Disentangling himself from Credence was a difficult endeavor. The boy would likely sleep for hours, was probably sleeping more deeply than he had in months, if not years. Slipping out from under him and arranging him more comfortably on the couch without disturbing him would be a trivial thing.

Less trivial for Graves was convincing himself that he wanted to. That staying on the sofa (basking in the gentle hum of Credence's living spark, the slow thudding of his heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his chest) was not a viable option. It would so easy to stay. So dangerous. By the time he'd finally convinced himself to move, finally slipped off the sofa and draped a blanket across Credence, sunrise loomed close.

He'd taken to avoiding his study (avoiding the stacks of case files to which Grindelwald had signed his name), but he retreated there now. Before—Lord and Lady take him, he would not give any more of his thoughts to that man—in less harrowing times, the high shelves and the aroma of ancient papers provided comfort and grounding when he needed it. Perhaps, now, in this time of need, he could find that again.

No candles or magelights burned in the room, nor was the moonlight strong enough to seep between the slats of the shutters. There was no sense to illuminating anything that Credence was not using, and less sense conjuring light when he knew the topology of the room so well, even without his heightened senses.

He stalked the perimeter, trailed his hand along the books shelved at waist-height. The residual effects of the obscurial blood turned the leather bindings beneath his fingertips into something sumptuous. He'd completed three circuits doing nothing but focusing on just that sensation when he felt the sun crest the horizon.

The shock of it snapped him out of his daze. Once the sun had risen, Credence typically followed not long after. Graves shook his head to clear it. Slipped out of his study. Closed the door behind himself.

Before his thoughts could catch up with him, he started the motions of making breakfast. Like clockwork, he heard the sounds of Credence rising as he finished plating the bacon, eggs, and toast.

"Good morning, Mister Graves," Credence greeted from the doorway to the dining room. His voice was heavy with the dregs of sleep. He'd washed and put on clean clothing, but he held himself with the languidness of one still not quite awake.

"Good morning, Credence. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes. I mean. Well." Color rose to Credence's face, but to his credit, he did not cast his gaze at the floor. "I think that maybe I would feel better if—if next time, I slept in a bed."

The comment caught Graves so off-guard that he would have spluttered if he'd been a lesser man. He settled for raising a single eyebrow. "I will take that under advisement. You feel well otherwise?"

Credence slid into the chair opposite the place Graves had set for him. He bowed his head over the meal, lips tracing the outline of a prayer, before he nodded. "Just a little tired. But good." He picked up his fork. "I know you don't sleep, but…" He stopped. Started again. "Are you well?"

Credence's words from the previous night echoed in Graves's head: Don't lie to me. Not after that. Graves picked his words carefully and rolled them around on his tongue before settling on them. "It's nothing for you to worry about, my boy. It seems that your… unique condition makes your blood a bit richer than I expected." Plausible, reasonable, and not untrue.

"Is that… bad?" Credence asked between mouthfuls of eggs.

Graves felt the sharp jab of apprehension so keenly that it took a moment to realize that it belonged to Credence. Lord and Lady. Had he really fed so deeply that he still had a connection with the boy? Or was this another function of feeding from an obscurial?

He pulled out the chair nearest Credence and sat down. "No, not at all. Just… Different."

Credence nodded, curiosity appeased. He tucked in the rest of his breakfast without further conversation, but he radiated a deep satisfaction that threatened drown him. Gods.

Before—before, Graves had spent alternating mornings in his office in the Woolworth building, but that habit had died once he'd agreed to host Credence in his home. Instead, he spent his mornings tutoring Credence in the basics of spellwork.

Enlisting the assistance of Tina and the two house elves who'd tended Credence while he'd been in Picquery's care, Graves had converted one of his spare bedrooms into a heavily-warded workspace. They'd transfigured most of the furniture (save for a couple of chairs and the heavy wardrobe) into various items Graves and Tina recalled training with during their time at Ilvermorny. Most of the items were benign: plain dishware, soft pillows, a stack of feathers. However, Tina had also transfigured a floppy manakin with a sloppy face scrawled on the blank head. This, she had explained, was named Hugo, and he would be Credence's partner when it came time for dueling practice.

(Once Tina left, Graves stuffed Hugo into the cupboard, never to be seen again if he had his way.)

