Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at

http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/8609878.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Category: Gen, M/M
Fandom: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Relationship: Credence Barebone/Percival Graves | Gellert Grindelwald, Credence
Barebone & Newt Scamander
Character: Credence Barebone, Newt Scamander, Tina Goldstein, Queenie
Goldstein, Gellert Grindelwald, Percival Graves, Seraphina Picquery,
Original Percival Graves
Additional Tags: Post-Movie(s), Past Child Abuse, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic
Stress Disorder - PTSD, Imprisonment, team credence deserves the
fucking world, and an ice cream, Emotional Manipulation,
Hurt/Comfort, Dark, Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Asexual
Character, Extremely Dubious Consent, Angst, Slow Burn
Stats: Published: 2016-11-20 Updated: 2016-12-15 Chapters: 8/? Words:
15471

you were burned, you were about to burn (you're still on

fire)
by CallicoKitten

Summary

They pull him from the wreckage of the subway station and throw him in a cell.

Come on, my boy, my special boy, Graves croons. You can save us both.

credence is still under grindelwald's thumb when he busts them both out of macusa, they
head to europe, newt follows.

Notes

EDIT: so i started this intending to go down the credence is saved and is happy but im a
bad person, i guess, or maybe i have a lot of issues to work out bc this is no longer that fic.
there'll be a more detailed explainer in the next chapter.
 title is from straw house, straw dog by richard siken

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

They pull him from the wreckage of the subway station and throw him in a cell.

He is disorientated - shaking. He can feel It, the darkness, black as pitch and hot and burning
under his skin and he has always tried to keep it tamped down put up walls and barricades and
hide it (hide it, hide it, hide it) keep it down in the depths, where no one can see (Mama can't find
out - mustn't find out - )

It is going to burst out. He is powerless against it and these men and women, these demons his
mother warned him about, raised him to hate (these people Graves made such promises of and
about - one hand firm and warm and calloused on the back of Credence's neck, the other cupping
his jaw, you're special, Credence, I knew it from the moment I first saw you, a thumb brushed
against his cheek bone, foreheads pressed together - aren't you my special boy - )

Lies. Lies.

"Please," he mumbles. "Please don't - "

There are hands on him, on his back, on his shoulders, on his arms, wands pointed at his throat, at
his chest.

I don't want to hurt you.

(But he does. He wants to tear them apart, rip them limb from limb and toss them to the pavement,
shatter buildings, drain them dry, he wants to - )

"Just cooperate," someone is saying, someone kind, a woman with a soft voice. "Cooperate with
them, Credence, please."

His palm is stinging. It always stings these days (and Mama used to beat him on the back so it hurt
to move around but she must have realised that he works better when he's not rent open and
bleeding or else maybe she just liked it better knowing everyone could see - knowing he couldn't
hide the marks - )

"He's just a child," the woman says and Credence looks. She's feet away but it feels like miles. A
man is with her, the man from before. Can I come across to you Credence? I'm here to help you.

They have Graves in cuffs. He's on his knees, "Don't listen to them, Credence!" he shouts.
"They're trying to trick you! They'll kill you, Credence. You hear me? They'll kill you!"

"I don't - " Credence mumbles, there are people guiding him but his feet drag, his chest is tight, he
doesn't want to - he doesn't want to - "No," he moans, tries to resist, tries to stop. He stumbles.
Their grip on his arms tighten.

(He deserves it. He's a murderer. A freak. He deserves it. Deserves death.)

"Please," he tries again. "I don't want - I didn't - I'm sorry - " and he can feel himself slipping,
feels the raw power crackling through his bones, his blood bleeding black, shaking - shaking so
hard -

"Will somebody shut him up!" demands a woman, the woman who gives the commands and
someone waves a wand, shoots something sticky over Graves' mouth but Credence is - Credence
is -
"Tina," someone says. "Tina, talk to him. He listened to you before. Talk to him. Keep him
grounded."

And the woman says: "Credence, I need you to focus on my voice, okay?"

"I can't," Credence mumbles, his eyes are squeezed shut. "I can't stop it - please, you have to help
me. Help me."

(Because he can't - he can't.)

"We'll help you, okay?" The woman says. When Credence opens his eyes, she's close to him. The
man too. "I told you before," the man says. "We're to help you. It's going to be alright, Credence,"
and he smiles but he smiles differently than Graves. Softer, brighter. Warmer.

"Promise?" Credence finds himself blurting. (But Graves promised. He promised to take Credence
away, to make her stop, Credence just had to - )

"I promise, Credence," the woman says.

"As do I," the man adds.

And it's not much, not anything in fact but it holds him steady and the commanding woman nods
to people holding him and suddenly, he's in a cell.

---

The cell is small and cold, bare walls and dim light.

He hears Graves' voice in his head, Come Credence, you're strong enough to break out, you know
that you are. You're so much more than I thought you'd be. So much more powerful.

He curls in on himself, draws his knees up to his chest (and he can feel Graves' ghost-touches, on
his cheek and on his neck and around his rib cage and under his shirt and Graves' hot breath, dark
eyes - Mama would be furious if she knew, call him filthy, flay his skin off probably - but he
doesn't - he just wants someone to make it stop.

It doesn't matter anymore, Graves hisses. Your mama is dead, Credence. You killed her. But you
can save us both if you just let go.)

Credence whimpers.

He doesn't want this. Doesn't want any of this.

(Should have let them kill you, then.)

Graves' pendant is cool against his skin.

Come on, my boy, my special boy, Graves croons. You can save us both. You see how they treat
you?

The woman promised. The man promised. They'll come for him. They'll help him.

Graves' laugh is guttural and pointy, like razor blades and belt buckles. You think so, do you? Tell
me, Credence, why would they help you? I've helped you. I'm the only one who's ever given a
damn about you.
He presses his hands over his ears. Not listening. Not anymore.

I can help you. We can help each other. They fear you. And what do people do with things they
fear, Credence? What did your mother do to you?

(Freak.)

They destroy it.

---

The commanding woman is the President. She stands before Credence regal and terrifying, has
had him led here from his cell by people who will not meet Credence's eye, who treat him as an
armed device, ready to go off.

"I am sorry," the President says and maybe she sounds it but maybe she doesn't. "But our laws are
clear, there is only one punishment for the killing of a no-maj."

The man and woman from before, the ones that promised to help him are there, by the President's
side. The man flinches, the woman gasps like she's been struck. "You can't!" she yells. "He's just
a child, he had no idea - "

"He is of age," The President cuts her off smoothly.

"You know what that woman did to him!" The woman continues to protest. "He had no control
over what he did!"

"Ms Goldstein, I will have you removed," The President warns. "That goes for you too, Mr
Scamander. As I said: our laws are clear. Credence Barebone, for the murder of Mary Lou
Barebone, you will be executed."

No, Credence thinks. No. This isn't what was supposed to - this was supposed to go differently.
"You promised," he says, quietly. Looks at Ms Goldstein and Mr Scamander. "You promised!"
he says louder and oh, he can feel it coming, he can feel his edges blur -

(Graves is laughing somewhere in his head, I told you, dear boy, I told you.)

He is shaking, he is shaking, he is shaking and then -

"Mr Scamander contain him!" the President commands and suddenly he feels stuck. Glued
together. The magic burning hotly under his skin, it burns, it crackles, it wants to get out -

"Stop!" he shouts, screams, begs because oh, it burns.

Mr Scamander stands, his wand raised. There is something translucent around Credence, baring
him aloft and the magic explodes outwards and bounces back, knitting him back into his body and
tearing apart again.

"Stop, please."

"I am sorry," Scamander is saying (and he looks it, definitely looks it.) "I am so, so sorry."

"Take him back to his cell," The President says. Her voice is heavy. "We will carry out the
sentence tomorrow."

"You said you'd help!" Credence yells. "You said you'd help me - please..."
"We will," Goldstein is saying. Over and over and over. "We will, I promise, Credence. I
promise, do you hear me? We will get you out of here!"

---

The translucent bubble Scamander has him trapped in doesn't burst until he's back in his cell and
the door is firmly shut behind him. Credence falls hard, in a tangle of limbs to the floor,
Scamander's apologies ringing in his ears.

I'm sorry, Credence, Graves says, soft and gentle. I tried to warn you. These people know nothing
but don't worry; I won't let them hurt you. I'll protect you. All you have to do is get me out of here.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

so remember last chapter when i was all like 'yeah its gonna be 100% fluff and newt
saving the day etc, etc' it's not that anymore. there are a bunch of great fics like that
already and i decided i kind of wanted to write credence saving himself, eventually.

i have a lot of half-baked ideas for where this fic is going e.g. it may involve
original!graves and leta lestrange if i split the narrative between credence & newt and
it will probably end up long and rambly and will definitely be dark so you know,
grab a flashlight.

oh, and thanks for all the comments <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“You’re not - ” Credence says. “You’re not - ”

The man before him, the man who has been whispering in his ear all this time, the man he is
freeing is not Mr Graves. He bright eyes where they should be dark, light hair where it should be
black and grey and there is no sympathy in his gaze, there is only an easy sneer, a glint of thirst
and danger.

He has made a mistake. Oh, he has made a mistake.

He wants to go back. He wants to go back but the people who imprisoned him must have heard
the walls blowing out and crumbling as he walked, must have heard the crackle of his - of his - his
magic (his curse, his punishment - )

“I am, Credence,” the man who isn’t Graves says. “You’re going to have to trust me.” He
advances, stepping through the piles of brick and mortar towards Credence and Credence flinches
back.

“No!” he says. “ Stop ! You’re not him! You’re not - Who are you? Where is he?”

A flicker of impatience passes across the man’s face and he looks up, towards the sound of
footsteps against stone floors. “We do not have time for this,” he says. There is the trace of an
accent and then he is lunging, grabbing Credence by the arm and in the next breath they are no
longer in the cells - they are in the streets.

