fantastic holes and where to find them

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Percival asks bemused. He does not really expect an answer, already getting used to Credence’s little idiosyncrasies.

Percival walks out of the study and towards the entrance of the apartment where he grabs his coat and puts it on, then hesitates, looking at Credence. He takes a hat and a scarf off the coat rack and hands them to the boy.

“Please, put those on, it’s cold outside. I’m afraid I don’t have another coat here, it’s in storage.”

He uses his wand to dispel multiple charms he had put on the door - both to keep people out and to keep things in - then finally unlocks the two physical locks and opens the door.

Percival does not live on the top floor, but luckily the apartment building is new - and posh - enough to have been outfitted with the very modern luxury of an elevator, which they take up to the roof.

The crisp cold air hits him in the face once they exit the elevator. It’s a beautiful sunny day for early December in New York, but the harsh wind blows right through his thick cashmere coat and makes him shiver. He pulls it tighter around himself.

“As you have seen, we make use of pigeons to deliver most of our mail,” Percival explains. He leads Credence to a pigeon coup. “These pigeons come with the house. they are mostly used for errands.”

He takes some bird feed from a container, takes Credence’s hand, palm up and puts the feed in his hand. As he opens the little door to the coup, one of the pigeons hops out onto his hand and picks at the seeds. Percival shrinks the letter to the tailor and attaches it to the pigeon’s leg.

When the pigeon had its fill, it takes off to the sky.

“Of course, for more personal letters, it’s always prudent to have a personal bird.”

Past the pigeon coup there is a small wooden shed with bigger cages inside. Some are empty, some have different breeds of birds in it. Percival opens the cage with a grumpy looking Harris’ hawk. “This is Gondolphus,” he explains as he extends his arm and the bird hops onto it, but not before giving Percival a disdainful look. “I named him after my grandfather, they are both grumpy bastards.” The hawk screeches. “Lovable, grumpy bastards,” Percival amends with a smile.

“You can pet him if you want, just move slowly and gently.”

“This letter is important,” he tells the hawk, “I trust you to deliver it to Tina discretely. There’s a juicy mouse in it for you.”

"I don't know, I—maybe they'd get spooked."

Credence puts his jacket back on and follows at Mr. Graves' heels. He has heard of carrier pigeons but has never seen an aviary from the inside before. And these must be special birds, trained to deliver magical letters and items...! Credence's so-long-subdued curiosity quickens his heartbeat.

Credence accepts the winter items and lets Mr. Graves know, "Oh, that's all right. Thank you." He's used to the cold and this borrowed jacket is only marginally thinner than his old one.

As Mr. Graves undoes all the locking mechanisms, Credence cringes, watching. So many. And rightfully so.

They walk up a corridor and enter an elevator just as elegant as the rest of the complex's interior. In rapt silence, Credence follows after Mr. Graves. Finally, the man seems somewhat energetic.

Once outside on the rooftop, the sharp, icy wind and brutally bright sun assault the pair, so coddled by that eternally cozy apartment. Credence instinctively inhales through his nose—the cold zings under his skin, invades his lungs. It pulls him straight like an invisible string; combined with the stinging sun, wakefulness slams into Credence like a fist to the stomach. Regardless of the discomfort, of his complaining-again wounds under this assault of the elements, he feels incredibly alive.

Credence keeps his hands behind his back as he tails Mr. Graves towards the pigeon coop. The animals flutter their wings and chatter in their very own language. Black beads of eyes both stare at Credence and miss their target completely. Credence nods curtly for Mr. Graves' explanation, eyes on the restless animals.

No explanation precurses Mr. Graves getting hold of Credence's hand—Credence startles before he schools himself; this is Mr. Graves, after all, nothing to worry about. And, yes: birdfeed pours into his upturned palm, and although he can't quite hold his silly arm still, the pigeons swarm to the offered treat. Flashes of memories threaten to cloud Credence's perception—pecking of beaks, scratching of tiny claws, Mr. Graves' hand still on—but moment after moment passes without escalation, without pain. Once the birds have nothing more to gain, they flutter off and leave Credence to meekly wipe his hands together to get rid of the last crumbs.

Credence's heart pounds, still, as he watches Mr. Graves using magic on the letter. He feels lightheaded, sweaty—not now; nothing even happened... Calm down.

