Phantom Soul

Disclaimer: All Fantastic Beasts names, characters and locations belong to J.K. Rowling. All El Chavo del Ocho names, characters and locations belong to Televisa. I own nothing that you recognize.

The scene is one of pristine medical sterility, a recreation of the familiar hospital setting within his father's home. The towels beneath his wrist were stained with drops of blood, a stark contrast of crimson against the purest white, marred with streaks of black, the poison seeping from his core. Every now and then his fingers would twitch slightly, gritting his teeth against the burning agony that flooded his veins, setting his blood on fire.

Throughout the years, the children had always been there for him, showing their support with cards, drawings, and songs to lift his mood. However, this was one time Aberforth didn't want them to see his son. Not like this. They didn't need to be exposed to magic, much less the ancient art of blood magic and purification rituals. They didn't need to watch him suffer.

"Hold still, son. It'll be over soon enough."

He began by cleaning the area with soap and water, those practiced hands examining the veins beneath the pallor, carefully selecting the correct one and slicing it open with a brief incantation. There was a gasp, followed by a cry of pain before the potion rose from the container in a thin stream, snaking its way into Credence's bloodstream through the incision in his wrist. Even in the wizarding world, this technique was unheard of, known only to the members of the Dumbledore family who fought to keep their ailing family members alive. Beads of blood welled up on Credence's skin, then one by one they spilled down the sides of his heated flesh, much like the hot tears trickling down his face.

A bitter substance rose into the back of his throat, blackened bile thickened by cords of parasitic waste, the remains of his own decaying flesh sticking to the lining of his vocal cords. Within seconds the Obscurial started choking on this noxious residue, his features blushing with the onset of asphyxiation. His father, having seen it all before, muttered a simple incantation, clearing his airway and allowing him to breathe once more.

Though he tried to comfort his son during the procedure, there was little he could do beyond offering some gentle words of support, holding his hand and squeezing when he heard Credence give a shout, stroking his hair and gently urging him to close his eyes. It'll all be over soon.

They told the children that Credence had cancer, carefully choosing words that Muggles were familiar with, although it wasn't far from the truth. The Obscurus, although parasitic in nature, was slowly ravaging its host, burning through tissues in his abdomen and spreading throughout his lungs. There was no hope, there was no cure, relying on experimental potions in hopes that he might find some semblance of peace, if only for a moment. In return, the children tried to cope with the news as best they could.

Quico went for a more direct approach, believing in his innocent youth that he could build an army of toys to stop Death from taking his honorary father. At the head of this army was his koala, who would lead them into battle. Quico also gathered a bunch of tacks that he could scatter on the floor, his remote control car, and his jack-in-the-box. Then, with a little help from Chilindrina, the jack-in-the-box was skillfully modified, replacing the smiling clown with a pair of sharpened scissors.

After she finished weaponizing his toys, Chilindrina gathered supplies from her medical kit, vowing to save Credence with every surgical technique known to man. Chavo wanted to help too, telling them that Uncle Blueberry would need lots of chicken soup and busty nurses to help him get better. They believed in magic as children often do, thinking their toys were the answer to all their problems.

This belief continued throughout their visits, sitting beside Credence's bed as he slept. They weren't allowed to witness the horrors of his weekly potions treatments, referring to it as immunotherapy so that they might understand. It was enough of an explanation that they didn't question the bandages wrapped around his wrist.

They didn't question it, but they observed their surroundings and found the changes to be unsettling. Chavo in particular was bothered by the dried blood that stained the bandages, a few drops here and there on the bedsheets. He would hug his well-endowed frog plushie, sitting on the floor while Quico climbed into the bed to snuggle up next to Credence. Chilindrina would offer medical advice, prescribing various fruits and dubious techniques to help her honorary father as she stood beside the foot of the bed. She was the only one who remained in the room when the convulsions began, the others having already been escorted out into the hall.

Credence was nearly asleep, listening to the sounds of their conversation droning on in the background. Their voices, always a source of comfort helping to soothe his weary mind, were fading into silence, eclipsed by shadows and muffled by the sound of his labored breaths. His fingers twitched, the parasite boring through his flesh, irritating nerves and delicate tissues. This triggered the muscles along the contours of his neck, twitching and tensing, gasping and crying out once more.

It was for this reason that his parents had begun limiting the amount of time the children could spend with him. They feared that which they couldn't unexplain, knowing that they couldn't tell them the truth or even know how much was visible to their nonmagical eyes. Could they see the swollen veins blossoming along the side of his neck, pulsing in time with his failing heartbeat? Were they able to see where the Obscurus split his flesh? There were wounds that refused to heal, constantly weeping parasitic residue in his final days. How could they explain this to the children? What did it look like to them? What did they see?

The tremors intensifying, Aberforth turned to Dragon in a panic, telling her to take the children out into the hall. Quico awoke with a start, crying out as Dragon lifted him from the bed and ran with him out of the room. Chavo was already backing away, tears filling his eyes as he looked down and he realized that Quico had dropped his koala. Hesitating briefly, his eyes darting between the writhing figure on the bed and fallen stuffie, Chavo scooped up the stuffed animal before running out of the room, hearing his uncle's tormented screams behind the bedroom door.