Credence’s legs give out, it is only the man that keeps him upright. He has seen Mr Graves do this
before but has never - never imagined how it would feel. “Where - ” he mumbles. “Where - ”

The man does not answer. He keeps a vice-grip on Credence’s arm and drags him through the
streets and Credence is too stunned to try and stop him. “You’re not Mr Graves,” he says, as the
man yanks him forwards. “Let me go. Let me go, please. I don’t want - I don’t know you - please
-”

They are still in New York, he realises. He has handed out pamphlets on those steps, near those
shops. (He has had people knock them out of his hands and laugh when he scrambles to collect
them.)

“Let me go ,” he repeats, louder this time and his cheeks are wet with tears but he can’t remember
when he started to cry. (His clothes are covered with brick dust and Mama will be so mad - so
mad but she’s dead. She’s dead and it’s his fault and now here he is with this mad man and - )

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he whines, whimpers.

The man holding his arm stops at that. People are starting to stare. He yanks Credence closer,
speaks in low tones, “Credence, if those people catch you, they will kill you. Do you understand
that?”

Wordlessly, Credence nods.

“Good. I’m glad we are on the same page, there. Now, I can explain everything but for right now
we need to get out of the city. Understand?”

Credence is shaking his head. He doesn’t want to go with this man. He doesn’t know this man.
He wants to go back. Go back to - to -

“Go back to what , Credence?” The man asks, voice sharp as knives.

Credence raises his free hand to his temple. How are you in my head?

The man grins, “A neat trick, isn’t it? I can teach, if you like. I told you, Credence. Now that
we’re free I can teach you anything you want.”

Credence shakes his head, “No, no, I don’t want - You’re not him. You can’t be him.”

He’s getting impatient now, Credence braces for a slap, a closed fist, an open palm ready and
waiting to be handed a belt (they took Credence’s belt before they put him in the cell to stop him
hanging himself) none of that comes, though.

“When we last met,” the man says, “Before we were arrested, I gave you a pendant, something
very precious to me. Triangular, a line bisecting it, a circle atop it.”

Credence’s hand goes to the pendant unbidden, it lies warm against bare skin.

The man smiles, “Now come on .”

---

He leads Credence a few blocks, doubling back and now and then, ducking into crowded shops
and back alleys. Credence allows himself to be dragged, to be jerked, to be thrust into corners.

He does not question it when the man leads him to an alleyway and taps a set of bricks
sequentially, murmuring words Credence cannot hear. The bricks shift, exposing an opening. The
man reaches in, extracts a wand, long and notched, and a pack.

He waves the wand at himself and constructs a new outfit, does the same for Credence.

“There now,” he says, approvingly. “You look much better without all that brick dust.” He
smooths down the woolen jumper he has created, soft on Credence’s skin. He grips Credence’s
arm again but gentler this time, with his free hand he brushes Credence’s cheek.

Credence flinches away.

“Come on,” the man says, he is smiling but is scornful. “We have a boat to catch.”

---

Credence is quiet until the man leads them in the small cabin he has booked. He does not let go of
Credence’s arm until the heavy door slams shut behind them. He raises his wand as Credence
scrambles away from him and presses it to the lock, whispering something under his breath.

Credence presses himself into a corner, as far from the man as he can get. “Who - Who are you?”
he asks, quietly.

The man sits down on the bottom bed of the bunks that occupy the room. The smile is back.
Graves never smiled. This man’s smile makes Credence’s skin crawl.

“Why, Credence,” the man says, “I’m your friend. Surely you know that?”

“No,” Credence says. “No, I don’t know that. You’re - I don’t know you - you could have - you
could have found out about the pendant - ”

“Yes,” the man agrees. “I could have. What shall I do to prove who I really am? Shall I tell you
about the first time I met you when she had let your hand get infected and you were dead on your
feet, half delirious with fever, not that your mother would have noticed? Shall I tell you how
special I knew you were from the moment I saw you?” He drops his voice, to barely more than a
whisper, “Shall I tell you about our other meetings? The secret ones?”

Credence flinches. (He does not like to think of those meetings, of teeth at his throat, of fingers
pressed hard into his hips, of purred words and praises.)

“Do you believe me now?” the man asks, smugly.

Credence swallows, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Who are you?”

“My name,” he says, “Is Gellert Grindelwald.” He says it like it should carry some weight, like it
is a name that should be uttered with the same fear and revulsion as that of the fallen one, the
Prince of Lies, Lucifer.

“You lied to me,” Credence says and it hurts. God, it hurts.

“Yes,” Mr Grindelwald says, “And I am sorry, Credence. Truly, I am but there were things that
prevented me from being open and honest with you. I had always intended on telling you the
truth, Credence, but I couldn’t risk it. What if someone had tried to hurt you knowing you knew
my true name? I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you, Credence.”

Credence shifts. His knees are beginning to ache from standing so he sinks down to kneel on the
floor. Mr Grindelwald stands, “Please, sit down,” he says, indicating the bunk. “You must be
exhausted.”

And oh , he is but Credence shakes his head and Grindelwald sits back down, “Take all the time
you need, Credence. I understand this must be difficult.”

“You hid your face.”

Grindelwald nods, “Yes. As I said there were things that meant I had to keep myself hidden.”

“What things?”
“Things I don’t know that you are ready to understand yet.” He must anticipate what Credence is
about to say next (or maybe he’s rattling around in Credence’s thoughts) because he laughs, low
in his throat, “Which I realise doesn’t build a strong case for regaining your trust, Credence. But
please know that I will tell you everything in due time.”

Credence doesn’t believe him (he wants to, though. He wants to go back to when Graves was his
saving grace, the pinprick of light in the darkness and Credence could dream about a life away
from everything.)

“If it helps you,” Grindelwald says, “I can put on my disguise again. I can’t exactly walk around
like this.” He smiles again, like it’s a joke.

“Are you a bad person, Mr Grindelwald?” Credence asks. “Is that why you have to hide?”

Grindelwald sighs. His Mama used to sigh like that. Bleak and world-weary. “Credence, I would
have thought that you of all people understood that there is no good and evil in this world. There
is right and there is wrong but sometimes, to do what is ultimately right, you must do some
wrongs.”

Like breaking a man out of prison.

Like killing.

Like killing his mother.

(And he didn’t mean it - really, he didn’t, he just wanted her to stop - he needed her to stop - )

His breath keeps catching in his throat, he squeezes his eyes shut, “Oh, god,” he mumbles. “I
didn’t - I didn’t mean to - ” and he is shaking again, shaking so hard he feels he might shake apart
-

But then there are arms around him.

Grindelwald holds him steady, pressing Credence to his chest, his cheek against Credence’s hair,
one hand on the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles, the other at the nape of his neck and
he smells like Graves did, faintly of cologne but mostly of pine needles and something cold, like
pine needles in winter. “Shh, shh,” he is saying. “Oh, Credence. It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

Credence wants to pull away. Wants to burst out of his skin and run, run back across the water to
New York, to the wreck of his home and his promises and his dreams, to Ms Goldstein and Mr
Scamander who promised to save him, who smiled at him kindly but he is so tired -

( They stood by when she called for your execution, Grindelwald reminds him. They can’t help
you now. They won’t. But I will, alright, Credence? I will. )

Credence wants to melt into it, to have Grindelwald never let go.

---

Credence wakes up on the bunk. Grindelwald’s coat draped over him.

He sits up slowly.

Grindelwald is wearing Graves’ face again, “Good morning, Credence,” he says, with a warm
half-smile. “I took the liberty of procuring breakfast.” He gestures to a spread of toast and eggs.
“Eat up. We have a long journey ahead of us and we may as well put the time to good use.”
Chapter End Notes

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 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

thank you guys so much for all the comments

newt's chapters going forward will probably be a little longer than this one bc he's my
autistic asexual darling

i'll probably have the next credence chapter up today/tomorrow

“I don’t believe it,” Tina is saying, over and over again. “I can’t believe she would do that.”

She’s pacing, back and forth, back and forth in Newt’s shed while Newt stews and Queenie sits
on the campbed and looks shellshocked. (Credence has that kind of effect on her.)

Newt stands against the wall, he’s picked a corner, he feels safer there pressed up against the cool
wood. He has his arms crossed tightly against his chest and Pickett on the collar of his coat,
pressed up against his throat. Pickett’s trying to soothe him with gentle little touches but it’s not
working. Tina’s pacing is very loud, clattering against the wood floors, she’s stomping so hard the
jars and bottles on the shelves are clinking together.

Newt’s trying to think.

They’ve been banned from MACUSA, President Picquery has sentenced Credence to death. And
Newt gets why. Gellert Grindelwald managed to replace her number two and no one noticed for
months. Years, maybe. And they’ve had no luck locating the original Graves. She has to appear
tough even if that means sentencing an innocent boy to death.

“We have to do something,” Tina says. “We have to get him out of there. There must be
something …”

“Dougal,” Newt says, eventually. “He can get in.”

He’s grasping at straws, really. Dougal will be able to get in but he might also choose not to
because he already knows how awfully it will go for them. He can’t take Tina or Queenie with
him, if they get caught they’ll be punished far more thoroughly than he will. He doesn’t want that
for them.

“Yes!” Tina says, she spins to face him. “How would we get in?”

Newt has no idea but she’s looking at him with such intense hope that he can’t bare the thought of
disappointing her. (He will, he already knows he will. He’s not an idiot. He’s seen how she looks
at him when she thinks no one’s paying attention to her and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t share
in some of that but he doesn’t - he doesn’t work like that. He just doesn’t.)

“I can charm the case smaller temporarily, it’s a bit of a risk but… Or I could charm something
new. A hat box should work or maybe… ?” He pushes himself off the wall and casts about the
shed. He had a smaller canvas bag when he first began work on his book, it should be big enough
to hold himself and Credence, small enough for Dougal to carry without too much trouble. If he
can only remember where he left it…

“Great,” Tina says. “So Dougal gets us in, we get Credence out and you get him out of New
York. Right?”

“Uh,” Newt says, rummaging through boxes looking for the bag. “Something like that.”

“Something like that?” Tina echoes.

Newt nods, doesn’t look back at her. He hears Queenie sigh, “Tina, he doesn’t want us to go with
him.”