"Personal...? I... Yeah, that makes sense..."

Credence's neck straightens all over again at the sight of the raptor. He hadn't even noticed it before, it had behaved so meekly in its cage. The confident, almost carefree way Mr. Graves handles this other pet reassures Credence that there is no harm waiting in those claws...or that beak. He had never seen one of these so up close. They are...imposing.

Credence swallows before he dares to step a bit closer.

Mr. Graves' explanations betray the image of what nature clearly created to hunt and kill. Gondolphus and Credence lock eyes—the feeling of getting judged crawls right under Credence's skin. The hawk cocks its head left and right as if considering its verdict of the newcomer. Ultimately, Credence finds himself not getting his eyes clawed out, so he takes this as a win.

Unable to react to Mr. Graves' anecdote, Credence simply nods and shuffles closer, careful not to move too sudden.

(You really never learn, do you?)

Credence swallows; he raises his hand. Slow and gentle, like Mr. Graves said—ah, how soft.

"Wow," he mumbles, mostly impressed that he still has all his fingers.

In the washroom, Credence washes himself. Next, he neatly folds the lent pajamas and places them atop the bathtub’s rim. Now, for the fresh set of clothes.

Credence takes a deep breath and reluctantly picks up this newest donation. As the clothes drop to unfold from his grip, they entangle Credence in the same hurtful, nagging feelings he’s harbored ever since crossing Mr. Graves’ apartment’s doorstep. He must push them aside. These clothes may be too fine for him but Mr. Graves’ mustn’t be seen with anyone dressed in ripped, soiled rags. This is the only acceptable option, so accept Credence does.

A white shirt, black trousers, black jacket—simple yet exquisite. The slim black tie slides so smoothly through Credence’s clumsy fingers he almost drops it. Fresh, untouched-looking (and feeling) socks and a pair of just-so large enough shoes, and Credence finds himself ready to leave the house. He swallows as he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

His cheeks glow hot, obvious. After so many years of the very same garments against his skin, he expected…joy? Relief? And yet, discomfort plagues him, now that the time has come. So used had he grown to those fabrics and fits.

Credence closes up on the mirror to inspect details, then backs up to catch the whole picture. So…strange. The hem of these trousers show his ankles just like his old pair did, though the legs are much wider; the collar of the shirt doesn’t strangle him even with the topmost button. The jacket hangs off him, though the sleeves are a tad too short.

Credence realizes he has been staring at himself for far too long. He grabs the pajamas and exits the bathroom to put them away under his pillow. … Maybe the blanket’s better.

Credence clears his throat as he looks around. He should be more perplexed to suddenly find himself in such a grand place, but the past weeks’ events seem to have numbed him. All the outrage, the confusion… He’s here and he has a task, and that is all he can stomach right now.

“The office… Right.”

Credence makes his way to where Mr. Graves’ went off to. The door sits slightly ajar. Credence gives it a gentle knock, ear to the wood.

“I’m all done, Mr. Graves.”

“Come on in.”

Percival has just finished writing the letter and is rolling up the parchment as Credence makes his presence known as timidly as Percival has already gotten used to the boy being. It boggles the mind how such destructive magical fury can be contained in such a mousy human.

Percival turns around, letter in hand. He gives the boy a once over. The clothes are as ill-fitting as he had expected them to be, but it’s undoubtedly an improvement to the rags he had found him in. Still, it won’t do to keep the young men in his hand-me-downs. He should remedy the situation.

He fixes the letter with a ribbon and puts it down on the table, then stands up and takes out his wand. Percival uses it to summon a blank piece of parchment and spells a quill to take notes.

“Alright, let’s see if remember which measurements my tailor used to take. Could you take the jacket off for me and spread your arms out to the sides?” he asks in a manner of a man who is used to people doing what he says.

He does not own a tape measure, but that’s what magic is for (not that Percival has done this before). He points his wand at Credence, trying to make the act as no-threatening as he can, and a line from the boy’s wrist to his shoulder light up. The quill notes down a measurement. Then the same thing happens around Credence’s neck, his chest, his waist, his hips, and finally inseam.

