gut.

Swirling within Credence's dark eyes, laced with pent-up grief and caged anger, Graves saw want— raw, fleeting, unabashed.

For a moment, he could read the boy's every feature clearly; he saw every open wound and every whitening scar, every undisclosed craving and every unspoken word.

Above all, the need for something. For someone.

And that someone wasn't him. That much was clear.

These feelings had been ignited by the man who wore his face, and it was him Credence sought now; it was his face he hoped to rekindle through Percival's traits.

Credence kept on looking right through him.

'Let's try again, one more time,' Graves eventually requested, forcing himself to keep the noxious thoughts at bay. He moved to stand behind Credence. 'Improving your stance will make the spell more efficient. Pretend you're wielding a shield— it helps.'

Realising the boy had begun hunching again, Percival reached out, gently attempting to pull Credence's shoulders outward.

'Don't be afraid to stand tall,' he continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

Credence remained silent, leaning back into Graves's embrace almost imperceptibly.

'You deserve to be seen.'

With his neck outstretched, the boy was just a touch taller than Graves. He'd taken a step backwards, his shoulders almost brushing against Percival's chest.

The Auror's hands fell to his elbows, pulling him in slowly. If Credence wanted to be held, who was he to deny him?

So what if it weren't his touch, his embrace the young man was truly seeking? He could pretend, just for a moment. He would, for Credence's sake—how he felt didn't matter.

(He wondered if people would ever notice the difference. They hadn't, before.)

His fondness for the boy would just have to be another thing Grindelwald had wrested away from him. Another fleeting speck of contentment; twisted, vitiated— gone.

He would have to bear it.

But he would allow himself to be soothed by Credence's half-embrace for a moment longer.

The session was over, but Percival had decided to wait for Newt's arrival before disapparating.

He was observing, a little awestricken, the meticulous care with which Credence proceeded to pocket his wand back, when the young man suddenly broke the silence.

'Mr Graves—'

Credence had spoken under his breath, in a tone Percival dared not decipher.

'Thank you. For being nothing like him.'

At these words, the vice in Graves's chest finally loosened its grip.

A/N:

Thank you so much for reading!
Chapter 3 will be up shortly - it will be based on 'Heathens' by 21 Pilots.

Squishes,
Wil.