#just spent an hour wandering around lowes looking at plants and self soothing as much as I can

[softer--apricot]

I wish I could figure out what factors go into whether or not I'll drop after a scene. I felt completely good and happy... until I got 5 minutes down the road

[psalloacappella]

à deux

Day 1 Prompt:  Rain

@sasusakublankperiodweek Ao3 | FFN | ↓

“Cold,” he croaks, like unhinging an old metal joint. Instead of the weight of unused years, it’s the weight of unshed tears. The strain in his voice zigzags, lost, falls into its baritone groove. “You always are, when it rains.”

Upon awakening in the bleak dawn, the day’s significance settles on them — at once a burdening melancholy and poignant relic.

At first blush it could be any morning, but as shinobi experienced with the passage of years and the disorientation of traveling dimensions, both are loath to disregard the importance of date and time.

He’s standing at the window. You would assume he’s still lost in a daze of sleep.

Sakura gently presses her cold (they’re always cold, on days like this, days in which it pours and rain floods the countryside and small villages and cleans the dust from these everyday, hard lives) fingertips to his back, alerting him to her presence. Still they are in the phase of learning the lore of one another despite all the things already known, and it is the truest labor of love.

“We should stay one more day,” she says quietly. He hasn’t acknowledged, but hasn’t resisted.

Some days, that’s good enough.

But she overdoes it; that’s who she is. Love may be gentle but her manner of it isn’t always:  Indeed, she is fierce with people that rub her the wrong way, especially those invoking his name out of turn; she eats too fast, as indulgence; she hugs children too tightly when she knows she’ll never see them again, knowing that they are ships flickering through towns, some benevolent symbol of an oppressor they’re too young to put a face to.

Today is the anniversary of death. Over time they’ve both come to know this as an old friend, but this is Sasuke’s most notable scar.

Sakura cannot reach him on days like this, and that’s okay.

“The rain, after all. Traveling in this would be a pain — we’ve tried that before.”

She slides her arm around his waist, pressing her cheek to his warm back.

Don’t cry. It’s not your day. Don’t be so emotional.

Tears escape, they always do. To his credit, he never resents it.

Even with him now,  his equal, there are bouts of disbelief and self-loathing in which all she manages to do is convince herself nothing about her is helpful, that she’s still yearning for him to turn around.

Now the other arm, hanging on to him as if he’s unwieldy, as if he’ll sink into the chilled wood floor and out of her sight for good.

Sasuke’s hand and grip are warm, flash and fire. She knows this is in more ways than one — unspeakable ones, really.

Some grunt of assent, no fully-formed word at all, but she hears him swallow hard, once. It’s easy to, in a small corner of the world which hasn’t yet begun its day.

Hot fingers, frigid arms.

“Cold,” he croaks, like unhinging an old metal joint. Instead of the weight of unused years, it’s the weight of unshed tears. The strain in his voice zigzags, lost, falls into its baritone groove. “You always are, when it rains.”

Sakura resists the urge to click her tongue at his misdirection, the veneer to gloss over his emotional state.

“I’m all right, Sasuke-kun.”

“Hm.”

“I am! It just settles into my hands, that’s all. It’s close to an equinox, you know. The seasons are turning.”

(He’d never admit he likes that about her — nervy, a little more quick to correct, less scared, and that it’s brought him some delight, some sparkle to her that continues to surprise him.)

She feels him scoff under his breath, probably at her ability to pinpoint their location in time, in space, in the universe no matter where they are. When you save lives on seconds of analysis, on minuscule doses, these things become instinctive.

So of course, she knows what today is.

Pressing her nose into his shoulderblade, she says, muffled, “Should I call for tea, then?”

It’s a long beat before he nods, knowing that she’ll have to let him go to complete this task, leaving him alone at the drafty window — the chill having a chance to seep into the cracks in his soul.

They’re always less protected on these days.

.

.

The sleeves of his shirt always drown her wrists and hands, and though she has to flick and adjust them as she moves about the inn room, it’s one of her favorite ways to trap heat against her body. It’s not as cold as the caves they’ve sometimes inhabited, but close. Though the teapot scalds, it’s welcoming.

“It’s steady,” she muses, eyes on the persistent rain. “The whole village will be quiet today, in weather like this.”

Sasuke nods in response with unfocused eyes, collecting himself to meet hers. Green, watching him in a searching way. The way he does to her on all other days, seeking signs of regret or distress or any emotion within his ability to repair or ease. At once, old lovers and new.

A memory sears, a sharp grazing against the mind:  A low table, scattered small dishes like this with food remnants vivid, colorful; a sullen father, the corners of his mouth sagging; his mother beaming, hiding laughter behind her hand.

A brother, by then already burdened and saturated with the weight of his destiny, still finding the almost offensive wherewithal to poke him in the face.

“You haven’t touched anything,” she chides gently.

Tuning in again to them, this, arriving momentarily from his sojourn of the past, his eyes flicker to her own messy plate. Lately she’s only pushed food around in the mimicry of an indulged meal. Worries about her being sick. She just blusters, waving away concerns. (I’m a medic, for god’s sake, I’d know!)

“And you,” he responds, indicating her own dregs with his rude, handsome chin.

She shrugs, burying deeper into his shirt. “Perhaps it’s just the day.”

“You’re coddling, aren’t you? I don’t need that.”

It comes sharper than expected, and he regrets it the second it leaves his lips. He  imagines what Itachi would say, knowing he possesses a great love which he’s taken for granted time over, time again. He’d reprimand him, as he should.

Often he settles for his ex-sensei’s silent admonitions instead.

Finishing a sip of tea, she sets the mug down and sighs. Getting to her feet, she collects a few scrolls she’s been poring over the last few nights and looks at him, a bit less readable this time.

“You’re allowed to feel this, you know, Sasuke-kun. You’re allowed to love, and you’re allowed to hurt.”

She half-turns, but stops and adds,

“And you can even feel it all at the same time.”

Sakura retreats to the corner where one of the few furnishings sits. A chair, large enough for her to fold herself into and unravel her resources. A plant discovered in this new region they had crossed into last week, similar and yet different enough to pique her interest and spur her to research. She’s been lost in common roots, and he’s been mired in the loss of his old ones.

The ability of the mind to experience multiple things at once is truly remarkable. To an observer he watches her study with intent as she furrows her brow, yawns often throughout. Sasuke can see her as well as his past all at once.

Anniversaries of his dead loved ones shouldn’t mean so much. After all, he’s been alive without them longer than with.

Sasuke wishes he could explain that her presence is enough. That her loving him has been enough.

“We could still go through the traditions, if you’d like. Collect what we need. I know,” and her breath hitches, and she glances away under his dark eyes, probably feeling she’s pressing, said too much, “there’s no grave to do it with, but—”

“It’s fine.” He tries, he does, to say it with less bite. Gods, he’s transparent, his pain and denial. He’s not ready yet. Will he ever be?

“This is your day to grieve,” she says softly. “You should do that however you choose. No one can tell you how to feel — not even me.

Even me. He knows she knows his weakness. Watches her yawn again and awkwardly adjust her body, as if her own skin is uncomfortable, blink and he’d miss.

“There’s nothing I want to do,” he confesses, sounding hoarse against his will. “Nothing at all.”

A pause, a long one, in which the rain sings against the roof.

“Then you don’t have to,” she says. “You just grieve.”

And so he does.

Pretends to read.

Stares out the window.

Lingers in the discomfort of his own skin.

Paces.

Touches no food, lapses into a mausoleum silence so complete the lines of them blur against their own dimension.

He can feel his brother’s touch, and she can feel his agony.

She rises periodically, offering him tea, sliding her arms around him from behind again. He alternates between silence and quiet shakes that he’d never admit were sobs.

By dusk he’s in her lap, hair mussed and wild, feeling spent from everything and nothing at all, from wandering in the better memories of a brother he can’t bring back.

It slips from his lips in a moment of weakness, it hurts.

“I know,” she whispers, pulling her fingers gently through his untamed locks. “It always might. But don’t forget, every day has the same number of hours.”

It’s not until they lie down again, the day a simultaneous blur of grief and guilt, that she says in a soothing whisper, “And look, darling — you’ve made it through another. You always do.”

And while he can’t articulate that each year it’s a little more muted, the pain easing off him as they pass, if only marginally, he manages to thank her only in twilight when he’s spared from knowing if she can hear him at all.

.

.

On the second day of rain he awakens before her, an arm curled around her stomach in a way that aligns with some adagio ballad pouring from where, he doesn’t know, the universe, some sign, and as intelligent as he is the facts are slipping from him whether due to the haze of sleep or the turmoil of his ghosts, the way the dead and the living and the coming to life knot themselves with one another, soaking him with an instinct and some sense of surety so intoxicating that he buries his face in her long, wild hair where nothing can see his face, but she will know his heart.

If everything’s a cycle, then the old and new must cross paths in their rotations.

The darkness bleeds away and he realizes she’s waited to spill the joyous news, not wanting to acknowledge that alignment of the stars to spare his feelings, and for that he is endlessly grateful and guilty.

But he likes to think his brother, despite his faults, would have liked to know he continued forward, that he accepted the love he didn’t feel he deserved and tried, desperately, to welcome life anew.

Sasuke presses his lips to the back of her neck, and his warm hand against her stomach.

“It’s still raining,” she murmurs, still in the place between wakefulness and dreams.

He thinks he feels the flutter of his future against his palm. He only whispers,

“Let’s stay here for now.”  

[aphrodites-law]

My Favorite

Trope: Soulmate marks.

Twist: Lexa doesn’t have one. Clarke does. 

1/?