“That ought to do it,” declares Percival. He takes the parchment with the measurements on it and adds a request for four pairs of underthings, four pairs of socks, two pajamas, two undershirts, two shirts. trousers, pants, a jacket and a belt. That should do it for now. He is a well-esteemed client, so the payment will be settled next time he comes over. He needs a new wardrobe anyway.

“I’ll just go and send these two letters out,” Percival says.

He is about to walk past Credence when he hesitates. “Unless you’d like to come see the birds with me on the roof?” he asks. A bit of fresh air would probably do the boy some good.

Upon Mr. Graves' call, Credence threads himself through the gap in the door only to be taken aback by the interior. It makes sense that Mr. Graves would possess tons of books but in fact faced with said ton, Credence blinks in awe. The immaculately polished wood of the shelves and remaining furniture reminds Credence of an university library Ma snuck them into that one time to promote their fliers. He hesitantly steps further into the room. He perks at Mr. Graves' request.

"I—of course."

Credence comes up to the desk Mr. Graves resides behind on the singular chair this room has to offer. He slides the jacket off as asked. At the wrong end of a pointed wand, his confusion increases.

Credence misses his chance to question what Mr. Graves is doing, raising his wand at him. He remembers to raise his arms as he was asked, though. Fortunately, the slow, controlled movement of the wizard's wrist produces nothing more than a glowing line in the air. By invisible hand, a quill on the table comes to life and takes notes on a spare piece of paper. Credence's eyes widen in wonder while line after line is drawn into the air in front of him, scaling various of his measurements. It is over before it has even started; just like Ma (and then, when she was old enough to take over the chore, Chastity) used to do it. Credence leans over the table to sneak a glance at the writing just before the parchment snaps into a tight roll, generously scribbled upon yet untouched but for Mr. Graves' additional, short notes.

Credence rubs his wrists as he tries to focus on Mr. Graves' words—he has known about magic's existence for a bit now but actually seeing it used in everyday life still mesmerizes him. Credence nods along and gawps at the mention of the animals.

"That would be—! If that's possible?"

Credence’s stomach turns under Mr. Graves’ speech about money. It just doesn’t feel right to accept such riches basically out of nowhere and no way to repay the man. That money is still Mr. Graves’ and Credence has done little to deserve any kind of compensation. As a result, his determination to be as effortless of a subject as possible for the upcoming investigations grows.

“You are very generous and I don’t see how I deserve such treatment, but I—I appreciate it very much, sir. Thank you.” (The ‘we’ll see about that’ goes unsaid, naturally.)

Once Mr. Graves leaves to retrieve the clothing, Credence eyes the self-sufficient sink while he waits patiently. Mr. Graves returns soon and with an armful of clothes Credence accepts without thought on checking them. Fabrics stretch if needed or flap around on you; either way, they cover you. The weight now in Credence’s hold tells him the material will warm him sufficiently and that is all he could ask for.

“Thank you,” he repeats yet again, an honest, relieved smile on his face. With the meal in his belly and fresh clothes to dress in, his wounds soothed in last night’s bath and Mr. Graves’ and the other wizards’ assistance to rely on, anxiety begins to finally settle. “I’m sure this will be fine—more than that. I’ll get dressed right away and then we can proceed with the day whenever you are available.” Credence then proceeds to get up and leave for the washroom to change.

“Take your time, I will be in my office.”

He rummages through his drawers for some parchment and sits down to write.

Composing the letter is a little tricky. He does not want to give too much away to Tina, not just yet, for her own protection. He also suspects that his letters may be intercepted and monitored by MACUSA.

He eventually settles on something that sounds polite and proper and because of that will make Tina read between the lines. On the face of it, Percival asks Tina for Newt’s address to thank him for his help in capturing Grindlewald and therefore being an accessory to his rescue. Between the lines Tina will be able to read that he want to hear the full story from the man himself and that he is pissed for being kept in the dark about everything.

He seals the letter with a neutral seal. No need to draw any unnecessary attention after all.

In the washroom, Credence washes himself. Next, he neatly folds the lent pajamas and places them atop the bathtub's rim. Now, for the fresh set of clothes.

Credence takes a deep breath and reluctantly picks up this newest donation. As the clothes drop to unfold from his grip, they entangle Credence in the same hurtful, nagging feelings he's harbored ever since crossing Mr. Graves' apartment's doorstep. He must push them aside. These clothes may be too fine for him but Mr. Graves' mustn't be seen with anyone dressed in ripped, soiled rags. This is the only acceptable option, so accept Credence does.

