Chapter Text
The obvious course of action was termination. To be fair, that was his plan before he had summoned Tina to his office, where she sat across from his desk avoiding eye contact, shoulders hunched up to her ears. This Tina was silent and forlorn, and while he appreciated that for once she wasn’t mouthing off or disobeying a direct order, he found himself regretting the reason for it.
Tina was a loyal and dedicated Auror. She deserved better than a quiet, shameful dismissal. But unlike Tina, Graves followed directives, especially when they were from the President herself. He took a deep breath, dreading what he was about to say, when Tina interrupted. Of course.
“Sir, I know what I did was wrong. Unprofessional.” Tina was meeting his gaze now, a familiar determined glint in her eyes. “And I’m in no position to make requests.”
“Definitely not,” Graves leaned back in his chair. “But I have a feeling that’s not going to deter you.”
“There’s a boy, Sir.”
“Yes, I read your report. You intervened on the behalf of this No-Maj.”
“No-Maj or not, no one deserves to be treated the way his mother treats him.” Her mouth had hardened into an angry line. “I’m not going to go near the Second Salemers again, I promise. But that boy has nobody. I won’t ask this of anyone else--”
“Lucky me.”
“--but I know you’re a good man, Sir. Deep down.”
“If you want me to do you a favor, don’t add that last part.”
“Graves, please.” Her big brown eyes were shiny with unshed tears, like the saddest cow in the pasture. “Just check up on him, every once in awhile.”
Graves then, predictably, went off on a lecture about the dangers of meddling with No-Maj affairs and how, as the Director of Magical Security, he had a responsibility of upholding the sacred laws that protected their community, and lastly, he was a very busy man, being the Director and all, and why would she think he had the time to go around running errands for her?
She sat through it in silence, eyes downcast. When it was over, she simply gave a small nod. “I understand, Sir. I’ll go clear out my desk.”
Maybe it was the defeated slope of her shoulders, so unlike the usual ferocity that had her appearing much taller than her petite frame. Or perhaps it was that even in her last audience with Graves, she chose to appeal not for herself, but for someone else. Someone powerless and vulnerable.
Her hand was on the doorknob when Graves sighed. “Wait, Tina.”
She turned around, cautiously hopeful.
“No promises. I’ll observe from afar, at the most.”
She gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, Sir.”
“And,” Graves couldn't believe what he was about to do. No wonder Picquery accused him of getting soft. “I’ll see what I can do about your dismissal. No promises on that front, either.”
Tina broke into a wide grin and he added quickly, “Now get out of my office.” Last thing he needed was a hug from his most troublesome subordinate.
She gave him one anyway.
The first time Graves saw him, it was by accident.
About a week after his meeting with Goldstein, he was surprised to see a small crowd milling across the street from MACUSA’s entrance. They were loosely gathered around a woman whose small stature did nothing to impede her voice from carrying across the square.
“But where there is light there is shadow, friend.” She had a flair for the dramatic, he’d give her that. “Something is stalking our city, wreaking destruction…”
Graves eyed the banner behind her, a gaudy display of a broken wand clenched in a pair of fists. It was to the point, at least. Ironic, how these Second Salemers had no idea how close to the epicenter of American witchcraft they really were.
Hovering at the edge of the crowd was a young man passing out fliers for their cause, his gaze trained to the ground. Graves recognized him from the grainy photograph in Tina’s report.
Credence. He was a bit older than Tina made him out to be, but his ducked shoulders and overall air of timidity inspired the kind of protective instinct one would have for a kicked puppy. In Credence’s case, he was more like a cat who managed to avoid being drowned, only to crawl out of the burlap sack and into the arms of a fate much worse: a life with Mary Lou.
That night, in the quiet of his apartment as he nursed a finger of bourbon, Graves heard the echo of unfamiliar words. They conjured images of hellfire and brimstone, his beloved city set ablaze. At the center was Credence, wandering through the flames. Light reflected in his dark eyes, twisting into something unrecognizable. He looked at peace.
At the root of it was curiosity. For all his years as an Auror, Graves had a minimum amount of interaction with No-Majs. There were Obliviator teams for clean-up and repellent charms to dissuade conversation. He never had the time, nor the inclination, to examine how the other half lived.
Yet even with his limited knowledge of the intricacies of the No-Maj world, Graves knew his subject of study was an anomaly. Which was precisely the reason for his newly developed interest.
Lunch in hand, he headed up Broadway and swung a right on Duane, emerging onto Foley Square where he knew the New Salem Philanthropic Society was giving its next public sermon.
Mary Lou was in the throes of a passionate speech, her voice ringing in the brisk, autumn air. Graves was posted at the mouth of an alleyway, biting into a hotdog from a cart Tina recommended. He appeared to be another bored businessman, taking in some midday entertainment from the newest quack on a soapbox.
Except Graves had been to the last half a dozen of these gatherings, gaze intent as he swept the crowd, searching. He had a growing fear that one day his search will come up empty, Mary Lou having finally gone too far in her fervor for corporal punishment.
Something settled in his chest as he spotted Credence, head bent as he meandered through the spectators. The relief was short lived, as even from a good distance away Graves could tell something was wrong. Credence was cradling a pile of fliers in the crook of his arm, the position awkward and cumbersome. His other hand attempted to pass out the leaflet, but tremors made it appear he was shaking it in anger instead.
Graves felt his temper flaring and he shot a glare at Mary Lou, tempted to enact his own brand of punishment with a flick of his wand, striking her down like the vengeful God she preached about. It was a testament to his self-control that she remained standing.