“What?” Tina says. Then louder, “What? Newt, is that true?”

Newt turns to face her, clutching the bag to his chest. “Yes. Sorry, but if you get caught, Tina,
you’ll be in so much trouble. The worst they can do to me is deport me, but you two…” he trails
off. He doesn’t know enough about MACUSA to make an accurate prediction of how they’d treat
Tina and Queenie but given the President’s apparent propensity for appearing tough, it won’t be
good.

“Besides,” he adds. “If it goes wrong, I’ll need back up.” He smiles weakly.

They spend the evening planning, holed up in Tina and Queenie’s apartment. Queenie crashes out
midway through, falling asleep sprawled across the couch. Tina gets up and slips off her shoes
and jewelry and sets it all down neatly, disappears into the bedroom and comes back with a
blanket to tuck around her sister. Newt watches, captivated. He’s been writing his book for almost
six years, six years of transience, with brief bursts of connection and his beasts, he only feels
lonely in moments like this.

By the time the sun comes up they have a plan. It’s barebones and Newt’s pretty sure it’s going to
end terribly but they have to try for Credence.

What happens after that is anyone’s guess.

Newt stands and stretches, he’s spent most of the evening cross-legged on Tina’s floor, pouring
over a map she’s made of MACUSA’s headquarters. Tina flops boneless against the sofa behind
her. She’s sat on the floor too, hair rumpled from the amount of times she’s run her hands through
it. Queenie’s still asleep.

“I’ll make some pepperup,” Newt says, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’d love an
hour of sleep. He hasn’t slept since arriving in New York but they can’t afford to wait, President
Picquery will want to have Credence dealt with as soon as possible.

He doesn’t want to think of it, of Credence being led down to the death potion, whoever happens
to be leading him lifting their wand, pressing it to his temple, trying to find some happiness in his
short life. He doesn’t want to think about Credence hunched over and terrified in a cell
somewhere. He doesn’t want to think about the train station, about how frightened he’d looked,
about -

He shakes his head, turns in the direction of the case and behind him, Tina’s standing up to
follow him or maybe to wake Queenie but she doesn’t get a chance because there’s a series of
loud cracks and President Picquery appears in the living room, flanked by four aurors.

Newt draws his wand reflexively. Queenie jerks awake and scrambles to stand, getting tangled
inelegantly in the blankets, “Madam President!”

“Where is he?” The President demands.

“Who?” Tina splutters.

“The boy,” the President says. “The obscurus.”

“He’s not with you?” Newt asks.

The President looks desperately between them and she must believe their bewilderment because
she lowers her wand and shakes her head. “I knew this was a long shot. You three may be insane
but you wouldn’t…” she sighs. “The boy has escaped. Grindelwald is with him.”

Tina comes with him to the docks.

“You’ll find him,” she says, with the kind of certainty Newt doesn’t think he’s ever felt.

This is the part where he’s supposed to kiss her. He stands there stupidly for a few moments
because all he wants to do is sit her down and explain everything but that never goes well.

He promises he’ll find Credence. He promises her he’ll bring her a copy of his book.

Maybe by then he’ll have figured out how to explain himself to people.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Before, when Credence was with the Second Salemers, Mr Grindelwald would keep their touches
brief and feather-light. Hands on hands when he healed the wounds his ma had left, a hand on the
shoulder, the back of his neck, foreheads pressed briefly together, you can do this Credence, I
know you can do this.

Credence would lie awake at night, eyes squeezed shut, replaying those moments over and over,
replaying the spread of warmth through his cold, cold body, replaying the feel of Mr
Grindelwald’s warm breath against his skin. (And there were times, few and fleeting enough that
Credence is half sure he dreamt them up, that Mr Grindelwald’s touches went far beyond that,
times where Credence came to him, panicked and terrified, hitching sobs and open wounds on his
palm and his back and his heart and all but fell to his knees, I can’t do this, sir, I’m sorry, I’m so
sorry but I’m not - I can’t - you should find someone else… Mr Grindelwald would hold him
steady, oh, Credence, he’d say, you’re so much stronger than you know. He’d take Credence
somewhere safe, somewhere warm.)

On the ship, the touches are more frequent but just as fleeting.

He is forever touching Credence, a hand at the small of his back to steady him, an arm slung
casually around his shoulders to guide him, heads bent low together, words whispered against the
shell of Credence’s ear almost but then he is bending away and it is dizzying. (And that first night,
that first day, Credence lies in his bunk staring at his arm, willing it to bruise where Mr
Grindelwald’s fingers gripped him so that he would have proof .)

Credence wants more. He wants more than Mr Grindelwald reorienting his stance when he is
holding Mr Grindelwald’s wand. He wants more than Mr Grindelwald stroking the nape of his
neck as he passes, squeezing his arm (he wants Mr Grindelwald to take away this thing he has
crawling under his skin, this chasm in his chest that threatens to swallow him up, he wants Mr
Grindelwald to soothe away his dreams of a black abyss, splitting his bones and his flesh, tearing
him apart - He wants Mr Grindelwald to tear him apart - to hold him down and - )

But he does not know how to ask for that (and it is wrong. It is so, so wrong. It makes his skin
crawl and his Ma’s voice echo in his head, he recites bible passages about sin and hellfire in his
mind as he lies awake, back to the cabin, willing these desires to leave him.

But they do not.

They grow. They grow even as Credence tries to push them down, tries to shutter them away
from himself.

They grow until Credence finds himself breaking a jar so that Mr Grindelwald will tut and take
Credence’s hand in his, smoothing away the slick blood and knitting the skin together neatly, so
that not even a scar remains.

Good as new, he says, turning Credence’s hand over in his. You must be more careful, Credence.

You must be more careful. )

-
Mr Grindelwald wears Mr Graves face.

At first, Credence slips up, stumbles over Mr Grindelwald’s name and blusters out apologies as
Mr Grindelwald smiles and tells him it’s alright. He will not be able to call him Mr Grindelwald
when they land, anyway but it does not feel right to use that name. Not now he knows the truth.

“How do you do it?” he asks. He is watching Mr Grindelwald rummage through his bag from his
bunk. Hands folded neatly in his lap. He does not know what to do with himself when Mr
Grindelwald is not directing him so he finds himself sat here often, watching as Grindelwald goes
about his business or staring at the books Mr Grindelwald has handed him. (Credence cannot read
well but he does not want trouble Mr Grindelwald with this fact.) “Change your face, sir? Is it a
potion?”

Mr Grindelwald smiles, “Clever boy.” He draws a flask out of the pocket of his coat and hands it
to Credence. Credence stares at it for a few moments, looking back to Mr Grindelwald for
instruction.

A brief flicker of annoyance passes across Mr Grindelwald's face and anxiety rises in Credence’s
throat. He braces himself out of habit, when his Ma got that look it never led to anything good.
(The first time it happened Credence’s hands went to his belt before he’d even realised what he
was doing, I’m sorry, Mr Graves - Mr Grindelwald, I’m sorry -

Mr Grindelwald had caught Credence’s hands, held them still, Credence, don’t. I’m not going to
hurt you.

But he is getting annoyed with Credence’s meekness, with his uncertainty, with his fear and
Credence does not know what he is supposed to do.)

He crosses the cabin and joins Credence on the bed, taking the flask back and unscrewing the lid,
he offers it back to Credence and Credence leans forwards, peering at the dregs of a bitter smelling
liquid. He wrinkles his nose and Mr Grindelwald smiles. “It’s called polyjuice potion,” he says,
screwing the cap back on. “It’s very difficult to brew.”

“And it can make you look different?”

Mr Grindelwald nods, “Sort of. It allows you to take on the appearance of someone else.”

Credence frowns, “So, Mr Graves is…” He is studying Mr Grindelwald’s stolen face carefully,
his hands are twitching, fingers itching to reach out and test the skin. He knows there is no flaw to
be found there, that skin feels just as real as Credence’s own but it is still difficult to accept. “Mr
Graves is…”

“A real person,” Mr Grindelwald finishes for him. “Yes.” He screws the cap back on the flask and
stows it back in his jacket pocket. “Why do you ask?”

There’s a challenge in his gaze, a warning perhaps, something dark broiling under the surface that
has Credence losing his nerve and looking down at his hands. “I…” he mumbles. “I think… I
think I would like to be someone else for a while.”

Mr Grindelwald tuts and Credence hears him shift. He closes his eyes, still expecting a slap, what
he gets instead is Mr Grindelwald fingers cupping his face, turning it back towards him gently.
“Oh, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says. “Why on earth would you want that?”

It takes Credence a few tries to get his words out, so distracted he is by Mr Grindelwald’s gentle
touch. “I - I’m - ” Dirty. Broken. Filthy. Wrong.
Freak.

“I think I’m - I’m - ”

Mr Grindelwald shushes him. His other hand has come up to curl around the nape of Credence’s
neck. “Credence, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

Something snaps deep inside Credence’s chest and he finds himself pitching forwards. Mr
Grindelwald catches him with ease, holding Credence against his chest, rubbing soothing circles
into Credence’s back. (Credence imagines he can feel the raised welts that dot his back through
the thin woolen jumper he’s wearing, a reminder of how filthy he is. How damaged.) Credence’s
hands are on Mr Grindelwald’s chest, curled into fists, he wants to open them, to spread his palms
and press into the warmth (to undo the buttons of his shirt and touch him skin to skin.)

He’s pressed himself as close as he can, tucked his head under Mr Grindelwald’s chin, curled his
knees up to his chest so he’s half lying on Mr Grindelwald and all the while he’s mumbling, “I’m
sorry, I’m sorry , I’m sorry, I’m sorry - ”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says and it might be just because
Credence’s head is curled against his chest but his voice sounds strained slightly, like it’s been
pulled tight, ready to snap.

Credence thinks he should pull back but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so secure.

He thinks he’s imagining it the first time Mr Grindelwald’s hand swipes low, fingers brushing the
bare skin where Credence’s jumper has ridden up above his trousers. The second time his fingers
dip lower, below Credence’s waistband, Credence goes rigid.