A white shirt, black trousers, black jacket—simple yet exquisite. The slim black tie slides so smoothly through Credence's clumsy fingers he almost drops it. Fresh, untouched-looking (and feeling) socks and a pair of just-so large enough shoes, and Credence finds himself ready to leave the house. He swallows as he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

Credence closes up on the mirror to inspect details, then backs up to catch the whole picture. So…strange. The hem of these trousers show his ankles just like his old pair did, though the legs are much wider; the collar of the shirt doesn't strangle him even with the topmost button. The jacket hangs off him, though the sleeves are a tad too short.

Credence realizes he has been staring at himself for far too long. He grabs the pajamas and exits the bathroom to put them away under his pillow. … Maybe the blanket's better.

Credence clears his throat as he looks around. He should be more perplexed to suddenly find himself in such a grand place, but the past weeks' events seem to have numbed him. All the outrage, the confusion… He's here and he has a task, and that is all he can stomach right now.

"The office… Right."

Credence makes his way to where Mr. Graves' went off to. The door sits slightly ajar. Credence gives it a gentle knock, ear to the wood.

"I'm all done, Mr. Graves."

#Percival graves #... might have reblogged this before but let's double it up

freakvampiresex

its nothing some ibuprofen and a blunt and 5 beers and a head injury and jacking off and killing myself cant fix

Zungenzaum

Title: Zungenzaum Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53423365 Ship: Percival/Theseus Rating: explicit Tags: pre-canon, speakeasy, mutual pining, secret crush, internalized homophobia, military backstory, post-war, fear of intimacy, bottom!percival, top!theseus, topping from the bottom Characters: Percival, Theseus Word Count: 6.2 k Summary: “seine Zunge im Zaum halten”, german = to hold one’s tongue. // When work brings Theseus all the way from the United Kingdom to New York City, Percival decides to take his old pal to one of his favorite no-maj spots.

#fbawtft fic #perseus #speakeasy #internalized homophobia #pre-canon #mutual pining #secret crush #my writing

goldenphantasmagoria

mutuals i would torment in my gothic castle

#gellert grindelwald

sweet-dyke-guts

god complex? no, it’s quite simple really. get on your knees

#dark!graves #and also #grindeldore

pagansritual

I lied about having sex put your shoes on we're gonna go collect cool rocks

#newt scamander

moshpitsandstargazing

a relationship should be 50/50

i have a sword. you have a sword. we duel in the woods.

#grindeldore

A lifetime of humility weighs down on Credence, now more than ever. The fancy establishment as well as Mr. Graves’ company—not even to mention this clearly established man’s attentiveness to Credence personally. Once settled into a comfortable seat and with the books pulled out of Mr. Graves’ pockets, the conversation, albeit one-sided, picks up its pace rather quickly. Credence both shrinks and blooms—clearly, Mr. Graves spent so much of his dear time on this research! Credence listens as closely as he can, eager to absorb every ounce of new knowledge.

Heat crawls between his shoulder blades and up his neck the more he realizes how meticulously everything, every underlined passage was handpicked for him specifically. He had expected borrowed books, vague theories, more questions, but Mr. Graves seems to have taken every word Credence had uttered and built upon it. Moreover, these books look far from thumbed-through—in fact, might they be brand new. Could that be?

(Something’s not right. Something stinks.

Why would he go through all this trouble for you? Come on, you can’t be that dumb.)

Credence shoves the voice deeper into its corner, too occupied with staying on track with Mr. Graves’ words and somehow keeping his galloping heart rate under control. Mr. Graves leans closer yet, so close their shoulders meet, and he might not realize it with how he focuses on pointing and flipping pages. And Credence—out of instinct, of course, he pulls back, away, only to return once he doesn’t immediately go up in flames.

He nods, clears his throat, too fearful to offer as little as an affirmative noise. Once Mr. Graves leaves an obvious pause, though, Credence braves through his stupor.