He turned back to Credence, only to find the boy frozen and meeting his gaze, the same surprise on both their faces. Graves glanced around and behind him, but there was nothing else that would warrant such attention. He even double-checked to ensure his No-Maj repellent charm was still in place.
For the rest of the meeting, Credence didn’t look in his direction again, retreating behind his mother as if to blend into her shadow.
Graves had never stayed until the end of one these things before, but today he waited. Twenty minutes later, he was rewarded with an emptying sidewalk. Mary Lou had given Credence a stern talking-to before departing, his sisters trailing like faithful ducklings, leaving him behind.
As Credence headed down the block, no doubt tasked with handing out every flier before he was to return home, Graves began to tail him. He had no real purpose, except perhaps to prove a theory.
After three blocks, stopping intermittently to pass out literature, Credence ducked into a narrow alleyway. Graves followed at a distance, unsure of what to expect as he rounded the corner. A clandestine meeting? A mountain of discarded pamphlets? It could be anything.
Or nothing. He reached the end of the alley and was met with the disappointing sight of a brick wall. Credence was nowhere to be seen.
Graves was glad no one was around to see the top Auror in the country get bested by a No-Maj. Shaking his head, Graves turned to leave, only to find Credence blocking his way. In other circumstances, Graves would be palming his wand just in case, if he wasn’t so sure that Credence was incapable of hurting a fly.
Under the bowl cut, Credence’s brows furrowed in annoyance. “Why are you following me?”
Graves had not prepared for this outcome. The best his short-circuited brain came up with was, “I, uh, wanted a flier.”
Credence narrowed his eyes, but nevertheless plucked a single sheet from the pile tucked against his chest, and held it outstretched. The tremors were still there.
Graves took it, muttering a ‘thanks’ as he pretended to examine the piece of paper. Credence was already retreating when Graves called out “Wait!”, stuffing the flier into his pocket.
Credence paused, his back to Graves, shoulders stiffening. “I’m not interested, Sir.”
“What?”
Credence took a deep breath and whipped around. “I cannot accept your money. And I won’t do--” His momentary burst of courage was waning as he grew red, eyes carefully averted. “I won’t perform- those things you want. I don’t do that.”
Horror descended on Graves as he realized what Credence was implying. “Oh God, no,” He cringed. “Sorry, that’s probably blasphemous.”
“It is. Carnal desires are alway a sin but,” Credence swallowed. “Especially those.”
“Shit, I meant taking the Lord’s name in vain. But, uh, look,” Graves attempted to salvage the situation. “I’m not here to buy you. I promise.”
Credence glanced at him from under his fringe of hair, wary.
“I saw you, at the meeting. With the Second Salemers.” Graves figured he’d start with the truth and go from there.
“I know,” Credence said. “You’re there a lot.”
Graves was taken aback. “You saw me? Even the other times?”
Credence had the constipated expression of someone trying very hard not to point out the obvious. “Yes. I didn’t think you were trying to hide it.”
“I wasn’t.” Except he was. So the bad news was that Credence saw through his No-Maj repellent charm every time, and the worse news was that now Graves came off as a stalker who bought young boys. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Percival Graves.”
After a beat, manners won out over prudence. “Credence. Barebone.”
“Hello, Credence.” Graves offered a kind smile. He was a bit out of practice. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I really mean you no harm. I was watching you at the meeting,” Graves made a mental note to work on phrasing that’d make him sound less of a creep. “And I think you’re hurt. Are you?”
“No, Sir.” Credence angled his body away in a poor attempt to shield his hands, the survival instinct of an injured beast.
“Alright,” Graves was hesitant to push, amazed that Credence hadn’t already bolted. “Just in case, then.” He pictured the healing salve in his medicine cabinet at home, summoning it with a subtle twist of his wand inside his pocket. He withdrew his hand, holding the small, glass vial. “This is for you.”
Credence’s focus darted between Graves and the proffered bottle.
“Just something for cuts and scrapes,” Or worse, thought Graves. “It heals almost instantly. Might make it easier to use your hands.”
On reflex, Credence gripped the stack of paper against his chest, only to immediately loosen his hold with a painful hiss.
“Here, let me show you.” Graves held out a hand, gesturing towards himself.
After a lengthy passing of time, Credence slowly closed the distance between them, placing one tentative hand in his. Graves suppressed a victory whoop, instead turning Credence’s hand so that it was palm up, cradled in his own. Lacerations, ugly and raw, criss-crossed over the pale skin.
Graves glanced up at Credence, who averted his gaze, ashamed. A righteous anger roiled in Graves’ gut, first towards Mary Lou for inflicting such violence, then at the world at large, for allowing such violence to thrive.
Wordlessly, he uncorked the vial and tipped some of its contents over the wounds. The amber liquid slithered into the ragged lines of flesh, as if alive, and right before their eyes, skin started to stitch together.
From personal experience, Graves knew the process to be quite painful, almost as bad as getting the injuries in the first place. But Credence showed no signs of it, staring in open awe at his palm.
When it was over, Credence gave a shudder that Graves felt through his hold. Graves couldn’t resist swiping a thumb over the fresh skin, the scars smooth and pink. With time, those too will fade.
Graves cleared his throat, breaking the careful moment between them. “It’s a tincture I picked up. In Europe.”
Credence nodded, curling his healed hand by his chest. He stared, wide-eyed, but without fear or disdain. There was only pure wonder, and Graves couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that, if ever.
Graves recapped the salve and gave it to Credence, who tucked it away into an inner pocket.
“Thank you, Mr. Graves.” Credence said in a hush.
“Just Graves is fine,” he paused. “Or Percival. If you prefer.”
Credence smiled, a delicate curl of his lips. He seemed out of practice, too. “Thank you, Percival.”