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Chapter Text

“Tis a Fearful Thing

‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –

to be,
And oh, to lose."

Yehuda HaLevi

They kept him prisoner at the St Agatha for two months.

Two months captive between those aseptic white walls, breathing in the scent of his own wounds. After the third time he'd tried to escape, they'd strapped him to the bed. He could barely move his head; even that felt like a massive effort.

Crowds of Healers and Aurors, Government representatives, a few reporters of the New York Ghost--they all came swarming to his bedside, like flies to a piece of rotting meat. They all had questions, they all wanted answers to those questions, and they all were incredibly rude.

If only his wand had still been intact. If only his magic wasn't so fucking weak, Graves would have launched them all out of his sight the first day.

Instead, he just squinted up at them. Shadowy figures against the bright hospital lights.

"Fuck off," he'd grumble, because it was one of the few things he could actually manage to say. His tongue was a useless, lifeless piece of cardboard flopping around in his mouth. Dehydration.

Seraphina came to visit him, too, but only once. He doesn't remember much of it, because they'd literally pumped sedatives down his throat until he'd stopped yelling to just let him go, dammit.

Graves hopes that his release means he can try and return to his life, make something of its wretched mess. Start to pick up the scattered pieces Grindelwald had carelessly played with and then left aside--

But no, apparently, even the fucking President - and former best friend - is against him.

---

Seraphina refuses to let him inside his office-- no, inside the Woolworth Building itself. Fucking unbelievable.

"Go home," she says, clearly exasperated. Her annoyed attitude is like gasoline on the raging fire of Graves' already battered ego.

They're standing on the sidewalk, facing each other: her, in a much too elegant attire, him, his patched coat and not much more. A sickening sensation of shame settles in his stomach.

The passing No-majs send strange looks their way. Graves responds with angry sneers.

New York is much louder than what he remembers. He curls up on himself, feeling like the only still point in that sea of people. He's never felt so insignificant.

Looking up, the sky is a gigantic grey field. And he's so small.

Seraphina sighs. It's a guttural, drawn out sound. Graves's head snaps back down, fast. He takes a good look at her for the first time in months: long, tired lines cut through her forehead. He doesn't remember them being there before. He's sure he's sporting a matching set of his own. Consciously, he brushes a few stray hairs from his forehead.

"I can't," he growls back, "My whole house is under investigations. I have nowhere to go, Seraphina--"

And that's the thing: he's not exaggerating. None of this is made up to incite some kind of pity party. He has been stripped of everything he has. His position, his credibility, his wand, his home, his identity and his--

"Go see your mother," she suggests, clenching her teeth so hard Graves can feel the pressure on his own gums. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

He scoffs. Right.

"If you so desired, know there are easier ways to fire me, Madame President," he says.

For a moment, Seraphina's iron mask slips- the edges of her lips curve downward, the lines on her forehead deepen. There's a gloss to the white of her eyes, a wetness.

It lasts only a second.

"Go home, Percival. You need to rest."

---

Rest. Graves doesn't know the meaning of the word anymore. Sleep has become an incognita.

Monsters hide in the dark behind his eyes. Whenever he closes them, they jump at him and tear him awake; sleeping isn't an option anymore. At best, he gets a couple hours of restless tossing and turning around.

The Goldstein sisters mercifully offer the one spare room in their little flat. Graves tries to act uninterested. He tries really hard, but Queenie is, unsurprisingly, terribly persuasive, and he's a weak man.

Also, Tina keeps staring at him when she thinks he's not looking. She doesn't recognize him. There's an uncertainty to her eyes-- it has replaced every ounce of respect she used to have in his regards. Oh, she used to think so highly of him! He knows that admiration will never come back, like most of what he's lost to Grindelwald.

It stings.

Queenie is mildly upset that she can now read through his thoughts. Months of relentless torture have turned his mind palace into a crumbling shack. He can feel her, skipping forcefully over its roof, ignoring the devastation. Graves is grateful for that, and does his best to show it.

For a short while, he's almost content. Not happy - just at peace. The bed he's given is comfortable, and the sheets always smell nice. The food, Merlin, the food is delicious. It's nothing like the awful, tasteless hospital slob.

Music fills the whole apartment, no-majs and magical artists performing every evening for a delighted Queenie. She sways in the soft, warm light, singing along and coercing her sister up on her clumsy feet.

She's not smitten enough to invite him too. Or, perhaps, she just senses how uncomfortable he is.

The nightmares never go away. Nothing to do for those. Most of them, it's just Grindelwald taunting him, tormenting him and torturing him in many intricate and, frankly, quite creative ways.

And while that's horrifying-- he's had much worse.

He's had cold shadows slip over his body, cocooning him in a blanket of black nothingness. He's had the softest voice whispering in his ears, unintelligible and crystal clear at the same time.

He's had his hands clawing at deathly pale skin, stripping it apart to reveal the blackness coiling underneath.
He's closed his fingers around bones brittle as a baby bird, just to rip a shaking moan off those perfect lips.

He's had Credence Barebone haunting his dreams, to remind him how much of a failure he is.

---

When he wakes up, pajamas clothes drenched in cold sweat, the kitchen light is always on. He slithers out of his room, and he's met with Queenie's knowing smile. He collapses on a chair. Clears his voice.

"Cocoa?"

"Cocoa."

---

Alcohol doesn't do it. So he tries with sex.

If Graves is gentle enough, his hands light enough on her skin, keeps his mouth shut for long enough-- Tina can pretend he's that Scamander boy she's so sweet on.

If she keeps her front turned to the mattress, deepens her moans a tad, sometimes calls him by his name in that wavering, tremulous voice-- he can pretend he's kissing someone else's scars.

When all is said and done, they don't talk. They don't look at each other.