“ Credence .” Mr Grindelwald’s voice is low, whispered across Credence’s hair. It’s growing out
where his Ma used to keep it short. His fingers swipe low again but this time they linger, warm
against his skin. So warm. Then they push lower.

Later, Credence lies on the bunk, moonlight on his skin.

There are bruises this time, on the column of his throat and at his hips. His knuckles where he bit
down to keep himself from crying out as Mr Grindelwald took him apart and built him back up
again.

Mr Grindelwald has left to wander the ship as he often does when he thinks Credence is sleeping.

Credence wonders whether Mr Grindelwald will pretend this didn’t happen in the morning, as he
did before. He presses his own finger tips into the marks on his hips, the bite of pain is his proof.

His Ma would have flayed his skin off of his bones if she saw him like this.

He jumps when the cabin door swings open, Mr Grindelwald stepping in. He pauses when he
notices Credence watching him, “You’re awake. You didn’t need to wait up for me, you know.”

“I didn’t want you to leave,” Credence says, quietly.

He can’t quite make out Mr Grindelwald’s expression in the halflight but he thinks there is a faint
smile on his face. He shrugs off his coat and kicks off his shoes as he crosses to the bunk. He
doesn’t say: I won’t leave, as he sits down. Instead he says, “We’re almost to land, in the morning
we should be able to see Europe. Wouldn’t you like to see that?” He puts a hand on Credence’s
hip. Tight. Possessive.

Credence nods. “What will we do there?” he asks.

“Well, first, we’ll teach you how to control your powers. Just like I promised.”

Credence nods again. He is trying to imagine Europe, a place where no one knows him, where no
one knows of the Second Salemers or his destruction or his murders - “What do you think
happened to Modesty?” he hears himself ask. “She saw - She saw what I did to Ma and then again
at her house. What do you think happened to her?”

Mr Grindelwald removes his hand, he sucks in a breath. He is disappointed, Credence knows but
he can’t help but worry, he can’t help but think of Modesty alone in that house as he lost control.

(And another memory rises like bile in his throat, hot and acrid, there is nothing special about you,
but he swallows it back down. Tells himself Mr Grindelwald only said that because he knew
Credence needed a push. He was trying to help even then, even with his cruel words.)

Credence grabs Mr Grindelwald’s wrist before the touch is lost, “Please, don’t,” he says, followed
quickly by, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have - ” He lets go of Mr Grindelwald quickly.

Mr Grindelwald studies him for a few moments before he reaches out again, strokes a hand
through Credence’s hair. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving,” he says gently. He starts unbuttoning his
shirt and wriggles out of his trousers. When he’s done he looks at Credence and it takes Credence
a few moments to realise what he’s asking. He shuffles backwards on the bunk and Mr
Grindelwald lies down beside him.

“Remember, Credence,” he says. “When we land in Le Havre you must not use my real name.”

“I won’t, sir,” Credence promises.

Mr Grindelwald yawns. “I suppose I may have to find a new one. A new face, too.”

“I like this one,” Credence says, before he can stop himself. Behind him, Mr Grindelwald laughs,
his chest is pressed to Credence’s back and Credence feels the rumbles.

“I will bare that in mind,” he promises.

Credence bites his lip. “Sir, before you said you would explain what it is you did that meant….
That drove you into hiding.”

Mr Grindelwald sighs and Credence scrambles to apologise, “I didn’t mean, you don’t need to - I
was only - ”

“No,” Mr Grindelwald says. “No, it’s only right that you know. Most of the Wizarding World
believes that magic should be kept a secret from the Muggles, they hide themselves away behind
lies and illusions and charms. But there are those of us who believe that isn’t the best way of doing
things, after all, look at what that secrecy does to muggles who know the truth. It drives the mad
because no one will believe them.”

“Like my Ma,” Credence says, mouth dry.

“Yes, Credence, like your Ma. And those muggles grow to fear magic, attack people with magic,
try to convince them that their powers are wrong or the work of some devil.”

Like me, Credence thinks.

 Mr Grindelwald rubs his arm, gently.

“No. There is a better way to do this, a better world where humans and muggles live in harmony
with each other. That is what I am trying to create.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Credence says.

“No,” Grindelwald says. “It doesn’t. But not everyone agrees with me, unfortunately.”

“Couldn’t you just tell them?” Credence asks. He knows it’s a stupid question as soon as the
words are out of his mouth but it’s too late to take it back.

“Ah, if only it were that simple, Credence. But there are charms, you see, charms that can be used
to make muggles forget.”

“But if you showed enough people - ”

“Half the city saw what happened in New York,” Grindelwald says, he sounds incensed. “And
yet, no one remembers. They find a way, Credence. They always find a way.”

“So what are you going to do?” Credence asks.

Grindelwald gives a huff of laughter and presses a dry kiss to the back of Credence’s neck. “All in
good time, Credence,” he says. “All in good time.”

Le Havre is just as crowded as New York, Credence notes as he steps off the ship behind Mr
Grindelwald. He stills when his feet hit dry land for the first time in a fortnight and he glances
about the port, at the bustle of everyday life, the people coming home and the people leaving once
more.

“Come along, boy,” Grindelwald calls sharply.

Credence hurries to catch up with him, “Sorry, sir.”

“We’ve a long way to go yet,” Grindelwald says and Credence half hopes he will put a hand on
Credence’s arm or back or neck and guide him along, through the crowds, to the railway station,
to wherever they are going but he doesn’t, he stalks off into the crowd without another word and
after a moment, Credence trails behind him.

Chapter End Notes

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 Chapter 5

They are in France but a few days before Mr Grindelwald starts leaving.

They are staying in a farmhouse far outside of Paris. From the outside it looked a state, the roof
had caved in, the windows were blown out, there was a spray of dark bullet holes along the front
wall. It had been years since the war, Credence had been surprised the countryside still bore the
scars. His mama had forbade them from discussing the conflict as it was happening, dismissing it
as God’s righteous wrath, the European’s punishment for the mixing of bloodlines between those
with magic and those without it, between different races, but Credence had seen pictures in
newspapers, Credence had heard conversations on the street.

They had walked from the city, Mr Grindelwald not wanting to risk the use of magic in the open.
When they reached the farmhouse, Credence had stopped, staring blankly at it.

“Come on, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald had said. It had begun to rain by then, thick heavy drops
falling steadily as they walked. “We must get out of this rain.”

“But it’s -” Credence had begun, he’d caught himself before finishing, biting down on his bottom
lip.

Mr Grindelwald had snorted, gestured for Credence to come stand next to him. “Here,” he said,
holding Credence by the shoulders and leaning close to him. (Credence hadn’t realised how cold
he’d felt until Mr Grindelwald had touched him.) “Look again. Look closer. I know you can do
it.”

Credence had and after a few moments he had begun to realise the farmhouse was not, in fact, a
wreck.

“Good boy,” Mr Grindelwald had said.

It’s smaller than his Mama’s house but it’s warm, cosy. Mr Grindelwald lights fires in every grate
with a flick of his wand, he leads Credence to the bathroom, draws him a scalding hot bath and
dries his sopping clothes before directing him towards on of the two bedrooms. Credence wants to
protest the separate bedrooms but he doesn’t want to risk it. His Ma’s voice still rings in his ears,
telling him to be grateful, telling him that he does not deserve kindness and that any offered to him
is out of the goodness of other’s hearts.

He falls asleep quickly that first night.

When he wakes Mr Grindelwald has already prepared breakfast. He spends the day teaching
Credence a smattering of French and writing letters. Credence sits attentively beside him, does as
he’s told.

That night, Mr Grindelwald takes Credence into his bedroom.

Credence wakes up alone.

He thinks at first that Mr Grindelwald is in the kitchen but when he pads down the wooden
staircase he finds the ground floor empty. He swallows down the surge of panic that rises as he
takes in the cold kettle, the cold stove. The bathroom too, is empty. As is the second bedroom, the
attic, the garden, the shed.

He must have gone into the city, Credence tells himself. He’ll be back soon.
He sets about preparing breakfast and sits at the kitchen table, waiting. It’s midday before
Credence gives in and eats, the eggs and toast long cold but still, there is no sign of Mr
Grindelwald.

It is nightfall before Credence begins to truly panic.

Mr Grindelwald must have left. He’s realised Credence useless. Wrong. Disgusting.

He’s realised Credence is a freak.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

(He’s realised Credence isn’t special, after all.)

He can feel the darkness start to seep out of him, pouring out of him as black ooze and he’s going
to lose control. He’s going to - He’s going to -

“Credence!”

Mr Grindelwald’s voice cuts through the crackle of magic.

Credence gasps. Mr Grindelwald’s hands are on him suddenly, holding him by the shoulders,
gripping tightly. “ Credence, you can control this,” Mr Grindelwald says.

“You -” Credence manages. “You were - ”

“Come on, Credence,” Grindelwald is saying. “Come on, you can control this. I know you can.”

“You left,” Credence gasps. “I woke up and you were - you were gone - ”

“I know,” Grindelwald says. He’s rubbing Credence’s shoulders, “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,
Credence but you have to control this.” He pulls Credence to him, rubbing his back. “Come on,
Credence. Come on. Do this for me.”

Credence lets himself slump forwards, he breathes deeply. In, out, in, out. He focuses on Mr
Grindelwald, not the darkness inside him. Focuses on Mr Grindelwald’s hands. On the soothing
circles he’s rubbing into Credence’s back.

He hefts a sigh.

The darkness inside him is quiet.

For a moment, there’s nothing in Credence’s head. He’s limp, Mr Grindelwald the only thing
holding him up. His eyes are closed, his forehead pressed to the crook of Mr Grindelwald’s neck.
His hands are on Credence’s back. It’ s nice. It’s safe. It’s warm.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, against the thick material Mr Grindelwald’s coat. “I’m sorry, I - ”

“You needn’t apologise, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says. “You should never be ashamed of
your power, my boy. It is what makes you unique.”