~

Lexa had lost her soulmate when she was eleven years old. The two words that she had cherished and daydreamed about for years had one day simply vanished, leaving behind no trace they had ever been imprinted on the inside of her wrist. Overnight, her life had taken an unthinkable turn, and if the whispers behind her back had not been enough to rock her self-esteem, if the bullying and the taunting hadn't broken her, it was her friends cutting ties with her that had felt like the most painful loss.

Her parents had had to put her on the registry for the Markless, which she'd always found to be ironic, as it painted the biggest mark on her yet: outcast. The Markless had a flaw; a part of them so fundamentally wrong that they couldn't truly love, nor be truly loved in return. Few people cared to mingle with them, as history had proven them to be the criminals of this world. And if they hadn't done their crime yet then surely they would, one day, and rare were those who wanted to take the chance to be in their lives when it happened.

Lexa didn't know what it meant for her or what she'd done at eleven that had made her so undeserving of love, but she'd refused to let anger consume her. She'd kept her head low and kept her arms covered, even in the summer, and for the next eighteen years she'd lived her life as best she could.

In the city, blending in had been easier. There were apartment buildings for people like her, and though they were rarely the safest, Lexa had been happy enough in her studio. She'd met her first true friends in years there, and then a few more in college, where minds were more open than in her small town. Some simply didn't care, others refused to buy into the fear mongering, and Lexa clung to them tightly, grateful for their affection and their flaws, the ones that society had marginalized as well.

Her closest friend was Anya­ - tough like nails and no-nonsense - who Lexa had met while they studied in the hopes of one day teaching. Yes, sometimes it was a wonder to Lexa as well that she would willfully step in school classrooms again, but how would the world ever change if the new generations weren't taught differently? Lexa had long ago found refuge in language and literature, and if she could one day extend a hand to a child shunned by their peers, if she could be the teacher she had needed in her teenage years so many times, it would be worth the pain of reviving old wounds. As for Anya, she wasn't markless but had gotten pregnant from an encounter with a markless partner, which had brought her family so much shame that she'd started finding the entire system loathsome. She'd had her daughter's name tattooed over her mark, packed their bags for the city and never once looked back.

The decade had seen some improvements for people like them - and the world was changing, even if slowly. There were programs started to facilitate their lives and more inclusive spaces offered. There were even dating websites, and if Lexa had once been embarrassed to even sign up, she now relied on them exclusively. Her college girlfriends might have been open-minded, but it'd never changed the words imprinted on their wrists.

Layover was perhaps the word Lexa detested the most in the English language, as people like her were the first ones to suffer from it. There had been Costia, first, who Lexa had loved as best she could, even as a broke twenty-year-old with full-time studies and two part-time jobs, but it had only lasted a year, until Costia had taken a linguistics class and met the girl whose first words to her were marked on her skin. In her defense, Costia had broken the news gently–and Lexa had loved her enough to be happy for her, though perhaps not when she had felt her heart plummet into her stomach.

Lexa had wondered afterward if it was true what they said about the Markless: if she had been able to let go of Costia because she was unable to truly love. When she had asked Anya about it, the woman had shrugged and told her one relationship was hardly strong enough proof.  

Louisa had whirled into Lexa's life over a year later, but left just as quickly when another student had tapped on her shoulder and uttered the very words Louisa would sometimes mumble in her sleep. Lexa had been walking out of the class auditorium with her when it had happened, and she had felt herself freeze on the spot. After all, she'd spent enough nights in the same bed to know what words were on her girlfriend's wrist. Louisa had been so flustered that she'd babbled something back, and evidently the curly-haired boy who'd asked her a question had heard back the words imprinted on his own wrist, his smile spreading so wide that Lexa had felt sickened by the sight. She'd gotten blackout drunk for the first and last time that night and woken up on Anya's couch.

Afterward, Lexa had refused to waste her time. She dated a few markless women during grad school, but the relationships still naturally ran their course, and each time Lexa had wondered if the whispers were true: People like her couldn't know true love.

Which, inevitably, led to the second most detested word in Lexa's vocabulary: settling. It was a term that the Marked had coined some centuries ago, aimed at those who built lives and started families with partners they knew weren't their intended. It happened, of course, that in this world many didn't meet, but hope was to be maintained until one's last breath. There were records of couples meeting as old as 101 years old, and so whoever didn't wait was poorly regarded, though never as poorly as the Markless, who inspired fear rather than pity.

Though she didn't care for the word and its connotations, settling was something that Lexa had accepted for herself. It was clear by now, at 29, that she should seek a markless woman who shared her values and had a compatible lifestyle. It wouldn't be the love that movies and songs wrote about, but it could be a strong bond regardless­ - companionship - and together they could even have a family. It was seeing Anya around her daughter, Tris, that had planted the first seeds of yearning for a fuller life and someone to share it with. 

It was with the very intention of settling that Lexa had packed her bags and moved to her dream city, much smaller in scale and population than the one that had offered her so much, but a place with a progressive enough reputation that Lexa knew she could be happy there. Anya had helped her with the move - a two hour drive away that both her and Lexa had felt weigh heavily on them. It would be the first time Lexa was far away from the friend who had, by all means, saved her life more than once. 

When Lexa had applied for a teaching position at the Polis private middle school, it had been with Anya’s full support. She had coached her through the high-brow interview process and then celebrated when Lexa had officially been offered the English teacher position, to be started in two months for the new school year. For once, the stars had seemed to align. 

That was, at least, until Lexa had stepped into her new apartment and realized just how strongly it smelled of fresh paint. On her first night alone, Lexa had woken up so dizzy that not even a morning walk had lessened the feeling. She’d resigned herself to the fact that her new place would be inhabitable for at least a week and had quickly found a hotel to stay in for the next few days. 

~

Jake Griffin was the proud owner of Griffin Hotel, a warm place with under thirty rooms and a distinctly cozy appeal to it. It was not luxurious but still well-kept, with a room near the foyer for the breakfast buffet and another sitting room with armchairs, a bookshelf, and a view on their garden. Lexa had only taken one suitcase up to her room, but after Jake had left her to it, she’d felt oddly compelled to walk for a bit before she turned in for the night. 

She put on her comfiest sweater and wandered out of the hotel, finding her way to the garden and enjoying the soothing sound of the small fountain there. Through the window to the sitting room, she could see the bookshelf standing tall and wondered what titles she would find on the spines of those old books. She went back inside and walked into the room, but stopped when she found that there was someone sitting on one of the armchairs. 

She couldn’t be any older than Lexa, with her hair in a loose up-do and her legs curled up beneath her. She was completely absorbed in a book, an edition of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café so worn that the cover was only kept on thanks to three paperclips. There were notes sticking out of it and some ink stains on the edges of the pages. Lexa felt a sudden thrum of excitement at the prospect of a shared interest. 

"I love that tomato,” she said offhandedly.

Her eyes widened as she realized the moronic string of words she had uttered. The woman’s head snapped up and Lexa felt her cheeks grow hot when she noticed her bewildered expression.

"That novel, I mean," Lexa quickly corrected. "It's a good one. Wonderful."

The woman blinked at her and when, finally, her mouth parted open, Lexa was so certain that she was about to say something that she couldn't help but feel disappointed when she merely nodded instead. But her disappointment quickly vanished when the woman’s face suddenly broke into a smile; one so sweet that Lexa felt herself smile right back.

When she motioned for Lexa to sit, Lexa promptly did.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted anything," Lexa said. "You seemed so engrossed."

The woman shrugged. Lexa wrung her hands on her lap. "It’s actually the first book I ever borrowed at a library.”

At the woman's arched brow, Lexa felt that she had been asked to elaborate. "I was nine. It was summer and I was wildly bored."

The woman suddenly sat up and pinched both edges of the book before showing the considerable space between her fingers. Lexa understood her meaning and smiled sheepishly.

"Yes, it was definitely too dense and mature for me. But I loved the world. Then I got obsessed with frying my own tomatoes - my mom never forgave me for setting her new pan on fire.”

The woman laughed, a soundless expression that made her eyes crinkle and her tongue peek out between her teeth. Lexa had accomplished many things in her life, but making this woman laugh felt like her proudest moment.

"Clarke?"

Lexa recognized Jake in the doorway, looking over at the woman in the armchair and then yawning loudly. 

"I'm turning in. You need anything, hun'?"

Evidently, Lexa had stumbled upon Jake's daughter. When Clarke lifted her hands and signed something with them, Lexa thought to smack herself. She had been blabbing without once wondering why Clarke didn't respond verbally. 

Jake chuckled at something Clarke signed. "Fair enough. Goodnight, kiddo."

After he left, Lexa stood up and cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry, I-” She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I've been talking your ear off and you probably just wanted to read in peace."

Clarke looked up at her with a curious expression, one Lexa couldn’t read at all. 

“Hm... goodnight, then.” She smiled weakly and walked out of the room, already reaching for the bedroom key in her pocket. 

Though she felt like an idiot, Lexa couldn’t resist one glance back before she turned the corner. She found Clarke looking at her with a soft smile, her expression so full of wonder that Lexa knew she would not be able to forget it.

-

Part two

[citrinekay]

after working many weeks on a case, holden starts to slowly forget about self care, especially his hair. it gets long and curly and bill doesn’t want him to cut it off

Oh, anon I am so here for this prompt. Not only does it give me a chance to talk about Jonathan Groff’s curls - which I love - but it also intersects with another interest of mine, hair ASMR (which if you don’t know anything about you should really check out)  And now I want Bill to play with my hair 😭 Thanks for the prompt!