“I suppose I… I understand, sir, yes. You see…as long as the m-magic…as long as God commends it, it is free of sin. Such as, like you say, Moses—he acted in God’s will, so, naturally, God approves. … But, if… A witch, let’s say, she acts in selfishness. Her bidding has nothing to do with God. She decides on her own what is good, she does not rely on the holy Father to guide her hand… Ma—m-my, my mother and, and our church, we—our greatest goal is to remind the people that God is there and that He loves us. A-and when we—when some people specifically turn against Him in such ways as witchcraft calls for, we—we must be saved. We must be corrected.” Credence swallows, looking for understanding in Mr. Graves’ dark, unreadable eyes. “Saved from ourselves. From all those…s-selfish desires. That drive us away from Him.”

Graves slips back to sit opposite of Credence when the meal is served and considers his answer. The boy is clearly somewhat swayed, but years of indoctrination cannot be wiped away so easily.

“Don’t we all decide what is evil and good to an extend? If god puts people on this earth with free will to decide what to do with their lives and some choose to follow doctrine and become priests and nuns and some decide to steal, lie and cheat, that distinction is easy. But most people’s actions are not as black and white: they live their lives, make mistakes. Wouldn’t you say that a person who tries to do good, but occasionally makes mistakes is still godly? And if you would say that about a normal person, why not say the same about someone born with the gift of magic?

A so-called witch could use her gifts for selfish means, or she could use it to heal others or further her education or care for animals or protect people from harm. That seems like exactly the kind of things god would want his chosen people to use magic for, don’t you think? And if so, who are we, or your congregation, to condemn everyone with those gifts? Would that not be going against god himself? Are we not then judging god’s chosen people without knowing what they use their god-given gifts for?”

Credence eyes the food as it is served but refrains from commencing the meal. He knows his manners. Besides, the delicious smells serve a great distraction from Mr. Graves moving away from him.

"... What you're saying, sir, I used to think just like that. When we consider...Luke 15:7, for example, which says that a repenting sinner will earn greater joy in Heaven than ninety-nine righteous men." Credence winces and, under the table, slides his thumb into his sleeve and over the lip of an old scar. "... I was set straight about that."

But the way Mr. Graves phrases it, oh, how that stokes that old foolishness. (You want to believe. And that is the problem.)

"Witchcraft, Mr. Graves, it... If used at one's own volition, it cannot come from God. It simply cannot. We are not God. We cannot rule over such powers. We are not worthy. Consider, for example, the witches burned for herbal tinctures, for extracting parts of God's perfect creation and using them at their own discretion... How many people had been saved by those tinctures, how many ailments relieved? And yet, these services were outweighed by the sin committed by performing them. It seems unfair, yes—of course it does." (Playing judge, are we? A dirty rat like you?) "But what we perceive as...fair, or unfair, is ultimately not in our hands. We are not to decide such things. ... But, in turn, wouldn't that mean we should not...condemn them?" Credence huffs and kneads his wrist, head hung in thought. "My heart pounds just saying these frivolous things out loud. Sorry, I am simply not... You must think I'm stupid. But I am not used to this. To saying such things, or...talking much, really. But I want to. ... I must, if I ever want to..." (What, leave? Break free? Oh, please.) Credence shyly points at the book Mr. Graves brought. "... C-can I, maybe. Can I maybe have a look at this? After the food is off the table? It seems a fascinating read."

#dark!gradence thread

Newt squints at the fellow wizard in bewilderedness. There is not enough alcohol in this house to make him fully forget about the collar around his throat. “…You have an interesting way of acquiring new friends, Mr. Graves.” And yet, Newt must chuckle. It is just too outlandish, all of this. Theseus’ old pal gone rogue and handed down to Newt…! “It is just my luck,” Newt says, clinking glasses with Graves. The man’s relaxed body language makes it easy to fall along with. “But we do agree on some things, you are correct. The way I see it: all you gain by worrying is suffering twice.”

“Oh for sure! Somehow there is always some element of threat to my life and limb involved. Then again, nothing that’s worth it is ever easy.” And Newt Scamander is proving to be worth quite a bit.

“That is as good a life’s philosophy as any, Mr. Scamander,” Graves agrees.

He notices how late it has gotten and the level of inebriation he is at. He can still think and function clearly, but he should not push it. It would not do to ruin all the progress he had made with some drunken slips of the tongue.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to call it a night. Is there anything you’d require? Would you like to use the bathroom to wash up? Some towels? Tomorrow morning I must be off rather early, would you like to have breakfast together or would you rather sleep in?”

