Chapter Text
The New York Ghost, 28/12/1926
'Genuine Graves Forced to Go to Ground By Grindelwald'
By Alma Crickett
The discovery of Gellert Grindelwald masquerading within the high ranks of the Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) shocked our nation's wizarding community. The notorious and highly dangerous European wizard, who was apprehended by MACUSA officials just last Wednesday, sought to strike a foothold of control within the western wizarding world, hoping to mimic the his rigid reign of his conquered continent, Europe.
Porpentina Goldstein, an Auror from MACUSA's ranks, was available for comment. "It was very fortunate that Grindelwald was captured when he was," she said. "If it hadn't been for Newt and his creatures, [Grindelwald] may have gone unnoticed for some time, and more havoc may have been caused."
Ms Goldstein is of course referring to Newt Scamander, who illegally transported a magical menagerie of creatures into the heart of New York, in order to 'buy an Appoloosa Puffskein', within complete disregard for New York's strict ban on magical fauna. However, Mr Scamander, who has since returned to his native Britain, played a crucial role in the capture of Grindelwald, using a variety of his pets to subdue the dark wizard.
It was Mr Scamander's stern insistence that his menagerie were innocent of the destruction being wrought in No-maj areas of New York that allowed MACUSA to suspect a crooked insider within their midst. And upon Grindelwald's capture, MACUSA discovered that the dark wizard was masquerading as Auror, Director of Magical Security and head of MACUSA's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Percival Graves, a well respected member of New York's tight-knit wizarding community. It is sinisterly unclear just how long Grindelwald had impersonated Graves, and his intentions within MACUSA remain unknown.
Following this scandalous discovery, and Grindelwald's extradition to Nurmengard to await trial by the International Confederation of Wizards, Department of Magical Law Enforcement officials began the process of combing the original Graves' house yesterday, which Grindelwald had been inhabiting to avert suspicion. The investigators had hopes of uncovering more evidence against Grindelwald and the extensive list of crimes committed whilst impersonating Graves, as well as potential hints to the latter's whereabouts. Or, more sinisterly, where his remains may have been deposited. However, earlier today during the investigation, a case was found, not unalike the one toted by Mr Scamander. But rather than housing a variety of exotic beasts, this case held a extensively weakened, barely conscious Percival Graves.
Kept under the Imperius curse, and emotionally and physically traumatized, Graves was transported immediately to MACUSA's infirmary. A Department of Magical Law Enforcement colleague, while reluctant to comment over the holiday season, reported that Graves is under constant observation, and is receiving the highest standard of care from the institution's top Healers. A potential discharge date has not yet been decided.
More details on page 12: 'Credence Barebone: The Sad Story of an Obscurial Squib'.
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Voices growing louder above him, muffled, the sound of objects thumping and scraping the wooden floor. It's dark, always so dark, and he tries to stir. The enchantment doesn't stop him, no threads of it binding his limbs, around his mouth, keeping him still and silent. It's gone...gone.
He had to try. Who knew when He would be back. If He was above, rooting around, maybe if he could try to go for the wizard's wand... Feebly, he flexes his fingers, mouth open in surprise. His leg spikes with excruciating pain when he attempts to move it, a strangled hiss escaping him as he looks up into the darkness, up and up towards the noise.
The locks on the closet whir open, and daylight blinds him, searing his vision bright white. Cringing back against the filthy confines, pulling himself more tightly into a ball, despite his injured leg, he hears their voices. Gasps of shock, a muttered swear word or two, urgent orders to contact others. His name. So long, all alone, apart from visits from Him....
A spell is uttered softly, and he feels his body lift up from his prison, as tears run down his face. Up and up towards the light that sears through his eyelids.
"Help," Percival Graves croaks, voice faint from disuse. "Help me."
*****
The apple gleams at him from the market stall basket, perched on top of less grand fellows, red skin a tantalising shade of ruby red.
Credence's mouth fills with saliva as he contemplates the memory of biting into an apple, the feeling of the crisp flesh, the taste of the sweet juice. Ma had permitted them apples on special occasions, like the adoption of a new child. Or the catching of a witch.