A few years ago, before Atlanta, Holden had done what he considered a fair job of looking after himself while they were out of town on consult. Jogging every morning in the new city, feeding himself three full meals, showering every day, shaving, getting his hair cut - all basic necessities of self-care that didn’t seem that hard when he had the time that are now pesky tasks which quickly fall to the bottom of his priority list. It’s not that he doesn’t care how he looks - in fact, when they aren’t so busy, he cares quite a bit - but when they’re plunging into their third out of town consult in a row, getting his hair trimmed just doesn’t seem like a priority. 

In all, over the course of the three cases, he and Bill spend a little over six weeks out of town. When they finally get a chance to come home and take a week off from being out of town, Holden quickly realizes just how much he’d let himself go over the past several weeks. 

He comes back from his morning run - the first in over five weeks since he’d managed to maintain the first week out of town before letting it slide - and he’s completely out of breath and exhausted. He immediately goes into the bathroom to get a shower, and notices that his hair is a disheveled mess, moreover that it’s gotten much longer than he’s ever let it go in the past several years, so much so that the natural, wavy curls are returning to the ends. 

Bill is up out of bed and making breakfast by the time Holden finishes in the shower. He glances up from the stovetop where he’s scrambling eggs when Holden enters the kitchen and goes straight for the coffee pot. 

“How was your run?”

“Hell.” Holden says, “I don’t think my body was naturally meant for exercise.”

Bill chuckles, “You’re telling me. If I tried to run a mile, I might end up in the hospital.”

Holden pours a steaming mug of coffee and stirs in sugar and cream before turning around to brace his hips against the counter. 

Bill leans over to give him a kiss, his fingers stroking stray, damp curls back from Holden’s forehead. 

“That’s another thing I let go.” Holden says, scraping a hand through the locks of hair at his nape. “I really need to go get my hair trimmed.”

“It’s not so bad.” Bill observes, “I had no idea it was this curly.”

“It just gets all thick and tangly.” Holden says, “It’s not that great.”

Bill shrugs. “I think you look good no matter what.”

He goes back to cooking without commenting on it further, but later in the day, when Holden suggests they go out so he can drop into the barber, he complains that he’d rather stay home on their first day back. Holden acquiesces, not thinking any more of it. 

The next morning, Holden sleeps through the alarm that was meant to wake him for his run. Either that, or he subconsciously turns it off and snuggles back below the sheets. He wakes up a few hours later to sunlight pouring past the curtains, and the clock reading a little past ten. His body feels like a lead weight, sinking contentedly down into the warm cocoon of the sheets and Bill’s body curled up behind him. 

His eyes struggle open as awareness trickles across his senses, and the position of Bill’s chest against his back sharpens into warm satisfaction. A light tingle wanders across his scalp and down the back of his neck as Bill’s fingers stroke absently through his hair, carding it back away from his ear, combing it loose, and winding around the soft curls. 

Holden hums a pleased sigh from the back of his throat as he turns his head to glimpse Bill propped up on his elbow behind him, watching him adoringly. 

“‘Morning.” Bill murmurs. 

“Good morning. Are you playing with my hair?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” 

Bill’s mouth tilts in a rueful smile as he continues combing his fingers softly through Holden’s hair, applying just enough pressure with his nails across his scalp to rouse delicate tingles. 

“I have to take advantage.” Bill says, winding his index finger around one loose curl.

“Of what?”

“You.” Bill murmurs, bending to press a kiss against Holden’s nape.

 The damp press of his lips encourages the warm tingles washing down Holden’s spine, and he arches delightedly into the pressure. 

“Before you bound out of bed to go jogging and cutting your hair.” Bill adds, his mouth separating from Holden’s neck but gusting soft breath against his skin.

Holden frowns, shunting Bill a curious gaze. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Bill shrugs, focusing on the bronze gleam of Holden’s curls falling through his stroking fingers. 

“It does give me more leverage to pull on.” He says, offering a quiet chuckle. 

Holden rolls his eyes. “Is that all it is?”

Bill’s fingers start at his nape and stroke upward, against the natural grain of Holden’s hair, evoking an intense wave of tingles that effectively silences Holden’s sarcasm. His mouth slips open in a pleasured sigh, and he tilts his face down into the pillow to give Bill’s fingers more room to work.

Stroking the hair back from Holden’s nape, Bill lines the sensitive border of his hairline with slow kisses, encouraging the warm hum buzzing down his spine to continue. Meanwhile, his fingers keep stroking, carding through Holden’s hair at a slow, deliberate pace. He tugs gently at the crown, just strong enough to make the tingles explode all the way down Holden’s spine and past his groin. 

Holden purses his mouth over a whimper, trying to cover exactly how much he’s enjoying the treatment. He’d spent most of his childhood enduring bad hair cuts to cover up the curls, or fighting with the knots if it got too long. Up until this very moment, he’d firmly believed that they were nothing more than a nuisance, but the gradual comb of Bill’s fingers through the lengthening strands is starting to shake that notion loose. 

Bill’s mouth comes up from his neck for a moment, letting him recover for barely a second. 

“I know it can’t stay. Dress code and all that bullshit.” He murmurs, “But I don’t hate it.”

“No, I think you love it.” Holden says, his voice muffled in the pillow.

Bill chuckles softly.  His fingertips graze along the backside of Holden’s ear, and his shoulders rise instinctively against the sensitive tickling. The sensation is only exacerbated by the press of Bill’s mouth against the back of his neck. 

Suddenly, Bill leans back, divesting Holden of the general, humming tingle planting itself in his spine and low in his belly. He gives up a soft complaint. 

“Why are you stopping?”

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes. Please.” Holden says, shooting a sheepish glance over his shoulder. 

“Oh, so you don’t exactly hate it either?” Bill asks, brushing his fingertips up against Holden’s nape, and tugging softly at the curls nestles there. 

“It can stay. For now.” Holden allows. 

Bill’s fingers sink back into his hair while the other hand wanders down his spine, and the tingles erupt from a gradual, soothing sensation into something hotter. Holden closes his eyes, and doesn’t argue again.

[musutofu]

【 Fading Memories 】

♡ pairing | Kirishima x ᶠᴱᴹ Reader ✑ word count | 4.6k ✎ genre | angst ✗ warnings | kidnapping, body horror, self mutilation