“Please don’t leave again,” Credence finds himself saying. “Please don’t - I don’t think I can -”

“Oh, Credence,” Grindelwald says. He rubs Credence’s back, shushing him. “Don’t worry. If I
have to leave again I’ll tell you. I promise, I promise.”
---

It becomes the norm for Credence to wake up alone after that, in his own room, in Grindelwald’s,
on the couch downstairs. There is always a note and vague information on where Grindelwald has
gone and when he’ll be back. He leaves Credence delicate pastries and stacks of books on magic
and history, he does not know how poorly Credence reads, Credence has yet to tell him.

He spends his days pouring over the books regardless, reads what little he can, muddles through
the rest using the illustrations or by sounding things out. (When he was younger, much younger,
he would steal newspapers off the streets, books off park benches and bring them home to try and
read them, stuffed under his jumper or shirt and kept under his bed. Mama caught him with them
more than once. She beat him thoroughly for it. Those are the devils word’s Credence! Don’t you
understand? The devil’s words!

He doesn’t like to think of his Ma, these days. It makes his palm sting with phantom-pain, it makes
him want to curl in on himself and let the darkness win.)

He explores the little house, the gardens. There are herbs and vegetables growing there, his Ma
had a little patch out back but Credence wasn’t allowed near it. She said his darkness, his filth,
would ruin them. Mr Grindelwald lets him take care of the plants, shows him how to water them,
how to prune them. He seems happy to do it and Credence likes the feeling of taking care of
something, of nurturing it.

He keeps hoping Mr Grindelwald will begin teaching him, will leave him with spells to practise
and potions to brew. But -

“You said you would teach me how to use my magic,” he says, sometimes, when Mr Grindelwald
is in a good mood. “Can we start soon?”

“All in good time, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says, always. “All in good time.”

So Credence contents himself with his small garden and his books as best he can and Mr
Grindelwald begins leaving for longer. First one night, then two. He is careful to ensure Credence
has enough food and money for extra if he needs it, he walks Credence to the small village nearby
and shows him the bakery, the small grocers but Credence cannot imagine making the journey,
counting out unfamiliar coins, stumbling over the few words he knows. He remains in the cottage
and it is during one of Mr Grindelwald’s trips away that he discovers Mr Grindelwald’s case.

He has seen it before, of course, Mr Grindelwald does not keep things from him. It is big and
boxy and Mr Grindelwald uses it to keep his potion supplies and little odds and ends in. He had
shown Credence everything it contained one rainy afternoon, talking him through the herbs and
dried animal skins it contained. Credence had decided he would attempt a simple potion he had
found in one of the books Mr Grindelwald had left him. From what he could tell it was a simple
brew, meant as a warming charm. (The cottage was never cold but Credence thought perhaps Mr
Grindelwald could use it on his long journeys.)

The ingredients, he thinks, are all in Grindelwald’s case but when he clicks it open it doesn’t look
like it used to.

Before there were racks of phials and bottles, a pestle and mortar, a bone-handled knife, now there
is a cavernous expanse that looks to Credence almost like a staircase.

He snaps the lid shut, opens it once more to find the same scene.

Experimentally, he reaches down into the case. His fingertips meet wood, cool and smooth. He
slides along that first step, expecting it to continue, expecting the staircase to be a trick of the light
but his hand drops and Credence tips forwards, almost tumbling into the case.

He draws his hand back.

There appears to be an entire world in Mr Grindelwald’s case.

Before he can truly process this, he hears a loud crack from the other room, Mr Grindelwald is
back. He snaps the case shut and hurries to meet him.

It has been three days and Mr Grindelwald beams as Credence enters the room, “There you are,”
he says, reaching out to stroke Credence’s cheek. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. Were you alright
while I was gone?”

Credence nods.

---

It is a few days before he risks investigating the case further. Mr Grindelwald has left again, a day
this time he says (and before he goes he pins Credence to the mattress, sucks marks into the pale
skin of Credence’s throat and Credence moans and begs and whimpers while Mr Grindelwald
whispers, good boy, such a good boy, aren’t you my good boy? In Credence’s ear.)

Credence stands in front of the case for a long while before he flicks it open. He is half expecting
the potion ingredients to be back but no, he is met once more with the staircase. He tests it out
again first one arm and then two until finally, he sets the case onto the floor and steps inside.

The staircase leads down to a small corridor, four doors leading off of it. The hair on the back of
Credence’s neck stands up. He shouldn’t be here, he knows. If Mr Grindelwald wanted him here,
he would have shown him the case, the stairs but -

The first few doors he tries open onto rooms full of books or potion ingredients, a bubbling
cauldron inside one, a moving photograph of two men around Credence’s age, another of the
same men and a young girl, a little older than Modesty. There are scrawled notes about the place
but Credence has never been able to decipher Mr Grindelwald's spindly handwriting.

The third door he tries is locked.

The fourth contains a man chained to a wall.

The man’s head is bent to his chest. His clothes are threadbare and stained. The whole room bares
a foul stench of sweat and blood and things Credence does not want to think of.

The man’s eyes are closed. His skin his pale, but there are crimson-purple bruises under the
manacles at his wrists and ankles. There is dirt and dried blood on his face.

For a moment, Credence is certain the man is dead but he becomes aware of the man’s chest rising
and falling.

Credence stands very still, hardly daring to breathe but the man does not look up, does not startle.
Little by little, as quietly as possible, Credence approaches. He is bent almost double, trying to see
the man’s face as he sleeps.

He draws back when he sees it is Mr Grindelwald.

No, he thinks. It can’t be. Mr Grindelwald isn’t -

Then he realises. This must be Mr Graves. The real Mr Graves. The man whose face Mr
Grindelwald stole.

Credence feels ill.

Credence feels numb.

Mr Grindelwald wouldn’t do this. He is kind, he is generous. He saved Credence. Why would a

man like that keep someone chained up against their will without good reason? Why would -

He has no more time to consider because above, far above, he hears Mr Grindelwald calling his
name. He scrambles out of the room, ensuring he slams the door shut behind him and throws
himself up the stairs, towards the light. He bursts out of the case just in time to see Mr Grindelwald
enter the room.

A dark look passes across Mr Grindelwald’s face, “What were you doing in there?”

“I was - ” Credence begins, panting, “I was only - ”

Mr Grindelwald’s wand is in his hand. It could destroy Credence so easily, he thinks, unable to
stop himself. “Speak quickly, boy,” Mr Grindelwald snaps.

“I was looking for ingredients,” Credence says. He drops his gaze, looks down at his shoes. “I
found a simple potion, a warming draught, I thought I would - I thought I would make it for you,
sir.”

He chances a glance up and sees Mr Grindelwald’s expression soften. He puts his wand in his
pocket and nods, stepping towards Credence. Credence steps back automatically and Mr
Grindelwald takes his arm, reorients him so that he faces the case.

“This object is charmed to serve many purposes,” Mr Grindelwald says. He reaches out to the key
and draws it out, as he does so, several key holes spring into existence on the case. “You see,” he
continues, sticking the key into one of the new keyholes and turning it. The case springs open to
reveal the rows of phials and flasks.

“O-oh,” Credence says.

Mr Grindelwald’s hand comes to rest at the small of Credence’s back, “So what was it you needed
for this draught?”

Mr Grindelwald does not direct Credence to his bedroom that evening so Credence finds himself
curled on his own bed in his own room, staring up at the ceiling. If he squints just right he can
make out where illusion begins, can see the collapsed roof and the night sky above him.

He thinks of Mr Graves - the original Mr Graves - alone in his cell and shivers.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

thank you so much for the comments and support you guys, i've probably said it
before but i'll say it again: i may not reply to everyone but they mean the world to me,
they really do.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Newt spends much of the crossing to Europe in his case, much to the confusion of his fellow
passengers. They are all, as far as he can tell, muggles so it seems simpler all round, really, that he
spends as little time interacting them as possible. Aside from quick trips a breakfast and dinner,
Newt spends his time in his shed, thumbing through books, searching for even the barest of
mentions to obscurials.

Before he left New York, President Piquery had given him copies, produced by rows and rows of
charmed quills, of many volumes they had in their collection, records of witch trials, transcripts of
sermons given by Puritan Ministers, accounts of slave children, tortured and locked up by their
masters as witches. He reads about Abigail Williams and the other women killed in Salem, the
case for an obscurial is thin there, most likely it was a simple case of hysteria that led to twenty
deaths. Twenty innocent lives taken.

Newt has never much troubled himself with the goings on of witches and wizards. At school,
History of Magic had only interested him when they were learning about things like the Warlock’s
Convention of 1709 that banned the breeding of dragons or the history of werewolf-wizard liaison
(which, incidentally was appalling. ) He supposes he’d always known on some level about the
persecution witches and wizards suffered before there were proper laws in place to prevent their
detection but to read about so many occurrences, so many more than he could have imagined, it
makes him ache inside. Makes him slam shut the heavy tome he’s reading from and sit with the
mooncalves until he feels less wretched.

He writes to Tina, tells her all he’s learnt about obscurials during his journey, asks if she has learnt
anything more. He writes to Albus Dumbledore whose sister was rumoured to be one too, begs
for any hint of aid (but he knows already it is useless, he went to Dumbledore when he stumbled
across his first obscurial in Sudan and got nothing.) If Dumbledore cannot help him find Credence
he can at least help him find Grindelwald, after all, if there is anyone in the world who knows
where Grindelwald may be, it is Albus Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore, he writes:

I know that you have made it clear that you do not wish to be involved in the capture of Gellert
Grindelwald and while normally I would understand and accept this, things are different now.
During my unexpected layover in New York I met a young man named Credence. He is an
obscurial as I am certain you have heard from my brother or someone else at the ministry.
Grindelwald has escaped MACUSA along with Credence. I am trying to find him, save him if I
can.

Do you have any idea where he would go?

Yours,
Newt.

P.s. Don’t tell my brother I’m chasing an obscurial, he’d only fret.

P.P.S. Do you know why Grindelwald would even be interested in someone like Credence?

He waits until it’s very late at night to creep up to the deck, owls on his shoulders, and send them
off. He watches them climb into the stars until he can’t make them out against the inky-blue
anymore and Pickett starts complaining about the cold.