There's no need for pleasantries. This isn't a friendly meeting. They're there to fuck, help each other get off the edge, then act like nothing ever happened.

Graves shrugs on his clothes, breathing in the dampness of the air that surrounds him.
The room is softly lit, heavy curtains blocking out the world. Graves feels strangely safe in here, despite the chance of a colossal scandal.

He can already see the headlines. "Ex-Director Graves spends some quality time with subordinate-- Marriage on the way?"

He's become America's favorite topic of gossip. Should he be flattered?

Tina goes first. She disapparates away with a quick flick of her wand. She's gotten really good at it. Without so much as a goodbye, she's gone, and the space around him goes quiet again.

Graves sits on the bed, and waits for a while. A couple minutes more, until the echo of their muffled grunts fades from his memory.

He remakes the bed. Tucks the covers. Smooths out the wrinkles.

And then, he's gone too.

The first time, after he'd rolled off of her, skin damp and - momentarily - satisfied, she'd said:

"I'm sorry. This was--"

"Nothing," Graves had sighed. All his strength had left his body, and yet he pushed himself up. Reaching to the floor for his shirt.

"This was nothing."

And Tina had understood, like she always does.

That night, he stuffed his mouth full of Queenie's exquisite butter-soft fillet steak, and excused himself to his room immediately after. Yes, he's feeling perfectly fine, thank you. No, he doesn't want a cup of hot cocoa, maybe later, but thanks anyway. Goodnight.

He didn't miss the way Queenie's lips stiffened in a thin line. He could feel her launching daggers at his back, and quickly shut the door behind him. Really, he can't blame her for hating him.

He can't blame anyone for doing just that, not even himself.

---

A month into this endeavor, Graves heeds Seraphina's advice. He profusely expresses his gratitude, packs up, and leaves the Goldstein's house in a rush.

It's for the best. They are both so young, and so kind. He doesn't wanna ruin them, too.

---

Turns out, Bedelia Graves is even more of an harpy than what he recalled.

"Glad to see you're not dead.” She stares at him from where's she's lazily lounging - her favorite leather armchair, right in front of the currently un-lit fireplace - nursing a glass of fire whiskey.

Graves is tempted to ask for the bottle. Fortunately, he catches his traitorous mouth in time. Alcohol doesn't do it, he reminds himself.

"I have to stay here," he remarks, scratching the stubble on his chin. His mother scrunches her nose in disgust. Graves isn't sure if it's the prospect of having him around or his unkempt state that displeases her so.

"Well then." her tone is resigned, as she downs the last mouthful of liquor. "You know the way."

She gestures for him to go, still studying him with her cold, unflinching eyes. Like a snake, he hears his father's voice bellow inside his head. Like a fucking snake.

Graves needs no second bidding. He slowly backs out of the living room, slamming the heavy doors behind him. He ends up in front of the large staircase in the middle of the Manor's hall.

He stays, and stares. Three hundred and ninety four. That's how many steps there are, to reach the first floor. If one wanted to climb further, into the oldest portion of the house, there'd be an additional four hundred.

Graves just wants to lay his aching back against something soft, and sleep until the world has forgotten about him.

The corridors' walls are covered in paintings of ancient relatives. Their glares
aren't much different from Bedelia's. The light coming from the arched windows brings no warmth to the environment.

Five hundred and fifteen steps to reach Graves' old bedroom.

His past haven no longer feels familiar. There's a thick layer of dust covering every available surface. He doesn't know if the lack of inhabitants has changed the scent, or if he'd just grown unaccustomed to it. Either way, the massive, king sized bed welcomes him home better than his mother ever could. It doesn't bother to talk, for a start.

Graves sleeps for hours, exhaustion pulling him so deep under, neither Grindelwald nor Credence can get to him.

---

He'd went to the library hoping to distract himself. The maze of shelves seems to go on forever, and a very young Graves feared he would one day get lost between them. Now, he doesn't dread that possibility as much.

The pads of his fingers skim over the spine of a book. He plucks it out, opens it, pushes his nose in between the pages. He coughs out a cloud of dust, and that's when all his pretense of being poetic goes to shit. At least, the place is quiet. Bedelia never comes here, and the elves do not dare venture so far into the dark alcoves of the Manor.

He's musing on about the ghosts of his ancestors and how much closer he feels to them than to his own mother, when he finds it.

It's not even a proper book, it's more of a notebook. Its cover is scratched and its edges curved. Graves spots it, sandwiched in between the first two volumes of "History of Magic in America". For all that it's relatively small, it weighs in Graves's hands. A concealing spell. Not particularly suspicious in and of itself-- if its wasn't for the strong reek of dark magic coming off the little book in waves, he might've been fooled.

Graves stares at the front of it. There's no title embossed on it, no names. The owner of this book has been dead for so long, they've lost ownership over it. Oh, but, it seems to have just found a new one.

He should put it back on the shelf. The things that it contains, they are dangerous, bad things. They are things one such as Grindelwald might appreciate. Certainly, not things the Director of Magical Security should meddle with.

He should put it back on the shelf and walk away. Forget it ever piquing his interest. Run downstairs to wherever Bedelia keeps her drinks, and chug every single bottle down until his head is a blank slate. He gulps. His lungs feel restricted. His breath is labored. He's sweating cold again, though there's no source of heat anywhere near him.

Graves went to the library hoping to distract himself. Instead, he got the solution to his problems.

---

Despite his first treacherous intentions, the book sits untouched on his desk for about three weeks.

Every night, before murmuring a hasty "Nox" and stumbling into bed, Graves holds it in front of his face and bites his inner cheeks bloody. Eventually, it starts to call to him. He resists, but only barely.

How sweet are the promises it makes. All of his darkest, unspoken desires, only a flick of pages away.