A wash of darkness has settled over the sky; another day lost to the avarice of night. As the sun dips lower the clouds bleed bruised violet like uneven patches of spilled ink over a black canvas. Only a few patches of untouched paper shine through the thick shroud of clouds heavy with rain and the sky dark with a new moon. The stars are only pinpricks of light, nearly choked out of existence with the coming storm. There’s a picturesque beauty to the darkness of the night sky and it’s framed by the window like a proper work of art. Each dot of light is like a point on a map hung in the sky, connecting star after star to string together the celestial bodies shining through the haze of clouds; a picture within a picture. A grey fog appears with each exhale and clings to the cold glass, leaving a fleeting canvas for art of your own. The path of your finger creates a new constellation that fades with the disappearing condensation, but the few moments it stays overlayed against the stars is long enough to set a crack in the dam that’s been keeping your terror at bay. It trickles down your back like a poisoned waterfall, toxins seeping into your skin with each passing moment spent longing for a world outside this room. The heavy breath heaved in with the hopes of quelling the paranoia roaring to life inside you rattles in your lungs, choking more than soothing. It does little to keep thoughts of the grim reality outlines around you at bay. The shadows of the unfamiliar room still press in on all sides like the presence of an unwanted visitor. It’s more suffocating than your heaving lungs. They watch with eyeless faces as you go through the motions of stepping one foot in front of the other until legs unsteady with anxiety carry you to the singular chair poised in front of a desk. The chair creeks under your weight but holds firm as you curl your legs up to your chest, holding them to steady the shivers. Nothing seems to calm the tremors as the poison continues to flow down your spine, eating away at your nervous system all the while. If your mind isn’t the first thing to go while being held captive in such an accommodating prison than your body will as the chills threaten to shake you apart. Every muscle in your body is straining like threads as the tension in your muscles tears at the seams of your limbs. You hold your legs tighter, gathering them up and tucking them under your chin as if your head will be enough weight to hold them in place. It forces your gaze straight ahead, eyes locking on the mystery you’d unraveled hours before. There’s a message written on a piece of paper from one of the desk drawers, ink smudges into blue pools by tears long since dried. It’s a message deciphered with only scraps of evidence, an encrypted message with only two available cyphers. One belonging to your captor, the other two you. It’s hidden in the green brown swatches of color captured in the squares of paper that litter the desk like tiles. A collection of twenty photos–all aerial shots–of a sparkling forest, cresting over hills like algae over waves. Hidden in the thick foliage are dirt paths but only fragments of them. No photo connects to the other and all the paths lead seemingly to nowhere except for a single splinter that leads the way to the gates of some rural building. Each is marked with a time scribbled on the back in scratchy penmanship. That detail that had seemed arbitrary at first was the first layer of the code. Now each photo is laid out one next to the other in chronological order. With such a small change everything shifted into place and the message was decoded. No message was written, just the name of who was supposed to receive it: you. It’s almost as if you’re writing a love letter to yourself as you carefully rewrite the same jumble of nonsensical lines for a third time. Alone they’re scribbles on paper, much like a single puzzle piece without its companion, but as you fit them together a picture appears, two words; your name. Each photo was taken so they characters would be written alternately from first to last, converging on the one area that’s missing from all of them. It had been the point of interest for the botched mission that ended with you in captivity. A simple recon assignment for a small team and a publicity stunt for your agency. In an attempt to prove that their Heroes were fearless even in the face of a direct threat using your real name. It had seemed like a jab at the fact that Heroes are still human, still people once they take off their suits and every cell in your body is burning with fear at the thought of them even taking that away from you. It really does feel like your humanity is being bled out, fear and panic crowding the civility out of your brain until there’s nothing left with the desperately feral need to survive. A guttural sound placed somewhere between a growl and a whimper gurgles in your throat as the door that remained silent since you woke creaks open. For as modern as the room looks the door sounds antiquated as it squeaks open on rusted hinges. Had you been thinking past the threats outside of your own psyche folding in on itself like a cat’s cradle you would’ve used your chair to block the door, but the time for planning has passed and the door opens unhindered. For a moment, the darkness clawing its way in from the outside hides the intruder until a beam of muted light catches on the pale blue hair poking messily out from under a black hood. It falls away from their face just a fraction as they lift their gaze to meet your fiery glare and the individual images snap into full focus. Standing before you–blocking your only means of escape–is Shigaraki Tomura, leader of the League Of Villains. Belatedly, you realize no other Villain would have the patience of finesse to plan such a pointed trap all to bring you back to him. He takes one lurching step towards you as if he’s moving based on rickety cogs and mechanics, the next step is smoother, and so is the next until he’s rushing towards you with enough eagerness to startle you out of the odd rigor mortis you’ve fallen into. Like a bug fearing the sudden light you skitter off of the chair, bracing your hands in a white knuckled grip on its high back. It offers the most pitiful of barriers but it’s enough to keep him at an arm’s length. Though he doesn’t seem happy with just seeing you from a distance. “I’ve missed you,” are the words he settles on after a moment of contemplation. When words don’t immediately fall from your tongue swollen silent with simmering fear his hand leaves his pocket with deliberate delay. Though just out of reach the sight of his hand still strikes a cold spike of fear through you, shocking your spine ramrod straight as he scratches at the already irritated skin of his neck. Without a care for the damage he’s doing–not as much as he could inflict on something other than his body–he tears open scabbed scratches with jagged nails until blood stains his fingertips. “I missed you.” He says it again as if it wasn’t loud enough the first time, his voice more insistent. His only answer is you shuffling closer to the desk, dragging the chair across the floor as you go. He falls for the ruse, following your movement to remain the focus of your eyes. He is, though in your periphery the door is wide open, an unguarded exit for your escape. With one hand still planted on the chair you reach behind you. Beneath the paper with his decided message is another that’s filled with what look to be idle doodles, scribbles of random items on paper. To untrained eyes, they are, but with a Quirk like yours they’re a saving grace. Your fingertips wander over the soft impressions the pen left in the paper, reading the dips and curves through memory until you find one that would best assist you. This will be a one off attack, Shigaraki isn’t one to fall for the same trick twice, so you move at once. The breadth of your body covers the soft blue glow of your Quirk bringing your drawing to life and you tense in preparation. Shigaraki’s cracked lips part to speak again, probably the same words, and you strike. The smoke bomb smack him square in the forehead, chair knocking him onto the floor as you shove it at him. He does down blinded and disoriented, arms flailing dangerously in an attempt to catch himself. He does for a moment, one damning hand latches onto you as you sprint for the door. His grip burns through skin and muscle before slipping from your wrist but the damage has been done. Like overcooked clay your skin begins to flake from your muscle and muscle from bone as his Decay chews through your body like moths through fabric. It’s a searing sort of pain made all the more agonizing by its languid pace. His grip had been loose, the lightest graze as a last ditch attempt at keeping you locked away but it was enough. As if it’s a gushing wound you wrap your unafflicted hand around your rotting wrist, cradling it to your chest as you run through the dark maze of halls. It’s hard to see in the low light of a stormy night, but it’s enough to keep you close to the walls as you search for a way out of this labyrinth. A soft snowfall of dust kicks up as you skirt around pile of deformed metal guarding the entrance to another hall, several sets of footprints having already tread through the blanket of downy grey before you. It’s hard to keep your presence hidden as you tiptoe around liter and dried leaves the League must’ve tracked in but you manage, shoulder bumping the sagging walls to guide you further out. With eyes set ahead you miss the obstacle in your path and it catches your foot as you skirt around a corner and you go down hard, just barely catching yourself on the hand not being eaten away by Shigaraki’s Quirk. The brunt of your weight draws a labored groan from wooden floors and a squeak from your throat as the shock of impact shoots up your wrist. You venture a look back in the hopes of finding anything but some sort of trap locked around your ankle. There’s luck in that regard although you almost wish there wasn’t as your eyes make out exactly what took your foot out from under you. It’s still there, caught under the curve of your ankle. A carcass; one of a dead alley cat. You bite your tongue until you taste iron to hold back the nauseated sounds trying to surface. It’s matted fur is chewed away at its belly, replaced by the squirming white bodies of maggots; a knife sticking out of its burst belly. As quick as a cobra strike you’re back on your feet and skittering away from the poor decaying creature. Only you’ve lost the wall in your mad dash and are left with only degrees of darkness to keep you from curving down another hallway. Just as you find an opening where the shadows seem murkier in the hopes that it’s adjacent to a solid wall, a flash of silver comes shooting out of the darkness. There’s not enough time to analyze what’s flying at you as you try to dive out of danger. It knicks your cheek and you feel the cold sting of metal being chased by the warmth of blood welling to the surface. Though you’re less worried about the injury and more concerned with evading who or whatever caused it. And just as suspected a figure steps out of the darkness, eyes flashing dangerously in the low lighting. For a moment, your mind begins to piece together the staccato features floating in the shadows but your body has already left it behind as you sprint back the way you came, nearly slamming into a wall as you skid to a stop. It’s only your hand that stop the head on collision and your wrist goes numb for a moment as it absorbs another shock of your momentum. It feels like pins and needles are poking through your skin–not unlike the feeling of your other hand slowly disappearing–but you definitely feel the strike of another blade grazing your arm. Belatedly you realize you have your back to your enemy and roll to correct yourself, taking down a heavy tarp that was making a perfunctory effort at keeping out the cold night air. It raised goosebumps where the tarp isn’t touching as it’s fallen over you like a blanket. The scratchy plastic pokes at you like barbs, clawing to cloud your vision like you aren’t fighting for your life. In the end it’s the person you’ve been doing such a poor job at evading that lifts the heavy veil from your head. The face your brain had tried to piece together from mismatched puzzle pieces made of police reports and Internet forums turns out to be correct, but it’s small comfort seeing as it’s the face of death to people in your chosen profession. Though she doesn’t seem like much of a murderer as she tosses the tarp to the ground and leans forward like she’s trying to see past your body and into your soul. She’s a round faced girl, oversized sweater covering what you assume are bloodstained hands. The choppy bangs over her face sway in the slightest breeze as she sniffs at you, tongue peeking out of his mouth. It makes you painfully aware of every drop of blood in your body. Some of which is still leaking out of your face in arm in languid trickles. After another flurry of panicked heartbeats thrumming in your ears she steps back to lean against the wall across from you, kicking up one foot to balance herself like this is a casual situation. Perhaps it is for a girl like her but you aren’t up to sitting around to find out. A thick thud stops you before you can get very far in your escape. You’ve only moved a few centimeters from the spot she had you bolted to in fear, but a blade much bigger than the first two daggers she threw at you is now protruding from the wall. There’s a sharp bite through your skin and suddenly cold metal presses into your stomach, drops of your blood dripping off the edge of the blade. “Leaving so soon?” She looks to have barely moved from her original spot as she questions you in a coquettish tone. You venture of few steps to face her, braced tight against the wall as if it will envelop you and keep you from harm. The most it does is remind you the window you’re leaning against is broken as shards of glass press in jagged shapes against your shoulder blades. “Don’t go,” she continues. “Let’s be friends.” Her tongue sweeps over a dagger, the one that had slashed open your cheek, though still leaves some of your blood on the blade. She only needs a drop to activate her Quirk, though it’s doubtful the facade will last long with how little she consumed. Even still, her face begins to melt. Peeling away from her skull from the scalp down in goopy rivers of grey, like a candle melting under the heat of a flame. Beneath it is your face, unblemished by the cut she gave you and when it reaches your–her–limbs, her hand is left unharmed. You stand frozen as she stares at you with your own eyes, but only for a moment. With your hand that still throbs from catching your body weight you grab the hilt of her sword, kicking off the wall to dislodge it and launch yourself forward. There’s a sickening crack and her–your–her face crumples in on itself from her nose. The cartilage is shifted, smashed at an odd angle and dripping thick rivers of blood over her parted lips. She starts to melt, keeled over in pain. As she shifts back into herself you steal the dagger she’d dropped after stealing your face. Without looking to see if she’ll recover you steal away with a pocketed dagger and sword in hand, running along the wall you’d been pinned to. With each step it gets colder, the loamy scent of a breeze getting heavier until a gust of stormy wind calls you towards an exit. The door hangs partially open on its hinges, croaking as the wind swings it on unseen waves. Each creak sounds like a beckon to freedom, but it’s silenced by a roar of something sinister just behind you. The cold is chased away, sweat behind to bead at the naps of your neck and your eyes shoot from one spot to another in search of a place to hide. Just as the crackling blue light rounds the corner that had hidden salvation from you you dive into a hold rotted into the wooden wall, cobwebs and dust enveloping you in their soft embrace as Dabi’s flames go shooting past you in a brilliant sapphire plume. The door groans in earnest then sizzles as it melts under his assault. A few heavy footsteps walk closer, pause, the indignant click of tongue, then a retreat. Still, uncertain of your safety you remain hidden in your burrow for as long as you dare, worried about the arrival of reinforcements. When you emerge three hinges hang loose like broken teeth in the rotted gums of the door frame that’s yawning open like a gaping maw. What remains of the door sits sizzling in a molten puddle on the ground, deadbolt still glowing white hot as it burns in the frame speckled with spots of auburn rust. The building seems to growl at you as the wind whistles through the broken windows and out the ruined door in a way that makes the frame of the dilapidated building groan. The air seems to trace down your spine, drawing a shiver from your frame as you step over the boiling metal and into the drizzling rain. The building is only just out of eyeshot when you stop running, soaked and shivering, arm still in burning agony as the strange disease crawls up your wrist. It won’t stop. Not until your entire being has turned to dust. Already the tips of your fingers have disintegrated, and your fingers are only cracking bone. Terrified, you look away, eyes focusing on the dagger stolen from Toga. It’s still smeared with blood and the strange grey substance that melted off of her and you wrap it in a scrap of your suit before biting down on it. It sets an ache to your teeth as you bear down on it, but it’s a necessity for what comes next. It’s hard to think about so you let your mind wander as far as the pain will allow. It doesn’t go far, only bringing up memories of when your suffering was made worthwhile. The memory of a glaring white light and screaming comes to mind. Your arms feel warm despite the freezing cold, the memory of your newborn sons in your arms chases it away. They’re tiny hands holding your fingers and each other, still unsure of life outside the protection of your body. And tucked between the white light and the heavy heat are thoughts of red. Of dark roots and puffy eyes as Eijirou gives you one of those heart stopping, shark toothed grins. His cheeks nearly splitting open under the weight of his happiness. It’s safe in the memory, and warm. You aren’t so afraid anymore and you stay in that room from four years ago, lost in the most perfect moment as your present body, still just as pained and tired as you’d been then, raises Toga’s sword and brings it down on your arm. The memory shatters, falling to dust in your hands just as your rotted arm falls dead to the ground, still decaying. It feels as though your jaw will break as you screech against the makeshift gag. It takes a moment but the pain becomes manageable, just over the cusp of tolerable, and you struggle to your feet. The muddy ground makes it hard to stagger back to the steaming pile of metal standing guard at the front door but you make it, dabbing the stump of your arm into the smoldering metal once, twice, three times, until the wound is cauterized. It’s unsanitary but better than nothing. The bleeding has stopped and you try to wash away the worst of the bloodstains with another scrap of your ruined Hero suit. It offers little protection, meant for less grueling missions, as you stumble through the forest in search of the other building you’d seen in the photos. It looked to be northwest of the building though it’s hard to tell up from down with the sky dark and cloudy and brain muddled by blood loss, but away is away and you walk with the building the League claimed to your back, hoping desperately that they don’t have guards posted in the brush surrounding it. It’s unclear whether you get far enough for you to be safe, but it’s definitely enough for you to be lost and exhausted. The world shimmers around the edges, trees swimming and diving between each other like some elaborate dance. Overhead the clouds part and the darkness lifts to a soft lavender but it’s hard to notice with tunneled vision. One final step saps everything from you as if the roots of the trees dig into you upon contact. They squeeze you dry and you allow it, blinking away something wet in your eyes that could be tears, rain, or blood, before swaying to the right and failing to catch yourself. It goes dark before impact. Another white light greets you when you come to, too painful to be heavenly, too uncomfortable. A lumpy pillow covered in a scratchy paper case digs painfully into the nape of your neck and there’s the distinct pinch of an IV in the crook of your elbow. All your limbs feel rubbery but mobile and you lift your opposite arm to scratch the needle out of your skin only to pause when your fingers encounter the heat of skin and the chill of metal. Three of your fingers rest a few millimeters away from where the IV is taped into your skin to dissuade the meddling you fully intended to do, but your pinky landed on something distinctly not skin. It’s not quite metal as you thought, a few degrees cooler than your skin and a bit malleable as you press into it. The pressure of your finger registers as touching your arm, but the distinctly painful memory of screaming in the mood as you amputated yourself with a Villain’s sword is still fresh in your memory. Even so, you flex the fingers that shouldn’t be there and the paper sheets crumple, your brain registering the feeling of it being gathered in your fist. The sore muscles of your neck creak as you roll your head to look at the phantom limb posing as your hand only to find that it is a hand, though not yours. Except it is. It responds as you go through the motions of flexing it as you would your original and it responds in kind. It’s almost unreadably real, only the smallest seams that looks more like a scar telegraphs the prosthetic that seems to have been made perfectly for you down to the matching skin tone. You move to look back up at the ceiling, arms back at your sides as you process all that’s happened. As you sift through the murky memories marred by fatigue and your brain’s uncanny ability to dull the potency of unpleasant memories, the door to your room swings open. A pang if fear shoots to your stomach as the memory of waking up in a foreign room shoulder their way to the surface. The nausea rises, bile pushing up your throat as two pairs of footsteps–one lighter than the other–shuffle around the room. But all it takes is a small voice to quell your rising anxiety. “Is Mommy okay?” The soft voice like the ringing of a bell is all it takes to soothe you. There’s a sigh them the sound of something being set down in one of the chairs. It must be Eiyuu if it was Katsuou that spoke. Your sweet second born so unlike the abrasive man Eijirou named him after. Protective and emotional just like his father, it’s doubtless that your son has been crying over the thought of you being anything other than Mommy. Not a Hero and certainly not the broken woman lying motionless in a hospital bed. Eijirou sighs. “She’s fine, bud. The doctors said we just have to wait for her to wake up.” “I am awake.” You decide, eyes still open as you map a trail through the speckled design on the ceiling. The bright light is immediately pushed away by the face of your husband. He looks bad in a way you’ve never seen him. There are no whispers of sleep in the bruised bags under his eyes and there’s a telltale darkness to the unstyled, red roots of his hair, but he’s still smiling that enamoured smile reserved only for you as his eyes take in the sight of you finally awake. You’re sure you look just as worn down as he does after living off just an IV for who knows how long. He kisses you anyway, pouring all the heartache into one searching press of chapped lips that anchors both of you. Near your feet, Katsuou is trying his hardest to clamber over the bed rail. You sit up with less difficulty than expected and release it. He’s in your lap within seconds, burrowing his wet cheeks into your neck. The wailing wakes your oldest and he straightens up with a groan, blearily eyeing the room before his red gaze settles on you. The reaction is immediate. He’s out of the chair and climbing his Eijirou’s legs like a ladder to occupy the side Katsuou left open for him. There are no tears, Eiyuu isn’t one for waterworks, but his tight grip on your shirt is show enough that he missed you. Both boys are holding you like they think you’ll disappear and Eiji is looking at you like he’s not really seeing what’s before him. Your new hand, feeling more your own with every passing moment, reaches for him. His calloused fingers dance over the artificial skin, testing your joints and brushing his lips over each fingertip when he decides you can feel his fiddling. “What happened to you, baby?” Katsuou squeezes you tighter and you shake your head. Eiyuu’s dark hair tickles your chin as you shake your head. “Later. For now,” you hold out a beckoning hand, “Come lay with me.”