"Do you recall where we left off yesterday?" Graves asked over his shoulder as they climbed the stairs.

"Self-defense," Credence responded without hesitation. "And shielding charms."

Graves opened the door to the workspace, letting Credence enter first. The windows on the far side of the room had long been covered with thick fabric and their shutters latched closed, so the room fell into complete darkness once Graves closed the door behind them.

He tapped Credence's elbow to get his attention, then pressed the handle of his wand into Credence's waiting fingers. The boy's spark felt subdued where their hands brushed against each other. Hesitant. Credence glanced up in the direction of Graves's face, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought. Graves let his hand drop back to his side. "If you would, my boy?"

Credence blinked as if startled, then nodded. He rolled Graves's wand between his fingers, feeling out how to hold it without being able to see what he was doing. (Graves remembered how badly the idea of someone else holding his wand had chafed at first, but now he couldn't deny the satisfaction he derived from seeing it in Credence's elegant fingers.) He cleared his throat and raised Graves's wand just as he'd been shown. "Lumos maxima."

The word still didn't sit well on his tongue, but practice would fix that. His magic and the wand didn't care about that. Light bloomed at the tip of it, then zipped forward and split into three separate orbs that finally came to rest in the wall sconces.

Now that he could see, Credence adjusted where he directed his gaze so that he could properly meet Graves's eyes. His expression was so soft, one corner of his mouth turned up in a shy half-smile. Graves realized after several moments of staring, that he'd meant to speak.

"Well done, Credence," he managed around the sudden lump in his throat. "Your pronunciation is much better. Now, show me what you remember of the proper stance for casting a shielding charm."

The smile fell away, subsumed by a look of concentration as Credence arranged his limbs in a wide-legged stance that angled most of his body-mass away from Graves. He shifted his grip on the handle of Graves's wand and held it in a stiff-wristed grip in front of him. Once he'd gotten as close as he could recall, he tilted his head back in Graves's direction. Looking for some indication of how well he'd done, perhaps.

"Not bad, not bad." Graves circled Credence, slipping into the voice he used with every new class of junior aurors. "You've got a good handle on the basics of it, but your posture isn't quite right. Here." With a light touch, Graves tipped Credence's chin up, then squared the boy's shoulders. The boy's pulse stuttered for a moment before he took a deep breath and steadied himself. "All right?"

"Yes, Mister Graves." His voice did not quaver, but his heartbeat still fluttered.

Graves stood behind Credence and placed a hand on the wrist of his wand hand. "The trick is to keep your stance, your foundation, solid. But then you have to allow for fluidity as you work." He moved Credence's wrist, rolling it until the boy caught on and let it rest loose in Graves's grasp. "Perfect." Graves stepped away. "See, it's already changed how you hold your wand. Good wand discipline involves letting yourself be flexible."

Credence took another deep breath nodded. Something that Graves couldn't quite read flitted across his face but was gone as quickly as it came. "I understand."

"Good. Now, shield yourself just as I showed you."

It took a while for Credence to reliably form a shield that didn't gutter out after a few seconds, but Graves could hardly blame him. The basis of a shield charm involved conceptualizing safety. Something that he was sure Credence was only passingly familiar with, and even then only after being torn apart by magic and then given into the care of a vampire who shared a face with someone who'd used him.

That he'd even gotten this far was miraculous (though Graves knew better than to give voice to that thought in Credence's presence).

They took a break for lunch when Credence's wand arm drooped too often to not be exhaustion. Graves stepped through preparing food (oh, how easy it had been to convince himself he didn't miss it when he hadn't needed to cook), and Credence ate it with more gusto than breakfast while Graves sat across from him.

At length, he finally spoke. "You're doing very well. I know some junior aurors whose technique is not so neat as yours."

Color flooded Credence's face and he ducked his head to hide it. Graves thought he caught a glimpse of that almost-smile again. "Well," he mumbled at the plate in front of him. "Their teacher must not be as good as mine."

Despite himself, Graves laughed. The sound deepened the boy's flush, made him study his plate more intensely. "You flatter me, Credence." Graves laid a hand on Credence's shoulder. His living spark fairly hummed against his palm, even through his clothing. "There are plenty of wizards better at instruction than I am. You're just an exceptional student."