---

Graves has always thought of himself as a righteous man, but-- he's beginning to doubt his strongest morals, too.

---

When he caves in, it's out of pure exhaustion.

The nightmares won't let him sleep. It's a cacophony of horrible imagery, screeching sounds and screams resonating in the dark, empty space of his head.

Percival can't take it anymore.

If only there was someone. Someone who understood. Someone to keep close, to snuggle in bed together with him at the end of a long day. He had never thought himself a romantic, but desperation makes fools of all men, and he's been known to sulk in his own loneliness quite a lot.

With shaking hands, he picks up the notebook. The pads of his fingers tingle at the contact, and his eyes jump around the room. But there is no one. There is no one, and that's the thing.

The writing is faint, and the paper is scratched off in some parts. Yet, Graves devours its notions without a care, filling in the blanks with knowledge he didn't ever imagine he possessed, mouth whispering along those prohibited spells.

Percival reads all night, and still doesn't reach the half of it. By sunrise, the ways of his predecessors have been etched inside his mind, stored in some secluded corner of his brain.

For a night, Percival is lost to the enthrals of dark magic, like a child drawn to a biscuit jar: he eats it all up, like he needs it to survive, ‘cause he does need it to survive--

The next day comes. Percival hasn't felt this good in months.

He goes to eat breakfast in the main room, and sits at the table with Bedelia. He even calls her mother. She stares at him, bewildered.

“What has gotten into you?” She asks, breakfast forgotten. He gorges down his bacon, and scoffs at her.

“Does it matter?”

There's a pause, before she lowers her sight and frowns, “I suppose not.”

And it doesn't, at least not to Percival. He feels reinvigorated, like the trouble of this last half a year has been nothing but a temporary storm on the peaceful field of his life.

The nightmares do not go away, but they slowly start bending to his will. They do become more and more lucid, but so does he.

One night, he kills Grindelwald.

Strangles him in the dark alley where he was kidnapped, knuckles turning white while they tighten around his throat. Grindelwald’s face melts, until he reveals his true, monstrous form. It's so ugly, and terrible, Percival can't bring himself to recall it once he wakes. Still. Pretty damn satisfactory.

And each night, before bed, he reads. Just a little bit, a couple chapters. He reaches the twentieth one in the first week, then surpasses the thirtieth in a matter of days, and by the end of the month he's far into chapter forty five.

He's resigned to never finishing the book, because for all Percival knows, it might as well be infinite, in a constant state of expansion.

And the things he learns. Not only about magic, but about himself.

He first puts it to practice one cold December morning. He goes out into the old garden, where moving statues covered in mold stare at him curiously. Once trimmed and sophisticated, without proper care, the garden has become a treacherous jungle.

The large bushes of tropical flowers his father imported have been smothered by wild weeds, and the grass has grown past his knees. The trees are too high up, grumbling with the blows of wind that shake their foliage. But Percival doesn't care about that, no. In one hand, he holds the notebook. In the other, his will and all of his determination.

On one of the smallest trees, on a long branch that's about to snap off, a couple of birds have built their nest. Percival has been observing them for awhile now. He saw Mother bird tending to her eggs, and the first of her offsprings begin to peek through.

Now, inevitably, the moment of learning has come.

Father bird approaches one of the chicks. Tender, but stern, it pushes it to the edge of the nest. The little one screeches in fear, before its instincts take on and he jumps out, wings spreading. It soars on the soft breeze, and lays back between its brothers.

Percival hums contentedly. How lovely.

How inconvenient.

Now it's the turn of the second chick. It, too, succeeds in the task, albeit a little hesitant.

Then the third, and last. Percival watches him flap its wings violently before hitting the ground with a muffled sound.

The parents fly down to it, carefully poking its little body with their beaks. After a few seconds of mourning, the come back up to the nest. The chicks are hungry. They must be fed. And so, the weakling is abandoned. Nature deals with it swiftly and brutally. Percival is the silent audience of this sad spectacle.

Slowly, he approaches the scene of the accident. He reaches through the weeds, and wraps his fingers around the little cadaver. He holds it up to his face, studying its crooked neck, and the bulging eyes.

He concentrates on the vision of the bird’s death. The sound it made. How it moved.

Percival closes his eyes, and caresses its chest. The feathers tickle his skin. He presses on, feeling his nail dig through flesh and bones, reaching something small and circular, like a pebble.

With a whisper, the bird’s heart begins to beat again.

Percival cups his hands around it, watching with a grin as the bird slowly regains consciousness. It hauls himself up on its scrawny legs, and stares at him with glossy eyes.

“Welcome back,” Percival says, raising his hand to the nest. The little bird chirps, and goes to jump back in again-- but it's immediately stopped by the loud cries of Mother bird. Percival withdraws his hand, fast, before she can claw its new little heart out.

They don't recognize it, Percival realizes. It may move and breath again, it may even sound like them, but it reeks of death and wrong, and they don't accept it.

Very well, then. Percival cradles the bird to his chest, slips it inside the pocket of his coat. He retires to the quiet of the Manor, together with his first, successful creation.

---

The bird grows crooked, a little off. Its feathers are an ashy grey, and its eyes never regain color. Its voice is - not unpleasant, exactly. Broken. Like an untuned violin. It follows Percival around wherever he goes, perched upon his shoulder.

It's also fairly easy to take care of: it doesn't eat, doesn't drink, doesn't shit, and spends most of its time napping.

Percival names it Adam.

---

Humans, says the notebook, are more difficult. Of course, Percival takes it as a challenge.

With Adam, his magic alone had been enough, because it was small and insignificant, without a proper conscience. But human beings, well, that's another story entirely.

They require a kind of magic Percival has never taken into account.

