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magziraphale · 7 years

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the beginning of some bloody gradence...1/?

(and by bloody i do mean blood)

(warnings for blood, abuse, self-harm)

(this is sort of pre-gradence but it’s coming - i’m seeing this as original!graves - they’re both a bit fucked up but graves does actually care)

title tbc..

***

The boy was watching him again. Big dark eyes that flicked up from staring at the ground to lock on his form across the street with frankly unnerving focus. A sweeping, searching glance, then back to contemplation of wet shoes and pavement.

Fifth time in as many minutes. Every day in the same fucking place.

Percival continued to stare right back, dragging on his cigarette till it was ash.

The fuck is with this kid, seriously?

He stood hunched over like a tree with too much weight on its branches, pants too short and no coat or umbrella in the rain. That Salemer’s church was probably a good half hour’s walk away from this spot but the boy stood in the same spot for several hours every morning holding those lurid pamphlets until he turned tail around noon and disappeared god knows where.

A week ago Percival had grudgingly followed Tina Goldstein to one of their rallies after she’d whined enough at him about the possible danger posed by the Barebone woman. True, even some of the higher-ups in MACUSA were growing uncomfortable with how vocal the Second Salemers and some other groups were becoming, but he wasn’t going to add fuel to Goldstein’s crusade just yet.

It was two days after that that he noticed the older boy with the awful haircut standing like some emaciated sculpture when he slipped out one of the side doors of the Woolworth building for a smoke and five minutes’ fucking peace. Considering he was hiding from his own goddamn aurors, the boy shouldn’t have been able to see him. But there was that dark stare, a few seconds of locked gazes, and he couldn’t get a read on the boy’s expression at all.

He told himself it was suspicion that made him start a new smoke-break routine. It was something akin to it anyway. He didn’t like not knowing, but there were no answers to be found today. The cigarette was gone, so he grimly turned his back to the boy and towards a developing migraine.

***

He was seventeen when his younger cousin came to him in a tearful panic over her boyfriend. Ellie had latched onto Percival during childhood and hadn’t let go even as his smiles became fewer and his grades higher. She was never the type for romantic dramas or crocodile tears so he was more inclined to listen.

“James - there’s something wrong with him, Percy, something bad - I don’t know what to do!”

He frowned. “Has he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not me -”

“Well what -”

She cut him off. “He didn’t know I was watching. He used his wand somehow and there were all these cuts - he was bleeding and he didn’t even seem to notice!” She broke off into sobs and he put his arm around her.

“On himself?”

She nodded, miserable.

Percival left her curled up with honeyed tea and made his way to James’ dorm. As a House senior he didn’t need to ask, not that he would have cared one way or the other in this case. The dorm rooms seemed deserted. He forced himself to walk quietly in spite of his protective rage.

He found James in one of the bathrooms. He was standing shirtless in front of a mirror, ribbons of red running down one arm. At the sight of Percival in the mirror, he turned.

“What do you want?” His big doe eyes were wide and glassy. No one there.

But Percival’s words stuck. He couldn’t look away.

Two lines dark against pale skin. They ran parallel from below the elbow then flowed together into one around the wrist.

Drip, drip, onto fingertips.

Drip, drip. A small puddle on the tiles.

The boy had never looked more beautiful.

***

It was on the fifth day of Percival’s new routine that something changed. The boy’s stare was broken abruptly when a burly man collided with his shoulder. Papers scattered as the boy fell but the crowd of people kept moving. Before he even knew what he was doing, Percival was across the street. The boy was on his knees now, trying to gather the papers back up in his left hand, holding the other close to his chest.

“Let me help you.”

Wide eyes met his own as he bundled the salvageable papers and the cringing boy towards an alley and out of the way of the crowd. Once there, the boy hunched over further. Taking the proffered papers, he mumbled to his shoes.

“T-thank you, sir.” He didn’t look up.

“It’s no bother, people not looking where they’re going is all.”

After a few seconds, Percival held out his right hand.

“Percival Graves.”

The boy looked startled, but reached out to grasp his hand with a visible wince.

“Credence B-Barebone, sir. Pleased to meet you.” His voice was a soft rasp.

Frowning, Percival gently turned the boy’s palm upward. Credence pulled away.

Red. So much red.

“I - I really must go, sir. Thank you once again for your help, Mr Graves.”

“Credence, wait - “

The boy froze, curling into himself, eyes darting everywhere but the man before him.

“May I see your hand Credence?”

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing, my boy. I’m not going to hurt you, Credence.”

The boy’s eyes were wet and scared. There was a slight shake in his hand when he held it out once more. He muttered something too soft to hear.

“What did you say Credence?”

A flash of fear again.

“’Twas my own fault, sir, I deserved it.”

The palm was a mess of red, scabbed sores, a criss-cross of lines against bone-white skin. The knuckles looked to be darkening with purple bruises. One of the cuts had reopened and was bleeding afresh. Percival cupped the boy’s hand, stroking a thumb across the weeping sore, unthinking. The boy didn’t flinch this time, frozen in place.

“Who did this to you?” He was surprised to find himself angry. The cuts were ugly, misshapen things. A whip of some kind, blunt.

“I was disobedient, sir. I- I try to be good, but I’m not very good at it. Please, sir, it’s fine.”

The boy was panicking. Percival sighed and gentled his tone.

“It’s alright, Credence, you don’t need to be afraid. I just want to help you. Will you let me help you Credence?”

Why he was begging he had no idea. Those eyes were upon his again, so much darker up close. There was suspicion there, caution - no fucking wonder, Graves - but something else, something sweeter. The boy was biting that red lower lip. Fuck. Finally he nodded jerkily.

“If … if you wish to, sir.”

Percival gently drew his hand across the broken palm. He didn’t need words for this. And I’m already out of my fucking mind without waving my wand around.

Credence gasped as the wounds closed just enough to speed the healing along, glancing between his hand and Percival’s face, mouth agape.

“I’m afraid it would be too obvious to heal it completely, but you shouldn’t be in so much pain now at least.”

“It … it doesn’t hurt. You- healed me! What-” His voice trailed to almost nothing. “You’re a witch.”

“I suppose a wizard, technically. But yes, Credence. In spite of what you’ve heard, not all magic is evil.”

The boy seemed unable to respond, though he now looked Percival in the eyes steadily, searching. Percival realised he was still cupping the boy’s hand, and stepped back, uncertain now.

“I- I’m not supposed to do things like that.”

“Because it’s a secret?” That whispered rasp again. Percival’s voice seemed dragged out of him.

“It’s against our laws to expose ourselves to those without magic.”

“I won’t tell, Mr Graves.”

It’s not too late - fucking obliviate him, Graves! He hesitated, the boy’s unbroken attention too much.

“I have to go. Just … take care of yourself, my boy.” He turned to walk back onto the street.

“Mr Graves - ”

He paused but couldn’t look at the boy.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Credence.”

***

#gradence #fic #writing #credence barebone #percival graves #fbawtft #tw: abuse #tw: blood #tw: self-injury

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