The good thing about Newt’s set up, is that he could just stay in his suitcase for as long as Graves was away.

Newt tries to scratch along the edge of the magic-suppressing collar, but sweat and irritation just ends in him dropping the effort with a weary sigh. He nods along with Graves' admission and pushes his glass away. "I could use some rest myself. Today has been..." He winces under the weight of the recent memories. "... Yeah, rest."

The bathroom offer perks Newt's curiosity. Of course, he has his own facilities down in his laboratory, and under other circumstances, he'd pick those over a stranger's any day. But every chance for more insight about his captor must be seized.

"Very kind of you, thank you; yes, why not." Now that he thinks about it... Fresh towels would be nice.

Graves has places to be? Of course he has. Curiosity creeps up the back of Newt's damned throat, but he knows better than to push it. He has successfully established himself as one reasonable, potentially recruitable fella, and it doesn't take a genius to understand how favorable this image is at the mercy of an opportunistic, mighty wizard. If Newt leaves enough leeway, Graves might just incriminate himself further. And it's not like there is a great chance Graves would share his plans to a satisfactory level with Newt, anyway.

Newt mutters, "I'll have to get up early anyway to feed the beasts, so we might as well eat together." No doubt he'll be exhausted and less eager to converse than tonight, but something tells Newt he should appreciate getting to leave his suitcase while opportunity still offers itself. ... By Merlin, Graves really makes it easy to forget that Newt is, in fact, his prisoner. A tactic, naturally, and he's excellent at it. Newt covers his grimace by standing up. "So—lead the way? Or which door is it?"

#dark!gramander thread

How Ma doesn’t spot the guilt on Credence right away remains a mystery. Maybe due to his efforts with the pamphlets, though she might not be so pleased anymore if she knew where her good son’s inspiration stems from. But none of that matters. Not against the prospect of those promised lessons.

Under the guise of piousness, Credence studies every piece of paper he finds within the humble home of the church. With Mr. Graves’ questions and remarks echoing in his formerly so monosyllabic understanding of the world, old texts take on newer depths. Suddenly, everything that seemed so ‘clear’ before now offers question after question. Credence does his best to hide this newfound confusion from Modesty, Chastity and Ma. And still, no case is raised against him. Only now does it dawn on Credence how utterly invisible he has become. Getting passed without acknowledgement on the street day after day… Has he adapted to that? The importance of any potential lessons from outside the New Salem church gains momentum with every new, depressing revelation.

Every day, Credence expects good Mr. Graves to pop around a corner, around a stranger’s shoulder, with that smug face of his and whisking Credence away to somewhere warm…somewhere better. And it’s an old pain when the days pass without a trace of the man, and at night, tucked away in bed, Credence chastises himself for not knowing better, for still being so incredibly stupid to believe… But, then. The fourth day after coffee and cake and conspiracy, his heart finally gains good reason to beat into the very roof of his mouth.

While too much movement might end the dream, Credence clutches the pamphlets tighter.

“Hello, Mr. … It is so good to see you.”

Graves greets the boy warmly, but not too jovially, since it would not do to attract too much attention to them both. He takes him to a more fancy place this time, one that would provide a more quiet atmosphere and a secluded table in the corner that will provide them privacy.

He orders them both drinks and a light meal, anticipating they will need more time than usual this time.

Graves asks Credence how he’s been and make a half-hearted apology about not being able to seek him out earlier due to work, which is not entirely a lie: he has been busy, but mostly he needed to prepare for this, read up and brush up his knowledge of Christian religion.

He takes out a book he had brought with him. “I found this book that you may find interesting. The writer is a historian and theologian, he has been studying what place magic has within the Christian religion. He disputes the idea that all magic is evil, considering god, his angels, his son and some blessed people are constantly shown to be doing magic in the Bible, it’s just that that has been called miracles. The devil, being a fallen angel, also has that ability, only he uses it for evil.

The writer’s theory is that god gives some chosen people the gift of magic, but it is also a test: will they use it for good or ill? These chosen people are born with the gift, but it manifests later in life. See for example Moses parting the red sea: he used his gift of magic to save the chosen people.”