He does extensive research, before setting off to work. The notebook doesn't provide many examples of resurrections, unfortunately. It was a heavily stigmatized practice, even back then.

So, Percival goes to the library, again.

He finds his old history books, organizes them in neat piles, and floats them to his room. His desk has been cleared, and is now occupied by mountains of tomes and parchments, and a little birdhouse in the corner.

Percival looks in the most remote places, searching through pages and pages for little bits of information; once they become too many to remember, the notebook comes to aid him once again.

All of a sudden, Percival finds a blank page. At first, he deems it as a coincidence, and scribbles on it, with the intent of removing it later. But then, once he's finished reporting the story of one Johann Georg Faust--

Another blank page appears. Percival looks through the notebook, and all the pages he sees are untouched.

It's time Percival gives his own contribution to the family business.

---

The books say nothing about resurrecting someone affected by a magical curse, much less by an Obscurus parasite.

Percival understands he will be a pioneer, if he succeeds. Not that he intends to regain the admiration of the public.

No, the glory will be his alone to cherish.

Only his.

---

Percival stares quizzically at the notebook. A personal item is required.

A body would be optimal, but in absence of it - an object that the desired person has kept close, or at the very least touched, will suffice.

He has nothing left of Credence but the memories.

His thoughts begin to wander, back to a dull December morning. Percival can taste the air, walking through the streets of a very cold, very crowded New York. The breeze doesn't get to his skin, protected by several layers of thick fabric, but breath leaves his mouth in little white clouds. His steps are quick, calibrated: he's late for work. Percival dreads having to face the pile of paperwork that's waiting for him on his desk.

That's when he meets him for the first time. That's the one no one knows about -- before Tina came running to his office, crying about it like a child-- before the investigations, before anything else.

Percival bumps into him without noticing, at first.

“Shit,” he hisses, staring at the papers scattered across the wet concrete. Scornfully, he crouches down and picks up the ones that are more or less dry.

The boy stands still, hands reaching out. “Excuse me, Sir,” he says, quiet, meek.

Percival shakes his head. “Don't apologize for something you didn't do,” he says, and goes to return the pamphlets.

His eyes fall on the salvaged ones, and he reads through the smudged ink. Ah, one of those fanatics, then. Graves looks the boy up and down and grimaces. So young, too.

“Sir?” he says, noticing his silence. Graves talks before his mind can stop him. He smiles grimly at the boy, and folds on of the papers into a neat little square.

“I'll be taking this. You don't mind, do you?”

The boy’s eyes widen with stupor. “No, of course not! And if you would like to hear more about our cause---”

“I know where to find you,” Percival interrupts. Again, boy widens his big brown eyes at him. Percival, realizing his mistake, scrambles for an explanation.

“I work at the Whoolworth building. I see you every morning, in front of the bank, on my way to the office.”

“Oh,” boy says, taking in Graves’ expansive look.

“Well then,” Percival nods, “Have a nice day…”

“Credence,” boy jumps up, almost exitedly. Percival thinks he looks like a stray puppy, but keeps himself from awwwing the poor dear. He smiles at him, instead.

“Have a nice day, Credence.”

“You too, sir!”

It's not until later, Percival realizes. He never gave the boy his name.

---

An epiphany. Euphoria. Oh, joy.

Percival scrambles towards his wardrobe. He flings the doors open, sending them straining against their rusty hinges. Percival furiously rummages through his clothes until he finds his old coat - covered in dust, and stinking of age.

His hands reach through the pockets, first the left one - empty - then the right one. His fingers close around a slip of paper, and pull.

Percival unravels the folded pamphlet, smile spreading on his face. There is Witchcraft in America! It says, in bold, blocky characters. Percival grips at it so hard, the sides rip.

Oh, yes. There's Witchcraft indeed.

---

He makes sure Bedelia is asleep before he starts. He goes to her chamber, as slowly and quietly as he can manage. As he slips the door to her room open, he is reminded of those nights when he was a kid, after waking up from a nightmare, looking for comfort in his parents’ bed. The door was always closed. Father would charm it so that it didn't budge until morning, or until he unmade it. Young Percival had spent many nights crying away in front of that door, banging his little fists on it.

She must have drank a little too much. Percival doesn't really take notice of her these days, not with all the preparations he had to set. She might be dead for all he knows.

But, sure enough, there she is. Collapsed on the mattress, half undressed, drool dripping from her snoring mouth. Percival snorts. She's got nothing of the dignified, elegant woman she used to be.

He is about to lock the door and return to his laboratory, when a sharp pang of guilt bites at his stomach. Percival hovers in the doorframe for longer than he'd admit, before marching into the bedroom.

Bedelia jostles awake after he's finished tucking her in. She coughs, and spits up liquor.

“Percy,” she calls, voice feeble. “Percy.”

Percival wipes the sweat off her forehead, pushing back her thick, blonde hair. Her eyes slip closed once again, and a small sigh escapes her lips. It almost sounds like a “thank you”.

Slowly, he steps back from the bed. As he's about to leave, he hears his mother move.

“Goodnight, dear,” she whispers.

“Goodnight,” he says, “Mama.”

---

Percival smooths the paper against the wood of his desk. The writing’s a little smudged, and the sides are ripped, but it's still holding together somehow. Adam caws at him from his little house, craning his neck up. Percival pats his head gently, murmuring, “This is it, pal.”

The tips of his fingers tingle with anticipation. He opens the notebook, thumbing through pages and pages of notes-- some written by his own hand, some not. Percival gulps down his fear, his doubt and the last scrap of hesitation.

He fixes his eyes unto the pamphlet and recalls to his mind the last, more vivid image of Credence. He thinks of the happiest memory he has: a lovely night in a small diner, feeding him until he swore he was too full, lips spreading into an apologetic smile, cheeks flushed and eyes glowing.