"Oh. Um. Well." Credence made a nervous sound somewhat akin to laughter. He tore his gaze from the remains of his lunch and turned to face Graves. His cheeks were still flushed, and it was clear from his rabbit-fast pulse that he was nowhere near composed. Finally, he added, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, my boy," Graves responded, off-hand. Automatic. "You're always welcome."

An expression bloomed on Credence's face, the likes of which Graves had not yet seen, not truly. It began around his dark, dark eyes, then worked its way down to the corners of his mouth until he was favoring Graves with a tentative but genuine smile. "Thank you," he repeated. The words hung in the air, heavier, with deeper meaning.

Meeting Credence's eyes, all Graves could think was, Oh.

Things changed, though Graves wasn't quite certain if that moment had been the catalyst or if it was just the first shift. In most ways, it was subtle; Graves might have missed it if he hadn't been devoting so much attention to Credence and his needs. If he hadn't been a vampire. Other ways were less so.

He'd always had a tendency to bend toward touch like a moth drawn to a flame or a plant to sunlight, but it had been so rare for Credence to be the one to reach out. His limbs, outside of wand practice, tended to be folded close to his body, as if he were afraid to inhabit any amount of space. If he needed to graze past Graves, he would make himself small, would hug the wall, would shrink back. Now he shied away less. Let his elbow brush Graves's. Let his fingertips linger when he passed Graves a book or a pen or his wand. The jolt of his spark was unmistakable and heady, something Graves couldn't ignore even if he hadn't noticed the fleeting contact. (But, oh, he noticed; there was no way he could not.)

When Graves touched him—to adjust his posture during spellwork, to reassure when his anxiety was harsh enough to taste, to praise him for a task well-done (and sometimes just for Graves's own benefit)—Credence leaned in a little bit harder, more. Stepping in to help Credence with his stance became an invitation (or perhaps had always been an invitation, which was only now being accepted) to move closer, to press his back against Graves's chest while he arranged Credence's shoulders or arms or head as Graves saw fit. A hand on Credence's shoulder might become an arm slung over him as Credence turned into it, slithered under it, made a space for himself there.

Days turned into nights. Credence slept so soundly that Graves only felt a tiny pang of guilt when he apparated to the Woolworth building and collected a polite stack of papers from the night-shift auror on duty. He took it home to sort through while he kept a keen ear out for signs of distress from the spare room. There were startlingly few.

Nights turned into days. Graves avoided his study, avoided the files there, avoided the owl that delivered his copies of the New York Ghost. Mornings were for spellwork, afternoons were for equal parts study and leisure. Credence did not exactly come alive; he was still a reserved young man, still not quite comfortable using his own voice. But he shucked layers of hesitancy in the days that followed, stood a little straighter, stared at his shoes or his hands or the carpet while he spoke a little less often.

Though Graves could not fathom what had sparked the change, he found himself grateful all the same.

Credence had inhaled half of his meal before setting his silverware aside and glancing up in his direction. "Mister Graves. May I ask you something?"

Graves set aside the case report Mallory had handed him the night before. It was a trifling matter (a handful of break-ins around lower Manhattan with no items stolen, though every residence had at least a handful of dishes broken; either someone had drummed up a poltergeist, or someone was pretending they were one). He gave Credence his full attention. "I dare say you already have."

Credence's cheeks grew pink at the teasing, which drew a chuckle from Graves. He held his hands up in a gesture of contrition. "You're welcome to ask whatever you like. Please, by all means."

"Ah. Well." Credence's gaze dropped to his hands, folded neatly in front of his plate. "Mister Graves, I know that you need… certain things. To eat, I mean. But you never talk about it. When you need to do it. Or who's. Who's helping you."

Oh, he thought, but he said nothing.

"If it's not too forward, I…" Credence raised his eyes, a hopeful expression scrawled across his face. Graves felt something dark curl in the pit of his stomach. He was not certain he cared for the sensation. "I don't mind. Really."

Oh. This was not where Graves wanted the conversation to be going, but he couldn't find the words or the will to steer it off this course. The look of bald wanting in Credence's eyes turned Graves's tongue to lead in his mouth.

Credence unfolded his hands, stretched his arm toward Graves, and rested his fingertips on the back of Graves's wrist where the cuff of his shirt had ridden up just a little. Even this small contact was enough to make that dark thing in his gut twist, and he could recognize it for what it was: hunger. Lord and Lady help him, he couldn't deny how badly he wanted.