[sirpylesofpenice-blog]

Come along, Barebone! (I)

Hey you guys! So, this is my first-ever fan fic, and it's set in the Fantastic beasts-verse! This was never meant to be Credence's story, but it just sort of happened that way. This whole story began, as so many of mine does, with me doing the dishes whereupon I let my mind wander freely. As an aspiring actress and a fan of the Potter-verse, my mind started conjuring up what kind of a character I wanted to play in the franchise. And sadly, no one had written her yet, so I took it upon myself to do so. It's been a long and sometimes scary and winding road as this is my first-ever fan fic. On that note, none of this would ever have happened without two wonderful people who read and comment and love and hold my hand when it gets rough, gently leading me down the path to the whole universe of fan fic. My real-life Wilson sisters, without you I couldn't have done this. Thank you! Two awesome, inspiring and kick-ass people, writers themselves, you can check out their work here: http://archiveofourown.org/users/vilse/pseuds/solinear http://findmyflower.tumblr.com You can also find me at Archive of our own; http://archiveofourown.org/users/SirPylesOfPenice/pseuds/SirPylesOfPenice I hope you guys will like this! Please let me know what you think. Word count: 6628 CW: Implied/Mentioned (past) child Abuse (and the ensuing low self-esteem), slight touch of internalized homophobia.

Chapter I: The Woman and the Castle

Dividing meat into good-sized portions was without doubt his least favorite chore, Credence thought to himself. It wasn't so much that it was heavy and arduous work that bothered him; it was the task itself. The whole thing about wielding the meat cleaver and the sound it made on contact, the feeling that shot through his arm when the blade sunk into meat and bone, it just made his stomach churn and there was something inside him that almost wanted to apologize to the poor chunk of meat he was chopping. But he never complained. Mr. Scamander usually didn't ask Credence to chop meat; he'd seen the unease with which Credence undertook the task and he often tried to give Credence something else to do instead. But tonight, Mr. Scamander had other matters to tend to. Credence raised the cleaver again and bore it down hard on the chunk of meat. The crunching sound when he hit bone made him wince.

There was a soft tap from the ceiling and as he looked up the wooden ladder, Mr Scamander's freckled face was looking down at him.

“We're here,” he said and shook his ginger hair out of his eyes. “Up you come!” His face disappeared and left a rectangle of light streaming down instead. It was the pink and apricot of sundown. “Oh, better bring your coat!” Mr. Scamander added and his face popped into view again. “And maybe a scarf. Spring still seems to be some way away now.”

Credence couldn't help the smile. There was something in the way that Mr Scamander sometimes would treat some people like they were fascinating creatures to be studied and taken care of, that made a warmth spread within Credence. Not the same kind of tingling warmth he had felt with…

Credence quickly brushed that thought and the ghost of that particular memory, away. He shrugged on his woolen coat. It was a rich and deep burgundy and the collar was lined with fur but he took his scarf anyway. The coat had once belonged to a lady, Credence sure could tell. It was different from the coat Mr. Scamander wore in so that it hung differently. To be fair, Credence didn't know much about clothes, but he could tell it was a lady's coat. He didn't mind, he loved it anyway. It had gold embroidery around the cuffs and along the back. It had been the first thing he ever bought in his life, with money Mr. Scamander had given him.