The words start falling from Percival's mouth.

“Amissa anima mea,” he says, and the shadows of the night seem to grow stronger, clinging to the walls and leaving their hidings to peek at him. Percival feels his chest filled up with a heaviness he doesn't know how to name.

“Revenite,” he says, standing up from his chair, “Reversus est ad me.”

Percival grabs the knife from the shelf. The metal shines argent in the candlelight, his reflection catching onto the blade. He presses it against his palm, and feels it slide his flesh oh so easily.

Something behind him moves. He doesn't dare to look upon the shadows, fearing it might deter him from going forward.

From his fist, a steady stream of blood rains down. Adam flutters his wings, screeching more loudly than Percival has ever heard him. The blood falls upon the paper, immediately spreading and marking the paper a dark red.

“Anima tenebris,” Percival's voice wavers, as he watches the pamphlet tremble as if shook by a gust of wind, and fold up on itself.

“Venit ad vitae.”

There's a loud, drawn out lament inside Percival's head. Its pitch and tone are terribly familiar. Percival's vision is blurry, but he keeps steady, forcing his legs up. The paper is crumpled to a ball, soaked in blood, and it moves somewhat rhythmically.

Percival's teeth clatter, tears spill from his eyes. The scrap of paper turns into a lump of flesh, pulsating, spitting out a dark, oily liquid. The small heart thumps wildly, crying inside Percival's head.

The shadows are now uncontrollable, clawing at Percival's back, yelling his name. The plaguing stink of rotting meats clogs his nostrils, as tendrils start extruding from the heart. Percival stumbles to the ground, hands clasped to his head.

The tangle of nerves and muscle tissue shakes, wrapping all around its center: Percival can't help the pitiful cries that bubble up from deep within his chest. This is what he wanted. This is what he's gotten himself into.

The voice inside his head keeps growing, until it's a terrifying growl.

Percival starts apologizing to the air, blindly grasping for some kind of support. He finds the cover of his bed, and slither upon it, covering his head with his biggest pillow.

It goes on for what seems like forever. Centuries of screams and darkness and so, so much blood. Somewhere in between, Percival falls to a disturbed, violent sleep.

When he wakes, it is to absolute silence. Trembling, he removes the blankets from his face, and turns to his desk.

The entire section of his room is a mess of gore, dripping and piling up. Percival coughs up bile, throat clogged with the smell. After spitting out the bitterness, he stands up and slowly examines the scene.

The heart is gone. His notebook and the area surrounding it are the only clean spots. Percival picks it up, holds it close against his chest. No amount of studying could have prepared him for that nightmarish vision. But what's done is done, and Percival was never one to cry over spilled milk.

Percival looks to the small bird house, and finds it laying on its side, covered in scratches. It is empty.

That's when he hears it. The crunching noise. The gulping. The licking and swallowing. Percival turns to the east side of his room, where a large, leather couch sits, also covered in scratches.

Ever so slowly, Percival steps forward. The noise gets louder the closer he gets. Finally, once he's a meter away, a small, squeaking sound makes its way to him. That off key tone. Like an-- an untuned violin.

Percival leans over, to look behind the couch.

The creature crouching against the wall is pale, and lean. Long, bony legs that Percival knows all too well. Sharp hips blooming in a set of almost comically large shoulders, and arms with the barest muscle definition.

Credence looks up at him with his face covered in red, brown eyes open wide. Adam is splayed, disemboweled, between his hands.

And despite everything, the first thing Percival thinks, the very first thing is--

Beautiful.

Chapter Text

When he was twelve, his father bought Percival a ferret. It was supposed to be an exercise in responsibility.

Percival, with his top grades and impeccable student report, couldn't fathom what more the old man wanted him to prove. Still, he took the little thing in his room, cage and all, and promised to take care of it. The stupid beast spent most of its time sleeping and shitting all over the carpet-- and when it woke up, it was to hiss and growl at anything that so much as looked in its general direction.

Despite that, Percival never asked his father to take that burden away from him; it would have been a waste of time. Alastair Graves was the most stubborn person. He was also busy, very busy, Percy, you must understand. And so.

It had died ten years later, unnamed and cold, in the lonely of Percival's bedroom. By that time, Father had forgotten ever buying it, and Percival couldn't care less. He was training as an Auror and had no time to spare for pets.

He thought about bringing it back. As an exercise, to test out his new toys. Find out where Bedelia had hid its little body, dig it up from the mud. Would it have any memories of his owner? Would it resent him?

But Percival was too impatient. He thought: Adam went just fine, what good is it gonna be, resuscitating every critter that died in the mansion.

If he had bothered to try, Percival would have avoided the massive mess that then ensued.

---

Credence jumps out from behind the sofa, abandoning Adam’s carcass.

Percival watches as he scrambles to the other side of the room, all gangly limbs and taut skin. Percival takes a step forward, and Credence's eyes are immediately on him. They're pitch black, with no hint of color, or any white. Percival finds them quite unsettling, and at the same time, somewhat alluring.

He sits down on the floor, slow, careful not to make any sharp movements.

Credence makes a noise low in his throat, lips wide apart in a yawn; Percival can see further inside, the sharp points of his teeth. Suddenly his tongue pokes out, to lap at the blood clotting on his chin.

“There, there,” Percival whispers, holding out an open hand. The cut is still open, gaping. Credence twists his head curiously, claws scratching at the floor. Another, ticking sound comes from his chest, intermittent. They stay like that for some time, while the stench of blood permeates the walls and seeps into the fabric of the blankets, so that it will never really go away. So that Percival never forgets.

Credence inches closer, on his hands and knees, like an animal. He stops and retreats at every crack of the floor, every moan of the old walls; and then, there he is, face to face with Percival. Finally.