Paris always makes him think of Leta.

When they were at Hogwarts together they’d spend hours huddled together in the library or the
Room of Requirement making grand plans of escape. Leta always talked about Paris, a fabled
land of freedom where she could escape her family and her family’s name because in Paris, it
wasn’t about your blood status and the hefty weight that came with that, it was about your skill,
you finesse.

He doesn’t know whether Leta every made it to Paris, she stopped writing back to him long
before she left Hogwarts.

He finds a quiet place to apparate when he reaches Le Havre, the last thing he needs is another
muggle to get attached to and lose in the space of two days or so, and travels to a tavern he’s
stayed at before. He pays for the room and sits down on the bed for a few minutes before leaping
up and heading out the door, taking his case with him.

In Paris, the wizarding world and the muggle world is much more blended. People are careful, to
be sure, using glamours on shopfronts to stop curious muggles wandering into apothecaries and
wand shops and the like. Magical cafes and taverns sit side by side with muggle ones, with code
words and hidden menus and secret rooms. There are street magicians with actual talents, wizards
working in the film scene and far less concern about wizard-muggle relationships.

If Queenie and Jacob had met in Paris, things would have gone very differently, Newt thinks.

He passes a store bearing the symbol of the deathly hallows and pauses. On the surface, it looks
very much like an herb store, dried gillyweed and dittany hanging from racks, fanged geraniums
in the window. Grindelwald has supporters in Europe, Newt knows. His brother and the Ministry
at large are despairing about it but not everyone wants to live in secrecy and not everyone wants to
share the world with muggles. Most of his ardent supporters are still locked up but there are many
still out there, no one’s entirely sure how wide reaching Grindelwald’s network is.

He stares in at the shop owner for a few moments, debating whether it would be wise to stride in,
wand raised and question them but he knows it wouldn’t be wise and America might be a little too
far for his brother to apparate to but Paris certainly isn’t.

He ducks his head and keeps on walking, heading towards the magical creatures emporium. He’s
running low on supplies.

Dumbledore’s reply arrives two days after Newt arrives in Paris, the niffler has escaped again and
Newt’s spent no time looking for Credence and all the time looking for that pesky creature. (He
finds it in The Louvre, looking very disappointed that there aren’t many shiny things for it to
 steal.)

Dumbledore replies:

Mr Scamander,

I fear you may be in over your head, young man. I simply cannot fathom why you have decided to
take it upon yourself to find Grindelwald knowing full well how dangerous he is. There are teams
of trained aurors on his tail, aurors who have been working on this case for far longer than you
have, Newton.

That being said, having had the distinct pleasure (?) of being your professor I know that nothing I
say will dissuade you from this. As I have said before, I have no information on obscurials to pass
on to you, my sister’s case was somewhat unique, as you well know. I have enclosed a map of
France and Germany with the places Grindelwald had mentioned to me and has been seen at
previously. I am certain that all of these locations are being watched closely but it may help you,
nonetheless.

With regards to your brother, the Ministry has kept close tabs on my communications since
Grindelwald made his presence, and his connection to me, known so I’m afraid the kneazle may
be out of the proverbial bag.

Regards,

Albus Dumbledore.

The map is huge and varied and Newt spreads it out on the floor, enlarging it with a flick of his
wand. There are a number of properties in and around Paris which Dumbledore has helpfully
dated each one and provided a little description.

There are rather a lot.

He looks up at Pickett and the Niffler, “If you only you were half as good at finding people as you
are at finding trouble,” he mutters.

__________________

Chapter End Notes

newts chapters will get more dynamic when things get going, at the moment i'm kind
of just using him to build a picture of the world credence is in

you can also read about my backstory for newt here if you'd like
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

i wrote and rewrote this part a bunch and im still not happy with it

thanks for all the support ^_^

“If you have something to say, say it, boy,” Mr Grindelwald snaps. He does not look up from
whatever it is he is writing but Credence is unsurprised that Mr Grindelwald is aware of his
presence.

Credence drops his gaze, “Your hair is blonde,” he says, to the floor. It has been happening
steadily, pale yellow bleeding into the black-grey from the roots.

Mr Grindelwald stands with a snarl. He reaches for his flask but it is empty, Credence knows. He
had woken up in Mr Grindelwald’s bed, watched him raise the flask to his lips and swear under
his breath in a language Credence didn’t understand.

He throws the flask down when he’s reminded it’s empty and Credence jumps as it hits the wall.
“I - ” he finds himself saying but he stops himself from apologising when Mr Grindelwald gives
him a sharp look. His mouth works for a few moments silently before he says, “Can’t you - Can’t
you make more?”

“I don’t have the ingredients,” he says, pacing. “I thought I had more.” His fury radiates off him in
waves and Credence wants to hide from it, wants to find a corner to curl up in until the storm has
passed.

“You can buy some, can’t you?” he asks, doubtfully.

“I can’t go out like this!” Mr Grindelwald yells, kicking at the desk.

Credence jumps. Apologises. Apologises for apologising until Mr Grindelwald turns to him and
says, “Credence, stop. ” He sinks back down into his chair tiredly.

Credence swallows. He has tried not to think of the man Mr Grindelwald has chained up in his
case. It’s easier that way, he’s found. Those first few days, he spent racked with guilt and
uncertainty but there is a reason Mr Grindelwald has him chained up there. There must be.

Credence approaches Mr Grindelwald slowly, fidgeting with his hands as he does so. When he is
close enough he reaches out, lays a hand on Mr Grindelwald’s shoulder feather-light. “How does
it work?” he asks. “The potion?”

“It is very difficult to brew,” Mr Grindelwald answers. “It needs many rare and expensive
ingredients.” He looks up at Credence, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. There are flecks
of green now that Credence can make out against the brown.

It makes him shudder.

He removes his hand from Mr Grindelwald’s shoulder, “I - I could go,” he says. “If - If you tell
me where and what to buy I could - ”

Mr Grindelwald catches Credence’s wrists, holds it in both of his hands. “You would do that for
me?” he asks.

Credence reluctantly nods.

Mr Grindelwald writes out what he needs in large, easy to read letters and folds the parchment
neatly, sliding it into Credence’s left breast pocket. He’s told Credence the name of the store he’ll
be visiting, “You won’t even need to speak to the cashier if you don’t want to, Credence,” he
assures. “Just collect what you need and bring it up to the counter, alright?”

Credence nods. Mr Grindelwald smoothes down Credence’s shirt, making sure it’s tucked smartly
into his trousers, the way Chastity used to to keep Ma from getting angry. He misses her suddenly,
not Ma, Chastity, Modesty. The handful of other children that came and went in their home. Mr
Grindelwald is rubbing Credence’s arms now, he smiles, his teeth are crooked. Mr Graves’ teeth
are straight.

“There we are,” Mr Grindelwald says. “Now, I’m trusting you, Credence. Don’t forget where
you’re going and remember, as soon as you need to leave, squeeze the pendant I gave you. It will
bring you straight back to me.”

He apparates Credence to the outskirts of Paris, squeezes his arm and directs him to a Metro
station and then he is gone and Credence is alone. There is a part of Credence that suddenly feels
very exposed but Mr Grindelwald’s pendant is warm against his skin. All he has to do is squeeze
it.

He takes a breath and steadied himself.

Don’t worry, Credence. I’ll be right here with you.

On the metro he sits ramrod straight, repeats the station name over and over in his head. He has
never been in a train before. His Ma never allowed it.

He keeps his head down in the streets. It's easy to slip back into the boy he was in New York, the
invisible one handing out leaflets. People never met his eye back then. Mostly, anyway. They took
a leaflet or they did not, either way, Credence made no impression on their lives.

He is so rooted half a world away that he startles when the shopkeeper addresses him in guttural
French. “English?” The man asks, when Credence simply stares back.

“A-American,” Credence stutters.

The man surveys him as he cashes up Credence’s items. “American, huh?”

Credence nods.

“I always heard you Americans were a chatty bunch,” the man says. Then, “A bit young for
brewing polyjuice aren't you?” And Credence hears the suspicion in his tone.

“The man I work for,” he mumbles, by way of explanation. There’s a poster up behind the man’s
head, a wanted poster, Mr Grindelwald’s face staring out at him. Mr Graves’ is just below it,
missing, it reads.
His hand goes unconsciously to the pendant but he needs the ingredients - Mr Grindelwald needs
the ingredients.

“An apprentice, hm?” the man says, wrapping the ingredients in brown paper. “That’s good. A
good profession. Too many young wizards leave school and do nothing further with their talents.
My son, for instance. Graduates Beauxbatons top of his class and now what does he do? I’ll tell
you what: nothing! Spends his days smoking and writing letters to a married girl who never
looked his way twice!” The man tuts, shakes his head. “Such a waste. You keep at it, boy. Do
great things.”

Credence nods, eyes darting to the door.

“Eighty-four francs,” the man says.

He’s jerked back to Mr Grindelwald’s cottage, going to pieces and coming back together in a
flash. For a moment, it’s like New York again, he’s been swallowed and dispersed into the ether
but he’s knitted together again, landing in the living room and stumbling.

Mr Grindelwald catches him by the shoulders. “Did you get it? Did they have everything?”

“I - I -” It takes his mind a little while longer to catch up with what’s happening but once it does
he shoves the wrapped ingredients into Mr Grindelwald’s arms. “Yes. They did, they - ”

But Mr Grindelwald is already spinning away from him, package in hand, “Excellent, excellent!
Credence, you’re a marvel!” He tears it open, rummages through the contents. “Excellent,” he
murmurs. “Excellent.”

“Mr Grindelwald, in the shop - ” Credence begins. “In the shop they had - they had a poster of
you.”

Mr Grindelwald glances back at him briefly. “Well, yes. That’s why I’m in disguise, Credence.”
He says it very slowly, the way people in New York talked to him, like he was touched in the
head.

It stings.

“But - ” he starts but Mr Grindelwald cuts him off.

“Now, I’ve got a potion to brew.” He says, and vanishes into his case.