It all came to an end within a matter of minutes, though in their minds it lasted hours. Seized by fear, Chilindrina backed into the corner beside the desk, unnoticed by the others who remained at Credence's bedside. Her back against the wall, she slowly slid down to sit on the floor, unable to tear her vision away from the horrific sight before her. The tremors shifted into convulsions, shades of purple and black spreading from the network of veins that bulged along his neck and chest, not unlike bruises in their coloration.

The muscles in his face and neck spasmed, causing him to grimace and jerk his head sideways. He could feel the Obscurus spreading like wildfire throughout his chest, choking on the bloody froth that coated his lips. The ceiling split above his bed, cracks in the foundation along the walls, the parasitic residue leaking from his nostrils. His daughter's screams merged with his own; her voice was the last thing he heard before darkness eclipsed his vision, glimpsing her features one final time.

That image would forever haunt his mind, wandering aimlessly amidst countless dreams. Disembodied voices, fragments of memories, and paranoid delusions swirled endlessly throughout the void. Only this time they failed to rouse him from his nightmares.

In the silence that remained, a single set of footsteps approached the bed. Heavy breaths, a lingering sigh, a broken sob, chest heaving before the tears began to fall. Aberforth had always been a strong, secretive man. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't know what to do. His sister had passed away - perhaps mercifully, as Newt once suggested - before it had come to this. They could keep Credence alive while he was in this comatose state, but was it truly living? Wouldn't it be selfish to hold on and allow him to suffer?

Outside the door, a gathering of friends and family, both young and old, magical and nonmagical alike, stood waiting for a decision to be made. They were all aware of the gravity of the situation, the children crying and clutching their stuffed animals, the adults shifting and fidgeting, staring out the window or at the floor. Newt in particular had become rather twitchy, as Tina would call it, her gentle touch startling him at first before quickly glancing in her direction and taking a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. However, none felt the weight of uncertainty and grief more than Queenie Goldstein, who took a bold step forward, rising from her seat and entering Credence's bedroom.

She could feel both the father and the mother's anguish, heavy hearts not knowing what to do, wanting to hold on more than anything else. She could also feel another, more distant heartbeat, fluttering and terrified, trapped within a body that could no longer scream or call for help.

"He's still in there," Queenie murmured, approaching the bed where Credence lay. Aberforth, sitting beside the bed with his head in his hands, slowly lifted his gaze, seeing her standing behind him. "I can feel it. He's alive and he..." A pause, her delicate senses detecting the echos of his innermost cries. "He needs us. He needs our help."

"And what do you suppose we should do?" Aberforth grumbled, his voice hoarse. "I can't help him now." Though it pained him to speak those words, admitting defeat and acknowledging his own helplessness, his tired mind was still searching for a way to reach his son. If only he had been blessed with Queenie's gift to see inside of his son's mind and rescue him from the horrors that lurked within the depths of his subconscious. "Wait..."

And then it occurred to him, Queenie could in fact reach his son. But what good would it do, with them on the outside while Credence was trapped within his own mind?

Queenie took a step forward, her eyes widening. There was a flash of lightning illuminating the streaks of crimson on the walls, bloody handprints and severed limbs. A monstrous entity, trailing black feathers and screeching into the rising winds of the storm, cast its shadow against the bridge. What on earth was happening inside of Credence's mind? Why was he seeing such hideous creatures?

"Queenie?" There was no hiding the desperation in his voice. Aberforth rose from his seat, toppling the chair in his haste. "What is it? What do you see? Tell me!" Grasping her shoulders, he shook the witch, trying to bring her out of her catatonic state. "Tell me what's happening to him!"

"Oh." Blinking several times, Queenie slowly turned towards him, acting as though she had forgotten he was there. She glanced at the figure on the bed before continuing. "The children..." She stopped, her mind still chasing after the remnants of her vision. "They can save him. His mind, no, his heart is crying out to them. He needs them."

"That would be fine if he was still conscious!" Aberforth shouted, causing the witch to wince at the volume of his voice. Regretting his actions almost immediately, the surly goat breeder pinched the bridge of his noise, trying to steady himself. "We can enter his memories, but we cannot enter his dreams. Even in the wizarding world, such things aren't possible, Queenie. You know that." His voice was cracking, choking on his emotions.

"No?" She said this in a questioning tone, sounding as if she wasn't quite sure. Her fingertip touched her lips. Meditating on his statement, she turned towards the bedroom door. "No, I think I know someone who can help."

She took a step forward, grasping the doorknob and turning it. Newt Scamander's lean figure came into view, sitting with Pickett perched upon his shoulder. He didn't bother looking up when Queenie called his name. Instead, he remained seated, listening to the conversation around him. Aberforth joined Queenie in the doorway, also listening.

"Isn't there a creature that can eat dreams?" Queenie asked, a mixture of curiosity and hopefulness lacing her tone.

"What?" Aberforth's brow furrowed, seemingly confused by this question.

Newt was still, his head tilted at an awkward angle. "Yes," he said after a long pause. "The baku has the ability to enter the minds of its sleeping victims, feeding off their dreams and nightmares. It is also believed to protect against evil spirits. Though I don't think the word victim is appropriate. They're harmless, really. Unless, of course, you were to meet one that was quite famished." He finally looked up at her. "Why do you ask?"