This close, Percival can't ignore the rotten stench rolling off of him in waves. Credence, who doesn't seem bothered by it, opens his mouth and makes a croaking, broken wail that slowly but surely transforms into a sigh. Percival lets him lap at his wound. He seems more interested in cleaning it than feeding. Percival raises his free, unharmed hand. Credence doesn't seem scared, though he attentively observes every minute movement of Percival's body: he doesn't flinch away when Percival caresses his head, covered in scarce tufts of hair and scabs.

“My dearest boy,” Percival says, taking note of how he perks up at the sound of words, tongue left hanging, “Credence.”

Credence's own, bony hand, covered in bruises, brushes against Percival's. He makes an high pitched, pitiful noise, intertwining their fingers tight as vines. Percival's breath is short, labored, he is still in shock; nevertheless, the sight fills his chest with a tight, comfortable ache.

“Come,” he says, standing up, coercing Credence on his feet, “I'll fetch you a bath. That'll warm you up. Come, please.”

Credence watches, silently, as Percival fills the bathtub with water. He tests its temperature, dipping his hand in it. For a moment, he is lost looking at that same hand, under the ripples of the water. That same hand, just a moment ago, had touched Credence's. His hand, and Credence's. Credence.

Percival turns, finding him staring intently at the ceiling of the bathroom, shuffling his feet like a child. Percival calls him, softly. Credence looks back down and inches towards the tub, slow and unsure in his steps. Percival, who has been crouching, stands up once again.

Now that they're face to face, Percival realizes Credence is a centimeter or two taller than him.

“Here, it's ready.” Credence tilts his head, perplexed. Gently, Percival grasps one of his calves, and hoists it over the edge of the tub. The contact makes Credence shudder, and he purrs loudly.

“Good,” Percival murmurs, watching him enter the tub of his own accord. Some of the water splashes over the rim, forming small puddles on the tiles. Credence seems particularly content, cupping his hands together and watching as the water finds a way through the folds of his fingers.

Percival chuckles at the pure, childlike joy Credence takes in a something so simple: when he smiles, his teeth seem a little less sharper.

He takes a bar of soap, and rolls it between his palms. Once they're slick enough, Percival brings them to Credence's head, and scrubs the blood off his skin. Credence leans into his touch, water turning red all around him. Percival presses a wet towel to his scalp, applies oil to those angry red scratches.

It almost seems like his body has been ripped at the seams, like that pamphlet he used for the ritual--

Percival doesn't focus on this thought too much.

For the next few days, Percival doesn't leave his quarters. He follows Credence as he explores the chambers, curiously sniffing at every surface. At times, he stretches his arms out for Percival to hold him.

It all seems so surreal, Percival can't believe it's happening. Credence is back. Credence was dead, and now he isn't. Percival made him alive. He's so happy he could cry. (He does, a lot).

Percival tries to get him to communicate, but Credence keeps to his gurgles and hissings and whimpers. He does seem to comprehend human words, which Percival finds encouraging.

Much like before, Credence's Magic is wild, untamed and raw. A child’s. He explodes a couple vases here and there, sometimes blinds himself with a particularly strong lumos. Percival can't wait to teach him all the spells he needs to know, see him experiment with potions, and oh, he surely will need a wand won't he?

Credence has troubles with the concept of sleeping. More specifically, with Percival having to; the first night, when Percival tucks them in, lying with his face in the crook of Credence's neck, until his vision goes dark and his mind blank--

Credence shakes him awake after a minute, nipping worryingly at the collar of his shirt. Percival hugs him to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings until he calms down. Credence doesn't have to sleep, so Percival's sudden stillness perplexes him to no end.

“It's okay,” Percival says, exhausted but content, “I'm not going anywhere. Just a few hours, lovely, just a few.”

It takes some time. Percival is willing to wait years, centuries even.

Percival disposes of Adam with no remorse. Buries the remains in the same spot where he died, then was born again; the nest has long since disappeared and the cold has turned the flourishing head of the three above into long, twisted fingers. Hadn't realized so long has passed.

He thanks it, for the help and the company. “Goodbye, little pal,” Percival says, “who knows. Maybe one day, you'll come back too.”

---

Credence might not need to sleep, but he sure does need to eat. Percival finds out the hard way.

It's his fault really. He shouldn't have napped that long, leaving the poor thing unattended: Percival wakes up and his room is silent, and he's alone, and for a moment the sinking feeling of having lived a dream all that while fills his stomach with dread.

Then he hears the screams.

Feet bare, shirt undone and a terrible case of bed-hair, he flings himself through the corridors and the rooms, the halls and stairways until he reaches Bedelia’s quarters. The door is thrown open, claw marks embedded on the wood. A series of images flashes through Percival's mind: his mother's corpse, eviscerated, lacerated, violated. Above her, a familiar figure. 

“Percival!” He enters, hands trembling. Bedelia is backed against the wall, she has clearly just woken up and looks about this close to an aneurism. Towering in front of her stands a -- thing, that Percival has some difficulty to recognize as Credence.

Credence's feature are twisted and deformed, pretty lips rip open at the sides and jaw unhinged to show off the rows upon rows of glinting teeth. His eyes have gone sunken, even blacker, hollow. like endless pits of ink. His limbs have grown and elongated in a caricature of himself, that would be almost laughable if it wasn't so terrifying.

It looks back at him, and his mouth moves around a distorted voice. “Peehhhrrrcivalll”.

Percival brings his fist in the air, without taking time to elaborate his thoughts.

The blast hits Credence right between his shoulder blades, and leaves a dark, smoking mark there. Credence throws his head back and howls in pain, falling to the ground like a rag doll. As he hugs himself, contorting, his body begins to transition back. His cries slowly turn more human, and blood starts gathering in a small pool under him.