Credence is left staring at the empty space.

He wakes up warm, Mr Grindelwald curled around him, “My boy,” Mr Grindelwald says. “My
special boy. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you properly yesterday.”

There is a full spread of fresh fruit for breakfast, most of which Credence has never tasted before.
He likes orange juice off his fingers while Mr Grindelwald scrawls another letter and sips coffee.
“I shall have to leave again for a while, Credence. Not too long. A day or so at most. You’ll be
alright on your own, won’t you? There’s plenty of food.”

Credence wants to say no. As of late, Mr Grindelwald has been gone more than he has been
present but he nods anyway.
Mr Grindelwald beams. “Good boy.” He stands up, brushes a hand through Credence’s hair as he
passes. His touch lingers, “Your hair is starting to grow out,” he observes. “Perhaps we can sort it
out when I get back and I think, perhaps, we can begin your magic education at long last.”

Credence looks up, “You - You mean it?”

“Of course,” Mr Grindelwald says, he brushes Credence’s cheek gently. “That’s what I promised,
isn’t it? I always keep my promises, Credence.”

He finds himself in Mr Grindelwald’s case, in front of Mr Graves’ cell. When he reaches for the
handle, he half hopes it will be locked. It isn’t though, the door opens easily and there’s this
burning feeling in Credence’s gut, this roiling. He knows he’s not supposed to be doing this,
knows if Mr Grindelwald catches him he’ll be angry but -

Mr Graves is much the same has he had been, head still bowed and limp. Credence nudges him
experimentally with his foot.

Mr Graves comes awake in stages. His leg shifts first, automatically moving away where
Credence touched him. Then he draws both knees up to his chest, shifts his head slightly and
raises it, “Thought you’d gotten bored of me,” he spits before he looks up and sees Credence
stand there.

He frowns. Exactly in the manner Mr Grindelwald does. “The fuck are you?” he asks, voice
rough with disuse.

“I - ” Credence starts but he has no idea how to continue. He stares, dumbly, watching Mr Graves
squint up at him. Mr Graves’ hair hangs in lank clumps over his forehead, “Oh,” he says, then he
chuckles. “ Oh. You’re his new boy, aren’t you?”

Credence frowns, “No - I -”

“Aw, you didn’t think you were the first, did you?” Mr Graves says, unkindly. “Wait. I know
you, don’t I?”

“I - In New York - ” Credence stammers.

“Shit, you’re one of the Second Salemers, aren’t you? One of the Barebone brats.”

Credence nods.

He runs a hand through his hair, a far away look in his eyes for a moment. “Goldstein never shut
up about you lot. ” He shakes his head, like he’s shaking off the memory. “Wait, you said in New
York. Are we not in New York?”

Credence shakes his head, “France. We - We’re in France. Did you - Did you not know that?”

Mr Graves looks at him like he’s just said something incredibly stupid. “What? You think
Grindelwald comes down here to chat with me?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” Credence mumbles.

Graves shakes his head, “It’s not your fault,” he mutters. He lowers his gaze, staring stonily at the
wall opposite. When he shifts his manacles clink together. “France. Fuck. ”
“How long have you been here?” Credence asks.

Mr Graves shrugs, “I’ve no idea.”

“Why does he keep you here?” he asks, when it becomes apparent Mr Graves isn’t about to
expand on that.

That earns him another sharp look, “For the potion - Merlin, do you know anything , boy?”

“Mr Grindelwald is teaching me…”

Mr Graves snorts, “Of course he is. He’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?”

Credence frowns, “Wh-What do you mean?”

But Mr Graves is shaking his head, “Doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Is he still using my
face?” When Credence nods Mr Graves bares his teeth, lets out a hiss of anger. He looks hopeless.
Hopeless and angry.

“People are looking for you,” Credence says, to try and lift his spirits.

“Oh, I bet they are if we’re in France.” He looks back up at Credence, “What happened in New
York? Did he find what he was looking for?”

Credence looks back towards the door, Mr Grindelwald could be back at any moment. “I don’t
know if - ”

“Please,” Mr Graves says.

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Mr Graves is quiet as he listens to Credence’s story and Credence tries to piece together his
thoughts. There must be a reason beyond the obvious that Mr Grindelwald has Mr Graves chained
in here. It is for the greater good, for his goal of changing the world, whatever that may be and
really, there is no reason for Credence to feel sympathy for this man.

Goldstein never shut up about you lot, he had said. Like Credence and his family were an
annoyance and Credence remembers that day with frightening clarity, that woman with hard
brown eyes, her face set with determination, coming across his Ma hitting him. He’d seen her
before, dogging them in the streets as they handed out leaflets. She’d tried to speak to Modesty
first, waiting until Ma’s back was turned to kneel down before his sister and talk in hushed tones.

“What did she say to you?” Credence had asked later.

“She asked about Ma, if she was treating us right.”

“What did you say?”

Modesty had raised on shoulder in a shrug, her eyes very far away. “Said I didn’t know any
better.”

It was Chastity’s turn next and Ma had caught her that time, hollering at her, shaming her in front
of the crowds that had gathered to watch, yelling that she was a witch, that she was evil, that she
was attempting to lure her children away and Mr Graves - Mr Grindelwald - one of them - had
appeared at the woman’s side, taken her by the elbow and yanked her away.

Mr Graves hadn’t looked back at them. Not until after the woman attacked Ma.

They had been outside the house. Credence had gotten home late. He’d lost himself in the city, in
walking, ended up having to walk miles back and miss dinner. Ma had been furious. She’d made
stew, had waited up for him, had meant for him to scrub the floors before bed and he couldn’t
very well do that now at past midnight , he had to be up at the crack of dawn to copy out more
leaflets.

So she’d yelled, taken Credence out back and whipped him, on his palm, on his back, once in her
fury across his chest and he’d deserved it, no matter what Mr Grindelwald whispered late at night
as he ran his fingers across the raised puckered scars.

Credence had been on his knees, begging, “Please, Mama, I’ll be good - I won’t be late again - I
promise - I promise - ”

Ma wouldn’t have killed him, he’s pretty sure.

The woman had come upon them then and Credence doesn’t know if she’d been watching the
whole time or if it had just been happenstance but there had been a bolt of red light and his Ma
had been on the ground.

It had been a blur.

Credence had stood; shaking, bleeding and the woman had her hands up, had been talking in a
low soothing voice, had been reaching out to him, “It’s alright,” she’d been saying. “I won’t hurt
you, I’m sorry, I know you’re frightened but -” Credence had backed away, covered his face with
his hands to make everything go away, to make everything stop . And Ma had been groaning on
the ground and everything seemed to be happening very fast until Mr Graves - Mr Grindelwald -
had arrived and taken Credence’s wrists gently, pulled them away from his face and spoken in
gentle, soothing tones.

(“He should have obliviated you,” Mr Graves says when Credence back tracks to that evening.

“He said he wanted me to remember, he wanted me to remember there were people who would
help.”)

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Mr Graves says, very carefully when Credence is finished
talking. He glances towards the door and then looks back up at Credence. “Are you going to help
me?” he asks, finally.

Credence swallows. “I don’t know.”

Mr Graves nods, his expression is blank. “You better get back, then. I wouldn’t want you to get in
trouble.”

When Mr Grindelwald gets back he’s in high spirits, Credence has spent the rest of his absence
fretting about Mr Graves, chained up in the case. He has no idea whether the man is being fed. He
must be, somehow, Mr Grindelwald must have a system or he would have died long ago.

He shudders at that thought.

Once, when he was young and it was just him and Ma and Chastity, they had gone on a
pilgrimage to Salem and left Credence behind, locked in the bedroom with a bucket of water and a
meagre amount of food. They had been gone a week or so, got back before Credence got too
weak to move but -

He knows what it’s like to be kept in a very small room.

“Cheer up, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says, when he gets back, cupping Credence’s cheek as he
passes.

He keeps his promise, hands Credence a toy wand and starts teaching him basic spells. He says he
doesn’t want to risk giving Credence a new wand before he can muster some semblance of
control. It seems reasonable, so Credence spends the next few days learning spells and wand
movement and stances.

It becomes easier between them, as though something has shifted that Credence cannot name. Mr
Grindelwald seems lighter , he smiles more, he laughs or perhaps it’s Credence who has changed.
There’s less suffocating fear, less gnawing doubt about whether Mr Grindelwald really intends to
teach him things. Maybe it’s knowing about Mr Graves, knowing that Mr Grindelwald has no
idea Credence has stumbled upon his prisoner. It’s the knowledge that he could let Mr Graves go
if he chose to but won’t.

It feels good. Like he’s protecting Mr Grindelwald somehow.

He doesn’t ask about Mr Graves until Mr Grindelwald takes him into the case to prepare more of
his potion. The door to Mr Graves’ cell is shut and Credence has thought about telling Mr
Grindelwald that he knows, has had it on the tip of his tongue over dinner and late at night and on
occasional walks but there has always been something holding him back.

“What was he like?” he asks, quietly as Mr Grindelwald explains the dangers of the potion, of
accidentally dropping in the hair of two people or of animals. “Mr Graves, I mean.”

Mr Grindelwald glances at him over the top of the cauldron and Credence drops his gaze
automatically. “Well, you know he was an auror and what that meant for him. I only knew him
very briefly, you understand, but he seemed a brash, arrogant man. Very intelligent and good with
people if he wanted to be. Surprisingly well connected for a man of his demeanor.”

“Is that why you picked him?” Credence asks.

Mr Grindelwald smiles as he stirs in the boomslang skin, “It certainly helped.”

“And no one noticed?” Credence asks, after a beat.

“No. Not one for personal relationships, our Mr Graves, I’m afraid and as you know, my dear, I
can be very persuasive.”

Credence nods. That must be lonely, he thinks. Modesty and Chastity would have noticed if he’d
been replaced, he thinks. Hopes.

“Could you fetch me the lacewing flies? They’re just on that table there.”