Unbidden, he remembered how it had felt to sink his fangs into Credence's neck, how thick and heavy and intoxicating his blood had been. How much he had enjoyed holding him close while he'd been boneless and hovering at the edge of euphoria. Graves swallowed. Without realizing it, he'd placed his other hand over Credence's, effectively trapping his elegant fingers. Credence had shifted closer, leaning toward him like a flower leans toward the sun. Gods.

"My boy…" Graves trailed off, unsure what to even say. His words felt like ash in his throat and the heat of Credence's skin under his palm only served to remind him of his thirst. "My boy, I…"

He what? Couldn't? Wouldn't? He already had. Every objection that Graves could think of, he'd dismissed a little more than a week before. And that time, he'd had no idea what it would be like to have Credence in his arms.

The silence stretched, filled only with Credence's fluttering pulse and his deep, even breaths as he fought to keep his composure. His longing was so plain that Graves could almost taste it in the air, and it made his insides twist. How had he let this happen? A moment of weakness, and now he had this boy (his boy) practically begging for Graves to take advantage of him again.

His stomach lurched, not with hunger but with guilt.

"Mister Graves." His name sounded almost reverent like this as it sliced through the silence. Credence had stood and taken the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. He'd made no motion to take his hand back. His other hand was already at his throat, already unbuttoning his collar. This time his fingers did not shake, and Graves could not tear his eyes away from them.

Graves swallowed. "Credence, please." He could have been asking for a million different things: please stop; please come closer; please let me hold you; please don't do this; please. So many words, so many conflicting desires, all tangled in a hard lump in his throat.

Credence nodded as if he understood (how could he when Graves didn't even understand himself). He slipped his hand free of Graves's hold, and Graves thought, Good, he's come to his senses. But instead of turning around, of leaving the room, of doing anything sensible, Credence leaned forward to rest his forehead on Graves's shoulder.

"Credence," he whispered, and it was a warning.

"It's all right," Credence said. "I want. I want to be useful. Let me be useful."

The words hit Graves in the gut. He'd heard them before—I want to be useful, Mister Graves—but they hadn't been said to him. His skin crawled. He could remember the scene so clearly: his hands on Credence's shoulders, keeping the boy from hunching over, words dripping off his tongue like poison, I think I've found a use for you, my dear boy, what do you say? The way Credence almost dragged his eyes away from the ground in the dirty alley. I want to be useful, Mister Graves. But it had never really been him.

Graves raised his hands to Credence's shoulders in a perverse parody of the memory that wasn't his. He ignored it and managed, somehow, to push Credence away. He held the boy at arm's length long enough to regain his own feet. " No, " he said with far more force than he'd intended. "No."

Before his eyes, Credence crumbled. All hope, all traces of confidence disappeared in an instant. His shoulders sagged, his head dropped, he became a mirror image to the boy from not-his memory. That dark, insidious coil of guilt tightened around Graves's heart, which ached already at seeing Credence lain so low by his words.

And below that, the hunger still lurked. He wanted so fiercely to pull Credence back down and cradle him close while he let his fangs pierce soft, pale flesh… (I think I've found a use for you…) Through clenched teeth, Graves said, "I'm sorry."

Graves had tried to maintain a sense of normalcy between himself and Credence. Part of this had been choosing not to use his supernatural speed when in the boy's presence. With normalcy shredded and tossed to the winds, what was one more thing? He let go of Credence's shoulder, stood, and fled the room before the boy could even blink.

The note he sent to Tina was short to the point of being terse: Tina, Require your assistance with personal matter. Floo A.S.A.P., wards open. —P. Graves

The note he received was even shorter: What? —Tina

He dashed off another note, which he did not bother to sign: Not at liberty to discuss on paper. Floo A.S.A.P. Please.

It was, he imagined, the fact that he underlined "please" three times that got Tina's attention. Within a few minutes, she appeared in his study in a puff of green flame, wild-eyed and with her wand at the ready. Even in such miserable circumstances, he was proud.

"Easy, Tina," he said, holding up both of his hands palm-out to show he was not armed.

"Mister Graves, what's going on?" She didn't put away her wand, but she did let it drop. "Is something wrong?"