Percival glanes up at the horrified expression on his mother's face. She slowly raises her wand, determination set in her features. A brief portrait of the Bedelia Graves Percival used to know. Percival has her disarmed before she can even think of a spell to cast; she stumbles, staring at him, bewildered. She's wearing a silken robe and an old pair of slippers. For a moment, Percival pity her.

Then his eyes shift on Credence.

There's a heavy barrel of guilt on his back, and it pushes him down, crawling like a worm, until he reaches Credence's trembling form.

“I'm so sorry,” he sobs, hands unsure, pawing at Credence's flank. Credence shakes and covers his face, lamenting like a dying beast. Percival manages to coax him into his arms, rocking him back and forth, like the scared kid he is.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, shh shh, Oh, I'm so sorry.” Percival can feel Bedelia's eyes burning holes through his skin, piercing like two very long, very sharp needles. “Percival,” she says.

“What have you done?”

---

The secret’s out. That same night, Percival leaves, finds the nearest no maj butchery that's still open and buys a large chunk of meat - pig, bull, who gives a shit. Credence gobbles it all up anyways, tearing through it easily.

Bedelia sits in her armchair, clutching a glass full of a liquor Percival doesn't recognize. It shakes in her weak grasp, but she somehow manages not to spill even a drop.

“What the ever loving fuck, Percival,” she says, staring at Credence, who has seemingly forgotten about her. Percival can't bring himself to look away, either, enthralled.

“Do you like that? Yeah? There's more if you're still hungry,” he says, petting Credence's head. His hair are growing back incredibly fast, now covering the entirety of his scalp in a short, dark shadow.

Percival has no idea what he's doing. He writes that in the notebook. But I don't regret it. I still don't regret it.

So. Credence needs to eat. Noted. He will find any means to feed himself if not helped. Also Noted. He apparently isn't   interested in eating or harming Percival.

After he hit him, Credence seemed more sad than angry-- big puppy eyes looking up at him. Percival should have been more careful.

He ignores his mother's feverish questions, but let's her wander near Credence now that he's sated and unbothered. She, much like her son, is morbidly attracted to every sort of strange and eerie thing. If he were a better son, Percival would be asking his mother if she is alright, if she wants him around now that she knows what he's been up to.

Is she scared? Does she know he has gone mad with love, and sadness, and that he can't bring himself to care for anyone else but his dear monster boy?

Percival kisses him once they're alone. He drags Credence up in bed, and holds him tight. Credence is still hesitant, weary from the pain, uncertain from a punishments he didn't deserve (Percival has bandaged it and cured it and spilled his tears over it, which in retrospect, probably wasn't a good idea).

“Please, don't hate me,” Percival says, planting a kiss to Credence's forehead.

Credence widens his eyes, whimpers. He pushes his head closer to Percival's lips, seeking the contact. Percival kisses every inch of his face: the point of his chin, the sharp curve of his cheekbones, the dips under his eyes. The plump of his lips, so soft and so impossibly warm for a dead body.

A shiver runs down Percival's spine. He takes Credence's bottom lips between his teeth and sucks it, playfully. Credence sighs, tongue lapping at the roof of Percival's mouth. His eyes are closed, and his brow is relaxed. He lets Percival press him against the mattress. He smiles up at him, and it's a little crooked and a little creepy, and it's the most beautiful thing Percival will ever see.

His hands roam Credence's body, making space under his threadbare clothes, feeling him purring in pleasure like a big, lazy cat. Percival presses another, wet kiss to the side of Credence's neck, and for a split second, he imagines being the undead monster of the two.

It gives him a thrill, having this dangerous, deadly, lovely creature being so mellow and soft for him: Percival stares deep into the black of Credence's eyes and feels powerful. He feels loved. Like no one has ever loved him before.

“I love you,” he says, as he sneaks a hand between Credence's legs. He squeaks as Percival moves his fingers just so, a little trick he'd learnt a long time ago, to fasten things up. He feels the wetness dripping down Credence's thighs, and instinctively dives in with the pads of his fingers.

Credence's legs lock around him, his head thrashing against the pillows. With his other hand, he takes hold of him, and slowly starts to stroke him until he's fully hard. Credence is panting, drooling like a dog. It's perverse, to find pleasure with something so utterly innocent. In this state, Credence is all instincts, laid bare and vulnerable; at least to Percival.

(Like he's always been).

Percival shrugs out of his pants and takes himself in hand, neglecting poor Credence, who whimpers loudly at the loss of his warm palm. Percival shushes him, and removes his fingers at the same time he pushes his cock in. There's a split second during which no noise can be heard. Credence strains against him, muscles tense as a violin’s strings. Percival can't breathe.

He's surrounded by schorchingly hot and impossibly tight and too much all at once.

“How,” he stammers, “how are you so good.”

He pistons his hips forward, no rhythm, listening to the noises Credence makes. It's a cacophony of grunts and moans and growls and whines. Percival loses himself in the feeling, chasing his own pleasure. He comes too soon, all pressed up inside and against Credence, an inescapable and heavy orgasm that leaves him exhausted, and empty.

He rolls off of Credence, who all but cries at him, still wanting. Percival takes him in his hand, again, pushing Credence's face against his chest. After a beat, Credence starts to move his hips relentlessly, desperate for that high, while Percival keeps holding him.

When he reaches it, Percival keeps him still, so that it doesn't take him away from him. It's an unrational fear, Percival knows, but he can't be sure, even with his fingers coated in Credence's come.

You never know.

---

Percival stares at the large pork leg; it’s fat, still dripping with blood, fresh enough. And yet.

“What's wrong?” He asks, watching Credence sniff at it with a furrowed brow, mouth twisted. He pushes it further away from him, looking up at Percival with big imploring eyes.