Graves opens the book on one of the marked pages where he has underlined some passages and uses this opportunity to slide next to Credence in the booth, their shoulders touching. This way they can both see the page.

There are more underlined passages to support his summary, most mention Bible passages he is sure Credence is familiar with.

“It is only in the Middle ages where fear, jealousy and distrust has made some people and some congregations label all magic sinful and evil, the distinction between miracles and devilry disappears from writing and becomes ‘witchcraft’.”

A lifetime of humility weighs down on Credence, now more than ever. The fancy establishment as well as Mr. Graves' company—not even to mention this clearly established man's attentiveness to Credence personally. Once settled into a comfortable seat and with the books pulled out of Mr. Graves' pockets, the conversation, albeit one-sided, picks up its pace rather quickly. Credence both shrinks and blooms—clearly, Mr. Graves spent so much of his dear time on this research! Credence listens as closely as he can, eager to absorb every ounce of new knowledge.

(Something's not right. Something stinks.

Why would he go through all this trouble for you? Come on, you can't be that dumb.)

Credence shoves the voice deeper into its corner, too occupied with staying on track with Mr. Graves' words and somehow keeping his galloping heart rate under control. Mr. Graves leans closer yet, so close their shoulders meet, and he might not realize it with how he focuses on pointing and flipping pages. And Credence—out of instinct, of course, he pulls back, away, only to return once he doesn't immediately go up in flames.

He nods, clears his throat, too fearful to offer as little as an affirmative noise. Once Mr. Graves leaves an obvious pause, though, Credence braves through his stupor.

"I suppose I... I understand, sir, yes. You see...as long as the m-magic...as long as God commends it, it is free of sin. Such as, like you say, Moses—he acted in God's will, so, naturally, God approves. ... But, if... A witch, let's say, she acts in selfishness. Her bidding has nothing to do with God. She decides on her own what is good, she does not rely on the holy Father to guide her hand... Ma—m-my, my mother and, and our church, we—our greatest goal is to remind the people that God is there and that He loves us. A-and when we—when some people specifically turn against Him in such ways as witchcraft calls for, we—we must be saved. We must be corrected." Credence swallows, looking for understanding in Mr. Graves' dark, unreadable eyes. "Saved from ourselves. From all those...s-selfish desires. That drive us away from Him."

#dark!gradence thread

“Thank you very much—oh, uhm—?”

Credence dissolves into confusion. Measurements? A tailor? Just as he opens his mouth to protest—obviously, he does not require brand new clothes, and definitely not from whichever clearly skilled shop Mr. Graves frequents for his wardrobe—he thinks better of it and simply nods as color prickles up his neck. Mr. Graves’ spare clothes. He is willing to lend you his clothes—of course he’d rather keep them and send you off with something of your own.

“I… I cannot pay for anything, though, not right now. Once when, in a bit, maybe I can find some sort of occupation to pay off the bill with—I’ll return every penny.” (Oh, sure… Who would hire you, you think?)

Credence notices Mr. Graves’ barely-touched meal. With nightmares like last night’s, it makes sense that his appetite avoids the mornings.

With his thoughts still on Mr. Scamander and Tina and the upcoming, complicated conversations, Credence sips his coffee to give Mr. Graves some more time before he must rush and get up to retrieve the aforementioned clothes for Credence.

“Nonsense,” says Percival, “I have more money than I can spend in six lifetimes and you are long overdue a substantial compensation. I will be sure to bring that up with the Congress as well, once we get your situation sorted out. For now don’t worry about money. I shall provide everything you need.”

Money is one of those things that have always been there in abundance for Percival, both from generational wealth and his more than generous salary from the MACUSA. No matter how much he would try, poverty was was something he was only vaguely able to grasp himself.

Percival sent his and Credence’s plates to the sink and went to retrieve some clothes.

Even his tightest underthings would likely be very baggy on Credence and his trousers will be too short, but it was the only option so far. He chose a simple set and brought it back to the kitchen.

“Here you go, let me know if there is anything else you may require.”

Credence's stomach turns under Mr. Graves' speech about money. It just doesn't feel right to accept such riches basically out of nowhere and no way to repay the man. That money is still Mr. Graves' and Credence has done little to deserve any kind of compensation. As a result, his determination to be as effortless of a subject as possible for the upcoming investigations grows.