"It's complicated. My ability to keep Credence safe has become compromised." If it had ever existed at all.

Tina's eyes narrowed and her expression darkened. "What's happened?" In that moment, Graves knew to the very bottom of his being that Tina would not hesitate to flay him depending on what his next words were. Good.

"He's all right, at least physically, but…" He shook his head. "I know this might come as a shock to you, but the deposition I gave may have been… less than complete." He ignored Tina's scoff. "There are certain things that I felt Congress and the President did not need to know about my captivity because, at the time, it affected no one but myself."

"Sir, am I going to have to take you in?" With the assurance of Credence's physical safety, Tina looked a bit less willing to try to engage Graves in single combat.

"No, it's not like that. The only power Grindelwald still holds over me is in how I can't trust myself with Credence. Please, just trust me when I say that it's complicated."

Tina studied him for a moment, tilting her head to one side and scowling as she did so. "... All right. If you say it's complicated, I'll believe you. But sir… does he know that you're asking me to do this?"

Graves shook his head. "No."

As if that meant something that Graves didn't understand, Tina nodded. Her face was grim, but she slid her wand into her pocket. "All right. I'll take him in for a while, but you and I are going to need to have a serious discussion about what started this at some point."

"At some point," Graves echoed, though he did not agree.

Interlude

Credence stumbled as they appeared in Tina's home. Her gentle grip on his shoulder kept him upright, but only just. The room swam for a moment before it righted itself and he was able to stand straight.

"Easy," said Tina. "Are you all right?"

No, he wanted to say. Why did this happen? he wanted to ask. What did I do wrong? I thought he cared. I felt it. Does he hate me because I'm a monster? But he held the words behind tightly-clenched teeth and just nodded.

Another woman's voice dragged his attention back to his surroundings. "Oh, honey." She sat next to the hearth, wearing a dressing gown and her hair in curlers, waving a wand over a piece of clothing that was stitching itself up. She stood, leaving the garment to mend itself, and crossed the distance between them. "Oh, honey, no. You're not a monster."

Tina sighed. "This is my sister, Queenie," she muttered to Credence, "Queenie, this is—"

"Credence, right?" Queenie interrupted. He nodded again. She took one of his hand in both of hers. Her fingers were long, delicate, and warm. So different from his scarred, ugly palms. Her painted lips turned down in a frown. "Teenie, how about you put on some milk for cocoa? I think our Credence could use a little pick-me-up."

Tina looked as if she might say something, then shook her head and shuffled off toward what Credence assumed was the kitchen. It left him standing alone with Queenie. He couldn't quite see the resemblance, especially given their different dispositions.

Queenie laughed. "You're not the only one. Some days, even we're not too sure we're related. But that's okay, we still love each other."

Credence started. "What?"

"I'm sorry, honey, did Teenie not tell you?" Queenie sighed in a mirror of Tina not moments before, which brought their relation into clearer focus. "I can hear what people think sometimes. Especially when they're hurting. And you're hurting a lot right now."

"I…" He had no rebuttal, so he stopped. Started again on a different path. "So you know why I'm here?"

Queenie shook her head. "No, I just know why you think you're here, which I'm pretty sure isn't right. You're a sweet boy. I don't think anyone hates you, and I can think of at least a couple of people who care."

"I think you're very nice, Miss Goldstein," Credence said, eyes downcast. Queenie wore pink house shoes with tiny bows on them. His Ma—Mary Lou—would have hated them. "I think you're very nice, but. I think that Mister Graves is disgusted and he can't bear to have me around. And he said it was for my safety so he wouldn't hurt my feelings."

Tina came back with a tray on which sat three steaming mugs. "That's not true, Credence," she said. "He would never be disgusted with you. Anyone with eyes can see that." She set the tray on the low coffee table and pressed one of the mugs into his free hand. "I don't know what happened, and I don't care. He'll come around, don't worry."

He raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. It was warm and sweet, just like both of the Goldsteins.

Queenie laughed and patted the back of his hand. "You're sweet, too. Don't worry, just think about this like a vacation. You're visiting us for a little while, and you'll go home all nice and rested and ready to handle whatever's going to happen next."

That sounded nice, Credence thought, but he wasn't quite sure if he could bring himself to believe it.