His hands tremble as the memory of Ma and her unwavering cruelty freezes him in place. She's gone. You killed her. Tears course down his cheeks and he stiffly turns on his heel and walks back down the alleyway, away from the delicious smells of the market stalls, despite the hunger clawing at his belly.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Not here as in the alleyway- well, really he shouldn't be lurking, looking to steal, stealing was a sin- but alive. Breathing. When he'd been hit by at least thirteen of those shining lights that emerged from the wizards' and witches' wands in the train tunnel. He'd been in pain, so much pain- like his very soul was being ripped apart within him. And suddenly Credence was floating, up and up, out of the hole in the subway ceiling, and flying through the busy streets of New York as his vision faded.
Then he woke up and it was raining. He was propped against this very alley's wall, sitting in the filth, and water was soaking through the hole in his left shoe and into his sock. And the heaviness that had always beseiged his chest and shoulders, crushing him, weighing him down- gone. The shadow, the thing inside him that wanted to destroy, to kill, was obliterated by the spells of the wizards.
But Credence had learned. He had learned how to survive, alone. And turning to look over his shoulder back the way he came, back towards the stall packed with fresh produce, he gave a twitch of his fingers.
The stallholder, caught up in packing an old lady's basket with beets, saw nothing as the apple zoomed off its stack and across the road. The automobiles and civilians that packed the busy city road took no notice as the delicious apple flew through the air, down into the alleyway, and into Credence's outstretched hand.
Inhaling the sweet, mouthwatering smell before taking a large, indulgent bite, Credence veered out of the alleyway and down a street set with shop windows.
At first, Credence had been lost without the shadow. Accustomed to the heavy burden of it, he had wandered New York night and day, numb and solitary. No bed to go home to. It had been a freezing winter; Christmas night a few days prior had been particularly chilly, despite the holiday lights. But by some miracle, he hadn't frozen to death just yet.
Day by day after the train station, he had recovered his wits. Ten days of homelessness later, he had learned to keep an eye out for wizards and witches, though they all thought him dead. He could spot them now in the crowd, like some new kind of sense. Some gave him odd looks in the street should he come across them, though he desperately tried to avoid them. One day, he thought he saw his own face staring back at him from the front of a newspaper held by a moustached wizard, who peered across the street at Credence suspiciously until he fled. He found the safest places to sleep when one had nowhere were dark corners of alleyways, or the occasional needy shelter, though he tried to avoid human contact. People asked too many questions he didn't have the answers to.
And of course he had learned of this new, life changing ability. Credence hadn't meant to do it, the first time. But four days ago he was starving, and surely the bakery wouldn't miss one loaf of bread in the pile stacked haphazardly by the shop door. He hadn't even reached for it. Just longingly wanted and wished- and before he knew it had happened, a loaf of bread had deposited itself into his arms from six feet away, and Credence had the baker hot on his heels as he sped away. By some miracle, he made into into the maze-like confines of another alleyway, and had stared, with shaky hands, at the warm, fresh bread. That had flown, with invisible wings, into his arms. He had fallen to his knees and prayed for forgiveness, sobbing, before ravenousness won and he gobbled the food down. And then he had walked nonstop, terrified that it was all a good dream, too good, and he would awake to find the void once more. But after collapsing beneath the sturdy boughs of a tree in Central Park, Credence woke, and with bated breath, found that he could summon sticks on the ground to him by simply crooking his finger.
Stealing was wrong, Credence acknowledged guiltily, as he turned left this time. But he had no other means of supporting himself. And it was so, so easy, to stretch out his hand, to feel the golden sparks of goodness dance through his fingertips....if Ma could have felt this, would she have hated and feared it quite so much?
He was too scared to test the extent of his abilities. This was a gift, a precious, precious gift, and if he wasn't careful, and was wasteful and greedy, it might disappear as suddenly as it had appeared. And the grey void in Credence's chest that had been so abruptly filled with what felt like golden, airy liquid, would empty and become a void once more.