Credence stands and crosses the room, rummaging through the glass jars he finds there and
picking out the lacewings. The jar is made of thick green glass and Credence holds it up to the
lantern, peering in at the still bugs, a tangle of limb and delicate wings. Mr Grindelwald isn’t
looking at him, he’s concentrating on the bubbling liquid he’s stirring.

“Where do you go?” Credence asks, as he walks back across to the cauldron. “When you leave.”

Mr Grindelwald sets down the heavy iron spoon. “I suppose you should be told,” he says, quietly,
like he’s not quite talking to Credence. “Yes. Yes, it may be for the best. But first, the lacewings.”
He holds out his hand for the jar and Credence passes it across. Mr Grindelwald extracts a few
and drops them into the liquid, giving it a final stir. He stands, smiles at Credence and says,
“Follow me.”

He leads Credence out of the room and into another with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Mr
Grindelwald searches the shelves and pulls out a small, battered old book that he lays atop the
writing desk in the centre of the room. He beckons Credence over. “Now, you won’t be able to
read this,” he says, as Credence reaches him. “It’s in my mother tongue.”

It looks to be a children’s book, once brightly coloured, now faded and well worn. He can’t read
the text on the cover but the symbol in the centre is recognisable. He reaches out, brushes his
fingers across it, “This is…”

Mr Grindelwald smiles, he reaches across to Credence and snags the chord on the pendant, lifting
it up and over Credence’s shirt so that it swings free. “Yes. It is the symbol of the Deathly
Hallows.”

“What are they?”

Mr Grindelwald opens the book, flicks through to a page bearing illustrations: a wand haloed in
gold, a shimmering piece of fabric, a stone bleeding black. “Three very powerful magical objects.
The Elder Wand, The Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility. I’m trying to find them.”
Credence frowns, “Why?”

“I told you that I was tired of hiding, didn’t I?” He says, with a wicked smile. “I have plans,
Credence. Such plans. Just think of the things we could do if we didn’t have to hide. Just think .”

Mr Grindelwald promises Credence a wand on his return the next time he leaves though he’s
quick to point out that Credence probably has no need for one. He’s powerful enough for
wandless magic, Mr Grindelwald assures, but a wand will lend him some control.

“Can I not come with you?” he asks, blurting it out before Mr Grindelwald leaves. He chastises
himself when Mr Grindelwald looks across at him. “Sorry, sir, I only meant - ”

“ Credence ,” Mr Grindelwald says, with a roll of his eyes. “You really must stop trembling. How
many times must I tell you that you needn’t apologise for asking questions. And don’t apologise
for apologising.”

Credence ducks his head, cheeks colouring.

“But no, not this time. Soon though,” Mr Grindelwald assures. “I wouldn’t want to risk you
getting hurt.”

Credence wastes no time in going down to Mr Graves’ cell once Mr Grindelwald has left. He
finds the man awake this time, lounging against the wall, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He
looks up when Credence comes in with a slight quirk of his eyebrows. “His majesty has left then,
I take it?” he asks.

Credence inclines his head in a nod.

Mr Graves nods. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Credence?”

Credence considers. He’s not entirely sure why he’s here. When Mr Grindelwald is around, he
hardly spares a thought to Mr Graves. It’s easy to forget about him, locked away in the case. It’s
only when Credence is alone that his thoughts drift to the cell.

Are you going to help me? Mr Graves had asked.

I don’t know.

“I thought you might be lonely,” he says, eventually.

Mr Graves raises an eyebrow. “Did you, now? Well, I suppose that’s a word for it.”

Credence takes a few steps towards him. There’s an open gash on his left cheek, along the bone. It
looks fresh.

“Did he do that?” Credence finds himself asking.

Mr Graves snorts, “Who else would do it?”

Credence swallows.

“You’re thinking I must have done something wrong,” Mr Graves says, looking up at Credence
with something akin to pity in his eyes. “That that’s the only reason your Mr Grindelwald would
be so cruel.” He shakes his head and the pity is gone.
“Did you?” Credence asks.

Mr Graves shakes his head with a humourless smile but he doesn’t respond so Credence hovers,
trying to imagine the hundreds of scenarios that could have led Mr Grindelwald to strike him.

“Are you just going to stand there staring?” Mr Graves asks, a rough edge to his words. It’s not
quite anger or annoyance.

“Mr Grindelwald says you didn’t have anyone back in New York.”

Mr Graves peers at him curiously for a few moments, “Mr Grindelwald said - Oh. You’re trying
to figure out if you’re going to help me.”

“No,” Credence says, automatically though maybe that’s a little true.

Mr Graves shifts and looks away, staring bleakly at the wall. “Is that how you’ll measure my
worth then, boy? By the amount of people who’ll miss me?”

“I told you, I’m not - ” Credence begins.

“Spare me,” Mr Graves snaps. “You’re a terrible liar and as it happens, no, I didn’t really have
anyone in New York. I had my work, I had my team. That’s all I needed.”

“What about that woman?”

“Goldstein?” He gives a huff of laughter. “No. Not really my type. Why? Mr Grindelwald didn’t -
”

“No,” Credence cuts him off quickly, thinking of gentle touches in alleyways and behind his Ma’s
house. “No. He didn’t.”

There’s silence then, Mr Graves staring off into the middle distance, Credence watching him
closely. It’s wrong that he’s being kept here but - but -

“Were you good at your job?”

Mr Graves looks surprised at that. “Well, I was the President’s right hand,” he says, after a beat.
“So what do you think?”

“And you helped people? You kept them safe?”

“I did what I could,” Graves says stiffly.

“Did you fight in the war?”

Graves snorts, “Did I fuck . Why should I care about Europeans and their problems? They were
doing fine on their own anyway.” He looks up at Credence shaking his head, “Oh, I see, that’s
made me a coward in your eyes, has it? Well, I’ve news for you: most American wizards were
against the war. It was a muggle conflict with muggle fighters. We kept an eye out, to be sure but
no. No I did not fight.”

“Mr Grindelwald thinks wizards and muggles should live together,” Credence says, quietly.

“Is that what he’s told you?” Mr Graves shakes his head again. “Look, kid, there’s a reason your
man has to hide his face. There’s a reason he’s Undesirable Number One.”

Credence thinks back to the Wanted poster: murder , it said, theft, mayhem and inciting violence.
“He’s been good to me,” Credence says.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Credence looks down at the floor, thinking. His left hand still stings from Ma’s punishments even
though the scars are long gone. “Did you know?” he asks, eventually.

Graves frowns, “Know what?”

“About - About my Ma. About what she was - what she was doing to us.”

Graves sighs, glancing up at Credence with a pained expression. “We didn’t know you had
magic,” is all he says.

Later that evening, Credence sits on his bed, thinking.

And thinking.

And thinking.

He goes back to Mr Graves in the morning because even though there’s hurt still bright and
stinging it feels wrong not to. Mr Graves looks surprised when Credence enters his cell, “I didn’t
think you’d be back,” he says.

Credence doesn’t respond, he stays by the door, leaning against and studying the man before him.
“I can’t help you,” he says, decisively.

A flicker of something passes across Mr Grave’s face, his expression tightens. “Credence,” he
says, in a very firm tone. “Credence, I know you’ve not been treated well before but - ”

“Mr Grindelwald has been good to me, Mr Graves,” Credence interrupts. “He - He helped me
when no one else would and you - you did nothing.”

“ Credence, ” Graves says but Credence is already turning, opening the door and walking out.

“Credence!” Mr Graves shouts after him.

He is tending to the garden when Mr Grindelwald returns, he hears the crack from the cottage and
turns. Mr Grindelwald will realise quickly he’s not inside and come and find him, Credence goes
back to dead-heading until he hears the backdoor swing open.

Mr Grindelwald grabs him roughly by the arm before Credence can say anything, “Get inside,” he
hisses. “ Quickly. ”

He lets Credence go in the kitchen and Credence stumbles away. “Wh - What happened?”

Mr Grindelwald is pacing, “It’s not safe here anymore,” he says, darkly. “They’ve finally caught
on to this,” he gestures to his face and Credence frowns.

“But - I thought you knew…” he mumbles.

“I knew they would figure it out eventually,” Mr Grindelwald says, distractedly. “I just thought
 we’d have more time. MACUSA and the European councils don’t get on, I hoped they would be
reluctant to share information.”

“But the Wanted poster,” Credence says.

Mr Grindelwald stops pacing, “The poster?” he repeats.

“Y-yes,” Credence says, “I- In the shop. I told you, it had - it had - ”

Mr Grindelwald speaks his next words very slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “You said it
had my picture on it, Credence.”

Credence finds himself backing away until he hits the counter, reaching behind him to grip it to
keep himself steady. “Y-yes,” he says, gaze fixed on the floor. “A- a - and Mr Graves’. I - I
thought I told you - I -”

He hears the slap before he feels it.

A sharp crack that has his head snapping to the side, has a coppery tang spreading throughout his
mouth.

Ma had never hit him that hard.

His hand shakes as he reaches up to touch his cheek, warm and stinging and that’s when the pain
kicks in. He stares at Mr Grindelwald, eyes wide, horrified. “I - I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m
sorry, I’m sorry, I thought I - ”

“How dare you not tell me!” Mr Grindelwald yells. “How dare you!? After all that I’ve done you
ungrateful little - ” he cuts himself off, mouth twisting unpleasantly. “‘I’ll deal with you later,” he
growls and this time, when he lurches towards Credence he grips him by the collar rather than the
arm and yanks through the cottage to the case.

“Get in,” he snarls, all but shoving Credence down the stairs.

He pulls out his wand as he drags Credence down the corridor, waves his wand at a gap in the
wall and a door appears. It opens with another flick and before Credence can begin to process
what’s happening, he’s being thrown into a dark room and sound of a heavy lock clicking is
ringing in his ears.

Chapter End Notes

thanks for all the comments

End Notes

so like i said, i'm not great at multi-chaptered stuff, the three potential pieces are just that,
potential and i havent really decided whether im going to go for credence busting
 grindlewald out (and learning he's grindlewald and just having a fucking breakdown) or
newt and co busting him out before that happens.

thoughts?

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