“Consider it payment for the work you've done,” Mr. Scamander had persuaded him when at first he had protested. Reluctantly, Credence had accepted and he had bought the coat from a woman selling a wide assortment of old clothes off a table in the street. He had bought the knitted scarf from an old lady in a market square. The scarf was made up of all the colors of the rainbow and then some. Apparently the lady had knitted it from leftovers from other projects and no one seemed to want such a vibrant scarf. But Credence did. He was sick and tired of black and the fact that the scarf had been rejected by so many others for being different, just made Credence love it even more. The irony was not lost on him, but he didn't really care. Now he wrapped it loosely around himself before he ascended the wooden ladder into the blazing colors of a magnificent sunset across the lake and behind the mountains.

They were standing in front of the ruins of a castle atop a small hill. Half of the castle seemed to have been simply torn off, or maybe even blown away in an explosion. The other half was barely standing, most of the roof had caved in and all the windows were shattered. Vegetation had reclaimed most of the grounds as everything was overgrown and wild and moss and plants clung to the castle walls. All in all, it made Credence shiver a little and he pulled his coat tighter around him. It was a rather unwelcoming place.

“Mr. Scamander,” he said and tugged on the other man's peacock blue sleeve to stop him from going through the wrought iron gates that hung on their hinges, rust discoloring them in patches. “Mr. Scamander, I don't think we should… I don't think we're welcome here,” he added quietly, feeling a little silly for the uneasiness inside him.

“Don't worry, Credence. It's perfectly all right. The invitation specifically said we were to go here,” Mr. Scamander said and looked up at the castle with his head slightly tilted to one side. He had tried to convince Credence to call him by his first name but it just didn't feel right, so Credence kept using his last name and somewhere along the way, Mr. Scamander must have gotten used to it because he had stopped asking Credence to use his first name.

Credence had spent countless hours walking behind Mr. Scamander and it always had a soothing effect seeing the lopsided figure briskly walking in front of him, while Credence did his best, trying to keep up with Mr. Scamander’s wobbling gait. He was a strange man indeed, but a kind one at heart, Credence thought to himself as they made their way towards the castle ruins. Though, like Credence, Mr. Scamander rarely seemed at home talking to and interacting with other people. But Credence didn’t mind. He liked being in the company of Mr. Scamander, the man never demanding anything from Credence, never expecting him to chitchat or behave a certain way. Mr. Scamander just let Credence be, and for that Credence was ever grateful.

“Mr. Scamander,” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What happened to the castle?” Mr. Scamander paused with his hand on the disintegrating door. He turned his head a little towards Credence, his brow furrowed like he wasn’t really sure what Credence was asking.

“Erumpent horn,” Mr. Scamander said with a small nod to himself as if agreeing with someone Credence couldn’t hear.. “Quite possibly.” Another small nod. “Most likely,” he added with a third nod. Credence had noticed he often did that. “I should say, about some hundred years ago. Now, come along, Credence!” Mr. Scamander said and pushed the remnants of the door and Credence found himself standing in a derelict hallway, wallpaper peeling of the walls, whole sections of walls having crumbled, parts of the caved in roof blocking what had once been doorways.

“This way,” Mr. Scamander said and walked briskly up a crumbling staircase to the left. “Come along now!” he called down to Credence who quickly followed suit. He didn’t much like the idea of being left alone in the ruins. He found Mr. Scamander in a sitting room that must once have been cozy and comfortable but now it was cold and unwelcoming. The window was broken and cold evening air came seeping through where there once had been glass. Books were scattered all over the place, some seemed to have been burned by something, some had pages all torn out of them. Picture frames lay broken in the debris on the floor. Credence felt dread rising inside him. Had an erumpent horn really caused all this?

“Mr. Scamander,” Credence whispered hesitantly but then he startled as with a pop, a plump woman suddenly turned up. He still hadn’t gotten used to the phenomenon of Apparition. She was wearing brown, dirty overalls that hugged her full-figured body tightly, and she had short, messy, auburn hair in wild disarray. Her face was dirty and most of it was covered by a pair of welding goggles with pitch-black glass. She was wearing oddly shaped, three-fingered leather gloves that reached beyond her elbows.

“Scamander!” the woman barked and Credence shrunk back into the shadows. “Ye’re almost late!” the woman said then and grabbed hold of Mr. Scamander’s arm before anyone could protest. They were gone with a loud ‘pop!’ and Credence felt panic rising inside of him. He looked about the room and tried to find a clue as to where Mr. Scamander might have gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movements and realized it came from the photographs scattered and torn on the floor. They were magical photographs, their motifs moving and smiling and winking and laughing. He bent down to take a closer look but a loud pop startled him. The woman was standing before him, looking utterly wild with the black glasses covering her eyes and her hair standing on end.

"Come along, Barebone!" the woman barked. A three-fingered leather glove grabbed his wrist and he braced himself for the pressing darkness he knew was coming. But in the split second before it did, Credence glanced around the room one final time and suddenly his stomach dropped, his heart seemed to stop and his lungs no longer drew breath. He thought he'd seen…

And then the darkness pressed all around him, always with that sickening feeling of being suffocated until finally he felt ground beneath his feet again and the tight pressure around his chest disappeared. He found himself in a cave of some sort, a huge fire crackling in the middle of the cave. It rose almost halfway up to the ceiling and the light flicked and cast deep shadows around the vast cave. Slowly circling the fire, was Mr. Scamander, a curious look on his face. The woman was already moving towards the fire, seemingly unnerved by just having Apparated four times in swift succession. Credence still got a little lightheaded whenever he had to go through the suffocating means of transport.

"Where'd you get them?" Mr. Scamander asked softly. The woman was standing so close to the fire, Credence was sure she'd burst into flames herself. The light flickered in the black glass of her welding goggles and gave her an equally menacing and crazed look. Credence tried to catch Mr. Scamander's eyes but the magizoologist was completely engulfed, his full attention focused at something seemingly in the middle of the fire.

"Aren't they lovely?" The woman said, a giddy grin across her face, her teeth almost unnaturally white amidst all the soot and dirt smudges.

"Are they what I think they are?" Mr. Scamander gasped then, having caught sight of something in the fire.

"Yeah," the woman grinned.

"Well, I'll say." Mr. Scamander knelt before the fire, keeping a far more cautious distance than the woman, but Credence could plainly see the curiosity dancing across his face.

"What happened to the mother?" he asked and that's when Credence started hearing a faint sound, like something cracking.

"Zoltàn," the woman snarled and Credence wasn't quite sure whether she had just growled a curse or not. "The spineless, loathsome miscreant murdered her for the scales and claws and heartstring and what have ye."

Mr. Scamander nodded and hummed his understanding with a solemn look upon his face. The woman inched ever closer to the fire. Soon, she would surely be engulfed by it completely.

Credence heard something cracking then, followed by soft squeal. The woman reached her gloved hands into the fire and when they emerged again, completely unharmed to Credence great surprise, they were cradling a creature the size of a small dog.

"Hello," the woman whispered softly and pushed her goggles up her forehead. Where they had been, they left pink pale rings amidst all the soot and dirt. The creature squealed again and the woman brought it close to her chest, stroking it gently with the three-fingered gloves still on. The creature unfolded its arms, which turned out to be wings, and squealed again, a head something like a snake or an Occamy for that matter reached up and sniffed gingerly at the woman. Credence suddenly realized what she was holding.

"Dragons!" he gasped and took a step back.

"Not just dragons, lad," the woman said softly, her giddy smile so wide it almost reached her ears. "The most beautiful and dangerous and lethal kind there is; Hungarian Horntails."

The baby dragon, for though it was quite sizeable for a baby, Credence realized that's what it was, settled in and curled itself up in the woman's lap.

"Newt,” she whispered when another crack was heard from the fire. She held out one of her hands and Mr. Scamander hurried around the fire and pulled off the glove from the woman's outstretched arm. When the gloves came off, two things surprised Credence; one, the woman had all ten fingers intact. He hadn't known what to expect since both gloves were three-fingered. Two, all over her hands and fingers were strange markings in a bluish black. Symbols and letters, he realized, letters spelling words he was too far away to try and read and probably couldn't anyway even if he was close enough to examine the woman's hands. Mr. Scamander pulled a second baby dragon out of the fire and brought it to the woman who cradled it and stroked it gently. It too, squeaked and reached up to sniff her face. It gently shook its snout against her nose and something raw twisted inside Credence at the sight of such pure affection. He heard the cracking sound again.

“There’s another one!” he exclaimed excitedly and took several steps closer to the fire without even noticing. “Mr. Scamander, there’s another one!”

“Yep,” the woman smiled at him. “There were five, I’d reckon but when I found them only three remained.”

“Where are the others?” he asked, looking at the woman cradling the two babies in her lap.

“Poachers. Thieves. Miscreants. They steal the eggs, and sell them to the highest bidder. I fear they’ll end up in someone's bank vault before long,” the woman growled and Credence heart leaped when her bushy eyebrows furrowed that way. She reminded him so much of…

“Credence,” Mr. Scamander interrupted his thoughts. “Would you like to…?” he said and held out the three-fingered leather gloves towards him. Credence glanced at the woman, unconsciously worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

“Go on!” the woman nodded encouragingly. “They won’t bite. Well, not hard anyway,” she added after glancing at Mr. Scamander and the small, crooked smile playing in the corners of his mouth. Credence stuck his hands in the gloves. It felt rather strange to wear them, his fingers needing to pair up and separate unnaturally to fit in the gloves.