That being said, he knew he could do more. Another accident, two days ago- a policeman had caught up with him after he pilfered a whole roast chicken. Careless, he should have been more vigilant- but when the man's hand had enclosed his wrist, Credence felt the words leave his tongue before he could stop them.
"Leave me alone!"
But the weight of them seemed to push upon the air, as though there was a driving force behind them, and the policeman's gaze became blank before Credence's eyes. Then the man apologised, and walked off robotically, leaving Credence leaning against a nearby wall, shaking like a leaf.
The street he walks upon now looks familiar, Credence realises. Residential townhouses boxed in line, like books on a bookshelf, a typical New York neighbourhood in the mid-morning. A young girl skipped along the street with a hula hoop, blonde pigtails bouncing as she is chased, laughing, by an elder brother. But the rest of the street was blissfully quiet, no cars.
Then the realisation crashes upon Credence's shoulders.
Months ago, a moonlit street, a steadying hand upon Credence's shoulders. A reassuring voice leading him up the pathway of the very house he stood before now, ushering him inside. Skilled hands healing his after numerous bites of his belt, a warm meal, a comfortable, warm shoulder to rest his weary head upon.
Mister Graves. This is where Mister Graves lived.
Credence is frozen, unable to tear his eyes from the polished wooden door, the bronze knocker. Mister Graves- who had been so kind, who had helped him, healed him. But Mister Graves, who had demanded information, given him ultimatums, and once, hit him. Who had used him.
And to Credence's horror, amidst the tangle of his confused emotions, the polished door opens. A wizard Credence doesn't recognise emerges out of the half-open door, but he doesn't see him. He's far too busy supporting something, no, someone, an arm around the shoulders, and Credence can't see who. A second wizard emerges, supporting a dirty, dishevelled wizard between himself and the first wizard, face grave as a witch follows them out the door and onto the stoop.
The middle wizard seems to be barely conscious. Caked with dirt and grime, one leg hung limp to the ground, and his robes were torn and bloodstained. A scratchy mess of stubble stained his cheeks, and his hair was filthy and matted, shaven in some places but long in others. The wizard suddenly stirs, groaning, and Credence doesn't dare move, afraid the other wizards and witch will notice him as they argue on the stoop, the witch having difficulty locking the home's door. But the middle wizard raises his weary, painstricken gaze, and locks eyes with Credence.
Immediately, the injured wizard's face blanches, and Credence forgets how to breathe. He knows those eyes, the deep brown boring into his.
"Credence," Mister Graves mouths, face stricken, before the wizards and witch supporting him turn upon their heels and are gone, leaving Credence alone in the quiet New York street.
As soon as the four disappear, a howl of panic and grief escapes Credence before he can stop it. He charges up the stairs and onto the stoop, but the wizards do not reappear. Grasping the doorhandle, sobs choking his throat, he twists the handle roughly, even though he knows the door is locked.
Another frustrated snarl threatens to escape him, but the door unlocks, swinging open slightly, and Credence, despite his panic, silently prays thanks for his newfound ability. He scuttles inside, hurriedly slamming the door behind him.
Where have they taken him? Where have they taken his Mister Graves?
Credence stumbles blindly through the house, dimly remembering its layout from when he was last here, so long ago. There are boxes and belongings strewn everywhere, as though people- those wizards and witch, maybe- have been searching the house for something. A distinct air of neglect hangs about the silent place. But Mister Graves' house used to be so tidy and well-kept....
Credence pauses, shaking, in front of a muck-flecked mirror. He catches sight of his grime-trimmed reflection, of his own pale, slightly dirty face.
Then again, well-kept was Mister Graves. He had always looked so polished; black and white robes forever immaculate, slick and clean-shaven, unalike the dishevelled layabout with Mister Graves' face Credence had just seen leave. But that sort of filth and grime would have been accumulated over some time...he had been far dirtier than Credence was after a whole week of living rough.