“You don't like it? But, you love these. Here, what about the steak?”

Credence stares at the cooked meat with an upturned nose, as if the smell alone disgusts him. Percival worries: what has he done wrong? Why won't his boy eat? Is he sick?

“None of that will do,” the voice makes Percival flinch. He turns to see Bedelia, leaning against the doorframe. She looks as disheveled as always. Hair a mess and clothes hastily tugged on. Percival doesn't want her here; she's been taking more and more space in the last days. But then again, can't really blame the woman  for being curious about the thing that almost killed her.

Still.

“It's no good,” she repeats, pointing at the wide array of meat Percival has arranged in front of Credence. The various plates blink accordingly.

“Those only worked before because he was starved. He needs something more… succulent.”

“And what do you suggest I do,” Percival says, bringing a forkful of filet to Credence's face; he sniffs at it, licks it, then shakes his head disapprovingly. Percival has never felt more useless than now, mornfully chewing onto the bite of meat. It tastes more than decent.

His mother takes a long drag from her bottle of firewhiskey, then speaks.

“Bring him something that's alive.”

Percival chokes on the mouthful.

“What?”

“You've heard me,” Bedelia walks up to him, and takes a seat at the table, next to Credence. He tilts his head at her, interest piqued. Percival snaps his fingers, reclaims his attention before he tries to bite her head off. That'd be awfully inconvenient.  

“Look at him,” she hisses, suddenly irate, “It's not a pet, Percival. He clearly is something of a predator. Rotting carcasses can satisfy him only for so long.”

Her words, despite how absurd they are, ring true. Percival recalls the memory of Credence, sticking his fangs into Adam’s still twitching body. The voracious way he drank up every drop of blood, breaking the bones open to suck at the marrows.

As he fucks Credence that night, slow and deep and hard, Percival elaborates a plan.

Said plan takes place the following evening. Percival isn't of the impulsive kind, but time is working against him in this frangent, so he needs to act quick. Percival also suspects that, if he stopped to think about what he was about to do, he would never again muster up the courage to go on and actually carry through with it. And he needs to carry through with it.

he locks Credence into their bedroom, apologizes to him. The spell he casts to keep him in will hold until Percival himself undoes it. I'm sorry love. It won't take long. Please be good. Percival whispers to he wooden door, forehead pressed against it.

He slides into his old coat, and a hat that he hasn't wore in years, but does the job of covering a good half of his face. He slithers out of the Manor and apparates away, in the streets of good ol’ New York. He takes a moment to take it all in, but finds that the city hasn't changed all that much during those months. So he starts walking, resuming his search.

He takes all the right turns through claustrophobic alleyways, feet following a well beaten path.

The Red Ibis is a small pub, sandwiched between two other no maj buildings, innocuous to a non trained eye. Percival has paid many a visit to it, during his investigations. It's not that popular, but if you're lucky, you just might happen to meet the right person at the right time.

There's also a great deal of prostitutes.

It doesn't take long to attract a few.  He's a lonesome man sitting at a bar, an overall easy target. The first ones, Percival ignores. Too pretty, too elegant. Too smart. No, he is looking for a specific target tonight; she needs to be someone highly un significant, someone that none would notice if she disappeared.

Percival scans the dance floor with hungry, unflinching eyes. On stage, a band plays some sad tunes about love and death. Percival meets eyes with a girl. She looks back at him with a sort of surprise, as if she didn't expected anyone to notice her. She's dressed in a cheap little scrap, and her shoes don't shine under the dim lights. She is painfully out of place. 

Perfect.

He pretends to be bashful when she approaches him, her cocky smile a tad too large.

“Hi there,” she chirps, in a high pitched tone.

“Haven't seen you around. Newcomer?” Percival clears his voice, then stutters, “Ah, yes. I am.” He doesn't stare her in the eyes, instead preferring to steal a look at the cut of her dress; high above the knee, baring her long, pale legs. They're a bit more fuller than Credence's, but they don't even compare. Percival doesn't stop even when she catches him; its best if she assumes he's one of the usual perverts.

“Mhm,” she leans in closer, the smell of her perfume clogging up Percival's nostrils, “My name is Tory. Do you want me to show you ‘round?”

Percival nods. She drags him from one end of the club to the other for what feels like ages, hanging from his arm like a tedious parrot. He does his best to seem interested in what she tells him, in her avancés. He stares at her see-through dress and can't help imaging Credence all wrapped in it. Long and lean and lovely. It sends a surge of blood to his nether regions, and of course, she immediately catches on it.

In the end, he cups his hand to her ear and asks if she wants to accompany him home. She smiles coquettishly and walks him out of the place, conveniently forgetting to pay for their drinks.

“Wow. You live here?” She asks, staring up at Graves Manor. Percival hums, taking her inside. He can't tell if she's awed or disappointed. 

The house is absolutely silent, and a cold chill goes through the hall, menacing. Percival thinks it's quite fitting for the occasion. Tory shivers, smile wavering.

“Come, my room is warmer,” Percival says, in a tone that he hopes is inviting. Either way, she follows him up the stairs and into the corridors, keeping close to him. Percival knows this is not the most inviting of spaces, especially to an outsider. So when she hugs his arm, he lets her lean against his side.

“You know,” she says, as he opens the door to his bedroom, “I kind of feel like I've already seen you somewhere. Are you an actor?” Percival chuckles, pushing her into the room. She stumbles into the dark with a little hey!

“No. Something way less exciting,” he says, shedding his clothes. As he removes his hat, Percival sees a flash of recognition onto the girl’s face. But it's already too late. Percival can make out the shape of Credence in the shadows.

“I hope this is to your desires,” he says, catching the glint of Credence's claws in the dark. Tory tilts her head, then turns, slowly.

Percival shuts the door before she starts screaming.