“Just reach in and hold out your hands, it should climb onto you by itself,” Mr. Scamander guided him without meeting his eyes. They rarely locked eyes, Mr. Scamander and him, but Credence didn’t mind. After all, he didn’t particularly enjoy staring into people’s eyes himself. He took a deep breath and slowly stuck his gloved hands in the fire, turning his face away, preparing for the searing heat that would surely come, but he hardly felt the fire around him. Then he felt something bump into his hands and he felt a weight pressing down on them as something clambered into his hands, gripping firmly.

“There you are,” Mr. Scamander spoke softly, close to his ear. “Now, carefully, slowly, pull it out of the fire.” As Credence did, his heart raced with excitement. The baby dragon emerged, squeaking and staring at him. It was smaller than the other two, but just as black and scaly and beautiful. It clambered over his hands, trying to reach his face. It opened its mouth and hissed at him.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Scamander said. “Credence, you had better…” Before he could finish the sentence the baby dragon hissed again and reached up on its hind legs, digging its front claws into Credence’s shoulders. It cocked its head and stared him straight in the eyes, hissing again. Credence dared not move.

“Ye didn’t get rid of the Obscurus, did ye?” the woman asked calmly. Credence eyes darted to her, feeling the panic rising in him. She knew.

“I’ve been working on a way…” Mr. Scamander said, trailing off. He had indeed been, but nothing had worked so far. “It’s parasitic, and it really does put up a rather good fight…” he mumbled and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Inside Credence, the storm was brewing and he could feel it rising.

“Credence,” the woman said calmly. “Breathe. Just breathe with me. In, and out.” She instructed him with a calm and steady voice but it had the opposite effect on him. Lord have mercy, she reminded him so much of…

He tried so hard every moment of his waking hours not to think about that man. He really shouldn’t. Nothing good would come of it, Credence knew that. But his dark eyes and bushy eyebrows and greying temples kept making Credence heart race. He’d been so sure he’d seen… And the woman reminded him so much of that man. Credence felt a silly tear trickle down his cheek. The baby dragon reached out and flicked its tongue at it, wiping it away. Credence opened his eyes in surprise. The dragon looked at him and sniffed at his face, blowing small puffs of air and smoke onto his cheeks. The dragon squeaked then and rubbed its snout against his nose. It squeaked again before settling into his lap, curling up and falling asleep.

“There you are, m’boy,” the woman said kindly and Credence looked at her then, unsure of himself. She really did look like him, like... Though her hair was auburn and her bushy eyebrows not nearly as thick as his, though her lips were fuller and her nose not quite as pointy, though her eyes were a piercing green and not a deep brown, she did look like him and it made Credence heart skip a beat. The dragon in his lap was sleeping calmly and Credence stroked it absentmindedly. The woman had turned to the baby dragons in her lap. Credence had to know.

“Mr. Scamander,” he said quietly and the magizoologist knelt beside him. “In that room, I thought I saw a picture of… Well. Someone I knew once. But that’s… That’s just a trick of the light, isn’t it?” Credence asked and wouldn’t meet Mr. Scamander’s eyes.

“Bleeding skies!” the woman muttered under her breath. “You didn’t tell him, did you, Scamander?” she said and scowled at the magizoologist.

“Well, I was in a hurry, wasn’t I?” the redheaded man said and shrugged in a slightly defensive manner. “Your message said it was urgent,” he said and looked at her with his head a little tilted to the side and defiantly meeting her gaze.

“Heavens this will be a long night, won’t it?” the woman muttered to herself. “Well. Get going. Sitting room, lads. Put the kettle on will ye?”

“Come along, Credence,” Mr. Scamander said quietly and helped him get to his feet. The woman mumbled something Credence couldn’t quite make out and the fire died down. The floor of the cave broke apart and reshaped itself in places and formed a ring of stones around the glowing embers. A shelf of rock jutted out over the embers and Credence realized it was a nest for the baby dragons. He gently put the one in his arms in the nook of the shelf and Mr. Scamander took one of the dragons the woman was holding and placed it too in the nest. The woman put the last of the dragons in the nest and straightened up.

“Right, off ye go,” she said and Credence couldn’t quite make out what the tone in her voice meant. “Kettle, Scamander. Be right there,” she said and busied herself with the stones and embers.

“Come along, Credence,” Mr. Scamander said again and ushered him to a door he hadn’t seen until then. They walked up a winding stone staircase and before long; Credence found himself standing in a splendid sitting room, a fire crackling cozily in the fireplace. He looked about him, confused. It looked rather a lot like the sitting room they had been in when they first met the woman, except this room was well kept and tidy, cozy and warm. The windows were whole and the bookshelves stacked with hundreds of books, all looking to be in rather good shape.

“But…” Credence mumbled to himself. “Mr. Scamander, this…”

“... Is what it looked like when we got here, yes. But I’d wager it looked rather derelict and uninhibited to you, didn’t it?” Mr. Scamander said with that barely noticeable crooked half-smile of his as Credence nodded. “Yeah, that’s Gertie’s way of keeping strangers away.”

“Gertie?” Credence asked, confused.

“Ah, yes, that’s right. She didn’t introduce herself. I’m sure she will. But, Credence, there is… Well, perhaps I ought to have told you before we came here…” Mr. Scamander trailed off. “You’d better see for yourself. Come and take a look at these,” Mr. Scamander said and pointed to a table with several picture frames Credence could only see the back of. As Credence came closer and saw photographs themselves, his stomach tied itself into a knot. About half the pictures showed the woman Credence realized was Gertie, along with another, astoundingly beautiful woman. They were dancing and laughing, the little figures moving and laughing and dancing forever captured in the magical photograph. In one of them, the women seemed to be having a fight with ice cream, their faces were completely covered in ice cream and they were laughing like they had never seen anything funnier in their lives. Some of the pictures showed Gertie taking care of different animals, mostly dragons but also creatures Credence had never seen, not even in Mr. Scamander’s case or books or drawings. One of the pictures showed her in a soldier’s uniform. Others showed people Credence didn’t know, but suspected were family or friends of the woman.

The largest frame contained a portrait of the woman he had seen in the other pictures with Gertie. The woman in the picture hardly moved. She blinked and smiled but else did very little. She was so beautiful, Credence thought; she looked like a movie star. Across one of the corners of the frame was a black velvet ribbon and Credence realized with a pang of sadness that the woman must have died.

“Alice,” Mr. Scamander offered as if reading Credence thoughts. “She and Gertie were… Close.”

Sadness twisted in Credence. Though there was hardly any family resemblance between the two women, there was something in the familiarity between them that convinced him they were sisters. Credence felt his jaw muscles tense. He too, had lost a sister and though there hadn't been any blood ties or family resemblance between them either, she had still been his sister. Credence looked at the beautiful woman again and she smiled kindly at him. He couldn't help but smile back.

Mr. Scamander cleared his throat and Credence forced himself to look at the three pictures that made his stomach tie itself into an even harder knot, made his lungs stop breathing and his heart skip a beat. The man he thought he would never see again looked back at him. In one of the pictures he was roaring with laughter, looking a few years younger than Credence, and playing with a happy child Credence realized must be Gertie, another showed a grim-faced, much older version of him, closer to the man Credence had thought he knew. The man in that picture barely moved, but when Credence turned away from it he could have sworn, that out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man smile and wink at him. The third showed the man sitting in the light of a window; his eyes closed and leaning his head against the wall behind him and Credence realized that the picture had been taken here, in this very room. He looked to the window opposite him and his heart seemed to skip a beat again. He had been here. Not long ago, Credence realized.

“February 1927,” he whispered to himself as he read the date written in neat hand at the bottom of the picture. The man opened his eyes and smiled shyly at Credence. The man was as impossibly handsome as before but there was a darkness to his eyes now that hadn’t been there the first time Credence had met him. “He was here,” Credence he repeated softly.

“Yes,” Mr. Scamander said and looked at him from under his unruly fringe of ginger hair.

“MACUSA suspended him,” the woman’s voice was heard then and Credence startled. She was standing in the doorway, stepping out of the brown overalls. “Well,” she scoffed. “They asked him politely to take some time off, while they tried to sort out how their own security could be breached like that. Incompetent arses, the lot of them,” she muttered and threw the overalls in the air, making them zoom to another room. She wiped her hands across her face and the soot and dirt disappeared and Credence realized she must have used a spell for water, her hands were dripping now and she wiped them off on her pants and green, knitted sweater. “Have ye figured it out yet?” she asked and looked at Credence with a smile.

“Figured it out?” Credence echoed.

“He’s me uncle,” she said and grinned before disappearing into another room. “What happened to the kettle, Scamander?” she called, but before he could answer she had returned and a kettle levitated to the fireplace, filling itself with water from thin air as it went. Large cups and tea leaves came zooming by Credence, putting themselves neatly on the table, the tea leaves swirling in the air before falling down into the cups. She pulled a hand through the auburn mess that was her hair and threw herself into one of the armchairs. “Sit down, by all means, Barebone!” she smiled and waved at the other armchair. Credence glanced to Mr. Scamander who nodded as if to tell him it was all right.

“But there’s only one more armchair,” Credence protested quietly.

“Merlin’s beard, ye’re right,” the woman laughed and pulled out her wand from an impossibly small pocket in her trousers. She waved it lazily around and one of the cushions from the window leapt into the air, twisting and turning and reshaping itself into a third armchair. Though he had slowly begun to get used to the everyday sort of magic of Mr. Scamander and the occasional spectacular spells, Credence looked at the armchair in amazement.