"You are very generous and I don't see how I deserve such treatment, but I—I appreciate it very much, sir. Thank you." (The 'we'll see about that' goes unsaid, naturally.)

Once Mr. Graves leaves to retrieve the clothing, Credence eyes the self-sufficient sink while he waits patiently. Mr. Graves returns soon and with an armful of clothes Credence accepts without thought on checking them. Fabrics stretch if needed or flap around on you; either way, they cover you. The weight now in Credence's hold tells him the material will warm him sufficiently and that is all he could ask for.

"Thank you," he repeats yet again, an honest, relieved smile on his face. With the meal in his belly and fresh clothes to dress in, his wounds soothed in last night's bath and Mr. Graves' and the other wizards' assistance to rely on, anxiety begins to finally settle. "I'm sure this will be fine—more than that. I'll get dressed right away and then we can proceed with the day whenever you are available." Credence then proceeds to get up and leave for the washroom to change.

Old dog,New tricks

Mr. Graves looks so peaceful handling the kitchen ware that Credence has a hard time feeling bad for making him go out of his way to feed him.

Credence gawps, confronted with such an opulent meal. A quick prayer later, he slices into eggs and toast and polishes the entire heap off before he can convince himself that this surely must be way too much for him to handle. Turns out he did need all this food. Desperately.

“Thank you,” he says, sitting back with a sigh and wiping his mouth with a provided napkin. “That was…!” He can’t even finish the sentence. The days he had been on the run come back to him, the gnawing hunger trumped yet by the various other agonies he had to endure. All begins to lift, finally, to dissolve. A warm bed, a hearty meal. Credence bunches the napkin in his hand but controls himself enough not to burst into yet another emotional turmoil.

Credence’s jaw drops as Mr. Graves reveals the identity of the kind wizard who had so desperately tried to get through to him down in the subway station.

“You—d-do you think so, yes? Oh… Oh.”

Credence swallows and rotates the still-untouched glass of milk, his eyes glued to it, too. Some of the shame lifts as Mr. Graves reveals that at least poor Mr. Scamander has recovered—physically. Credence cringes at the prospect that because of him, this reputable man has been deported.

“Well, I guess that means…I get to apologize to him, at least.”

Credence tries a weak smile. With Ma, apologies were expected promptly and extensively, though it never changed the outcome. Credence dreads how people other than his step-mother might handle such things.

“Do you need anything from me for the inquiries to the two—uhm, w-wizards?” (The word still feels like a joke on his tongue.) “Or should I go wash up? And… You said something about clothes? Which drawer can I fetch them from? The ones I came here in I dropped into the hamper in the bathroom last night, and I doubt they’re fit for another wear before an extensive wash, unfortunately…”

In the time that Credence polishes off his entire meal, Percival just about manages to choke down his one slice of buttered toast. He was never big on breakfast and since his imprisonment his appetite, which was already not big, never really returned. He wonders if the boy’s hunger comes from being deprived all his life or from the energy it take to house and supress the Obscurus, probably both. It reminds him how many things he still doesn’t know. But this is not the time to bombard Credence with questions. First the practicalities should be gotten out of the way.

“Nothing for now. I have questions, but they can wait. I shall contact Tina first, to ask her about Scamander’s whereabouts. You can go wash up and I’ll find you some of my clothes that may somewhat fit you. That is just for the time being. I’ll take your measurements and send for some basics. I don’t favor off the rack suits, custom is always better, but you’ll need something to wear outside as my tailor doesn’t make house calls, not even for me.” He shrugs.

"Thank you very much—oh, uhm—?"

Credence dissolves into confusion. Measurements? A tailor? Just as he opens his mouth to protest—obviously, he does not require brand new clothes, and definitely not from whichever clearly skilled shop Mr. Graves frequents for his wardrobe—he thinks better of it and simply nods as color prickles up his neck. Mr. Graves' spare clothes. He is willing to lend you his clothes—of course he'd rather keep them and send you off with something of your own.

"I... I cannot pay for anything, though, not right now. Once when, in a bit, maybe I can find some sort of occupation to pay off the bill with—I'll return every penny." (Oh, sure... Who would hire you, you think?)

Credence notices Mr. Graves' barely-touched meal. With nightmares like last night's, it makes sense that his appetite avoids the mornings.