Credence finds himself in the kitchen area of the house, and numbly pushes aside some boxes to collapse onto a familiar chair, dust exploding into the air at the push of his weight against the stuffing of the seat. He's sat in this chair before. The first night he met Mr Graves, a little while after that witch attacked Ma.
His head is in utter turmoil as quiet sobs continue to escape him, and he raises his knees to his chest, hugging himself.
Was Mister Graves okay? Would he come back? And why did he look altogether devastated and amazed to see Credence? Dimly, Credence remembers the incident in the train tunnel. Inbetween the heavy blows of the spells raining down upon him, and his own agony-filled cries, a voice had screamed for the merciless wizards to stop, pleaded with them. Mister Graves' voice, he acknowledged, his gut twisting.
The inconsistencies between Mister Graves' actions were too complex to even begin to contemplate in Credence's current state. He could feel a headache building within his temples. Dehydration, maybe- he hadn't had a drink of water since the previous night.
Drying his tears, Credence picked his way through the messy kitchen to the faucet, and finding a mostly clean glass, filled and drained it twice. Feeling slightly better physically, he took it upon himself to tentatively explore the house, careful not to dislodge anything. Apart from the aforementioned air of disuse, which was odd, and the belongings deposited around as though they had been searched through, the house's layout was still familiar. Credence found a few dusty cans in the back of a kitchen cupboard, and had a sating meal of beans for the first time in quite a while.
He kept himself occupied by exploring the contents of the house. Snooping was a sin, his conscience recalled, but Credence felt that he was owed some recompense. Surely staying in another man's house, eating his food and exploring his surroundings was fair trade for Mister Graves' betrayal?
Credence noticed a lot more this second visit than he had during the first. There were no photos of family members in Mister Graves' house, apart from a small, faded photograph of a small, middle-aged woman that must have been Mister Graves' mother. Mister Graves had her raven hair, and her tight mouth. She stares at him so keenly he has to turn away.
The townhouse was every inch a bachelor pad, and Credence took his time observing the littlest details, like a visitor to a museum. Unconsciously hoping to discover the truth of Mister Graves' existence, his true self, through his environment.
But Credence found many discrepancies, just as he had with Mr Graves' behavior. Some of the house was spotless, apart from the occasional evidence of someone else's prying, and other parts were messy, with dirty, crumpled clothes piled in heaps, and used dishes littering a tabletop. It was as though two very different people had been living within the home. But Mr Graves, to Credence's best knowledge, lived alone. The second bedroom had a decent two inches of dust over all surfaces when he discovered it.
The sun was setting when Credence paused his exploration in favour of hygiene. He couldn't remember the last time he had bathed, and Mister Graves had a shower. It was rather exciting and terrifying to use it for the first time, rather than a metal tub of barely tepid water, and Credence cringed when the hot water hit his skin. But after a few moments, once he became accustomed to what felt like deliciously warm rain, it was extremely refreshing to wash away the dirt and grime of the streets. He tried not to think of Mr Graves showering in here previously, of what the hot water would look like sliding off his bare skin.
Surely Mister Graves wouldn't mind if Credence borrowed some of his clothes, just for tonight. After carefully peering into several cupboards in the wardrobe, Credence settled upon a plain, long-sleeved button up shirt, and a pair of trousers. Both were about the right size, but Mister Graves was broader than Credence, and the trousers really needed a belt. But Credence wasn't keen on wearing a belt anymore. He'd been holding up his pants with a piece of string the past week. The smell of the clothes comforted Credence as he slipped them on, and it was as though he was receiving a full-bodied embrace from Mr Graves again. They smelt like him.
Now clean, and after another can of beans, Credence felt his eyes begin to droop. Sleeping rough made it difficult to get a proper night's rest, and it had been an exhausting day. It felt wrong to slide into Mister Graves' bed, pulling the covers around himself and staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, but Credence gave in to temptation. He wanted, needed to feel close to the other man, despite his conflicted opinions.
And as his eyes drifted closed, Credence sent his usual prayer to Christ and the Holy Father. A thank you for his magic. And a prayer for Mr Graves.