“Ye know, ye’re allowed to take yer coats off,” the woman remarked with one bushy eyebrow raised.

“We shan’t be staying long,” Mr. Scamander tried with a quick glance to his suitcase.

“Poppycock!” the woman barked merrily. “Stay fer the night, at least! Surely, ye can’t miss their first meal, Scamander,” she added with something in her eyes Credence couldn’t quite place. She reminded him of a cat somehow. He glanced at Mr. Scamander and he could see the curiosity awaken in the magizoologist.

“All right,” Mr. Scamander said, looking up from under his fringe of unruly hair and taking a small sip from the cup that had gently been nudging his hand. Credence hadn’t even noticed when the tea poured itself. “One night,” Mr. Scamander agreed, his upper lip bending into that small half-smile of his.

Credence felt a jumble of emotions fighting inside of him. On the one hand he really did look forward to helping out with the dragons, but on the other, the woman reminded him painfully of the man he knew he must forget. And though she seemed all right enough, there was just something about her piercing green eyes that unsettled Credence and he didn’t know what to make of her. He couldn’t grasp her properly and that scared him a little. Reading people’s emotions and anticipating their reactions and states of mind had been his key to survival for so long.

“Ye had better take that cup before it spills the tea all over you,” the woman laughed then and Credence realized his cup, too, had been nudging at him for quite some time. It seemed to get wilder and wilder the longer he ignored it so he picked it out of the air quickly and took a large sip. It tasted sweet and rich of spices and somehow it made Credence feel a bit more at ease. He put down his cup to shrug out of his coat and scarf but when he had folded them in his lap he felt a bit at a loss for what else to do.

“Throw them in the air,” the woman said with a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Credence asked confused.

“Throw them in the air, Credence,” Mr. Scamander said and flung his peacock blue coat towards the ceiling. The coat immediately zoomed away and out of the sitting room as if someone had used a Summoning charm on it.

“Go on,” the woman said. “It’ll go straight for the coat hanger in the hallway. I should know, I made the spell up myself,” she added and looked as content as a purring cat. Credence hesitantly thrust his hands out and threw his coat and scarf into the air. For a split second he actually worried it wouldn’t work, or that Gertie and Mr. Scamander were only playing a cruel joke on him and that the coats hadn’t at all gone on their own accord, but by the flick of their wands without Credence noticing. But before the coat had barely left his hands, it zoomed away, followed by the scarf, twirling in the air.

“Now, I believe I haven’t properly introduced meself,” the woman said then. “Gertie Halloran, pleased to make yer acquaintance, Credence Barebone,” she smiled, baring all of her white teeth. As she got up to shake his hand, she pushed the sleeves of her green sweater up and Credence could tell the markings and letters and images continued all over her arms. He tried very hard not to stare.

“Mr. Scamander said we were going to Scotland,” Credence said as he shook Gertie’s hand. “But… Miss Gertie, you’re Irish, right?” he said, finally having realized where her soft rolling dialect came from.

“Well, I’m half and half, really,” Gertie laughed and settled back into her armchair, throwing her legs over one of the armrests. “And don’t call me ‘miss’. Gertie will do just fine.” When he tried to apologize, she just waved a hand to dismiss his stuttering. Credence felt his ears go pink.

“Me ma was an American witch and me da was an Irish muggle,” she continued. “I was born and raised in Ireland, yes. Thanks to Uncle Perce.”

“How come?” Credence asked, having a strong feeling of being the only one in the room that didn’t quite understand how it all connected. Mr. Scamander was looking at Gertie with his head tilted and not really meeting her eyes, occasionally glancing about the room or to his case.

“America has rather conservative laws,” Gertie began with a kind smile.

“Backwards,” Mr. Scamander added and Credence could hear a tone of irritation to the man’s voice he wasn’t used to hearing.

“Well. Yeah. America has very backwards laws regarding muggles and wizardkind, ye see. They’re not allowed to associate,” she added after seeing the confusion on Credence’s face. “That means, for example, that muggleborn witches and wizards are whisked off to Ilvermorny, never to see or talk to their family again. It also means that if a witch and a muggle were to fall in love, they wouldn’t be allowed to marry.”

“That’s horrible,” Credence said and when he stole a glance at Gertie, he felt like she looked right through his condemned soul.

“Yes. It is. Not all places are like that though. Here in Europe, well, for most places, we do things differently. Marriage is allowed, muggleborn children who attend Hogwarts still get to go home and see their family in the holidays. So. When me mother fell in love with an Irish muggle she met in New York, her rebellious little brother defied their father and helped his sister and her lover elope to Ireland where old Grandfather Graves had no jurisdiction or power. She was already with child when they married and I imagine quite a few charms were cast on the poor priest to make him wed them anyway,” she chuckled. “It was quite the scandal for both muggles and wizardkind involved.” Her eyes glittered mischievously again.

“That picture there,” she said and waved her hand at the one with the younger man roaring with laughter. “Is the first time I ever met me uncle Perce. See, old Grandad Graves forbade him to come, and he made sure he couldn’t, no Portkeys would be assigned in the name of Graves, the Floo-network wouldn’t connect to me mother’s house. Old Grandad Graves even made sure the entire non-magical american society thought uncle Perce was a dangerous criminal, effectively cutting him off from any sort of muggle transportation. The year uncle Perce turned nineteen, he figured out how to Apparate cross-continental, something only a few have managed before him. So one day, there he was. Splinched half his leg in the process, but there he was.”

Credence couldn’t help the small smile on his lips and the warmth spreading in his chest. Without even noticing it, he straightened up a little bit more. Ever since Mr. Scamander had found him broken and hurting in an alley, he had slowly, bit by bit, begun to walk with his head a little higher, his shoulders a little less hunched.

“Do the muggles still think he’s a dangerous criminal?” he asked, the smile widening at the very thought.

“Merlin, no!” Gertie laughed. “He returned to America with a copy of that picture and supposedly, he Apparated straight into his father’s office, throwing the picture on the desk, saying something very heroic along the lines of his father not being able to stop him anyway now that he knew how to Apparate cross-continental and there was a picture of his granddaughter now. The muggle police issued an official apology for the erroneous charges against him. Somehow, a few weeks after that, any muggle in New York who mentioned the name of Percival Graves would find themselves walking out of alleys and then not remembering why they went in there in the first place.”

“Mr. Graves did that?” Credence asked incredulously.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure,” Gertie smiled but her eyes glittered mischievously. “Between you and me, I think he’s exaggerating a little for the sake of the story. He always had a flare for the dramatic. I mean, just look at him! Have ye seen the coat he’s taken to wearing lately?” she chuckled. Credence couldn’t help his own smile widening and when he stole a glance at Mr. Scamander beside him, he thought he saw even Mr. Scamander giving his half-smile. Gertie cocked her head and studied Credence curiously with those piercing, green eyes.

“He really did charm you, didn’t he?” she said, seemingly more to herself than to him.

“Wh-what?” Credence stuttered and felt his cheeks redden and his shoulders cower protectively. Mr. Scamander seemed to have tensed. Credence felt the storm threatening to stir again. How could she possibly know?

“Oh don’t worry, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He is an old grumpy bastard but he is still dashingly handsome.”

Credence stole a glance at Gertie and although she was smiling kindly and without the resentment he had expected, he still felt naked, utterly exposed.

“It’s not a difficult one to figure out, lad,” she said kindly. “Though, admittedly the papers have been unusually quiet about that aspect of the story,” she added, taking a sip of tea from her cup.

“Gertie, don’t,” Mr. Scamander said softly but the woman seemed to pay him no heed.

Credence felt the first tell-tale trembles in his body. No, please. No. Not now.He clamped his eyes shut and tried to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth. In. Out.

“I’ve actually met Grindelwald. I know what he’s like. I know what he’s capable of,” she said with an air of indifference, but underneath all that, Credence sensed something different. “Me uncle may be a grumpy bastard,” she continued like she was talking about the weather, oblivious to the chord of pain she struck within him with her words, “but Grindelwald, he’s heartless. Cruel. He uses people until they no longer serve his purpose and then he disposes of them, discards them like a spoiled child tired of his toys.”

“And, sweet-talking though that slimebag of a man may be,” she continued and shot Mr. Scamander a look when the redheaded man slowly shook his head at her. “I have a hard time believing he turned up in New York and in less than a day, convinced ye that magic is indeed real and that witches and wizards are not of the Devil and promised ye that ye too could be a part of the magical society if only ye helped him look for a child. See, that doesn’t make any sense,” she carried on, turning her gaze to Credence. “No, dear, ye knew me uncle before that impostor strutted about New York, wearing me uncle’s face and fancy clothes.”

Credence felt his chest tighten, making it hard to breathe. How could she know? And how, for the love of God, how could she be so casual about it all?

Mr. Scamander cleared his throat and coughed.

“What?” she snapped, turning to look at him.

“It’s getting rather late and we’ve traveled quite some way,” he said and Credence had the distinct feeling that wasn't at all what he was actually talking about. Then again, the storm had begun to ring in his ears so he couldn’t tell, really.

“Fine!” Gertie sighed. “I’ll show ye to the guest rooms,” she added and started to leave the sitting room. She stopped in the doorway to look at him. “I don’t have all night ye know,” she said and inclined her head to the stairs in the hallway. “Come along, Barebone!”

The sheer obliviousness of the woman brought Credence back to himself so fast his head was spinning. Had she really no idea how close she had been to having an Obscurus unravel in her sitting room? Credence glanced at Mr. Scamander beside him, but he didn’t seem to have noticed either. Credence had to run a few steps before he caught up with Gertie and followed her to the second floor and the guest rooms that were already made up for them.