chitter-chatter all these secrets started giving me the shivers;

[repressings]

WHO: Credence Barebone, Percival Graves, anyone else
WHERE: Barebone-Graves residence, fountain
WHEN: June 15th-16th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Standard Credence warnings, specifically parental death
STATUS: Open

---

i ➼ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴜɪsᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; closed to Graves
It's something Tina mentioned to him when he asked why Mary Lou knew about wizards. Why everyone else was sure magic was just a fairytale, but Mary Lou was staunch in her belief. It bothers him less that Graves didn't tell him--he knows that's how the other operates, how Graves answers Credence's questions honestly but doesn't give any unnecessary information. Instead, what's really gnawing at Credence is that he didn't ask the right question. He'd thought he was getting better at that.

It was almost a game, asides from their question-for-an-answer. He's never quite told Graves said game of course, but Credence tries to phrase his questions to get the most out of him. He considers a simple 'yes' or 'no' a failure in these circumstances, even though a yes or no is usually enough to satisfy his curiosity. Credence wants more, ravenously hungry for knowledge. Newt and Tina will happily provide answers to anything he asks, and Credence plans on using this to his full advantage so long as they don't mind, but he still wants Graves to teach him, too.

It's finally too hot for him to handle a long-sleeved shirt and jeans when he gets back from the mill, and since he's just in their house and not planning on leaving, Credence opts to wear his white scrubs again. They're lighter, just cotton, even if his arms show the criss-cross markings of unhappier times. Unhappier times he now knows and recognizes as much more complicated than he could imagine. Which brings him to the question he wants to ask.

He finds Graves in the living room, and he wants to say it's evening despite the never-ending blazing sun. His footsteps are quiet, barefeet, and he stops at the doorway, watching the older man for few moments before speaking.

"Ma knew what I was, didn't she? She knew what my real mom was, too."

ii ➼ Iᴛ's ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙʟᴜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; OTA
The more Credence thinks about how hot it is, the hotter he feels, and the more he thinks about how he shouldn't think about how hot it is the more he does. The circular puzzle he's trapped in is ridiculous. The problem with dressing in long-sleeved shirts and long pants is that, even if they're airier thanks to the fact that they're Kira's clothing and not his own, it's even more hot, which jumpstarts the entire thing.

He does his chores for the day and decides the best course of action is to copy what he'd spied Queenie doing a little while ago: he makes his way to the fountain, book close to his chest, dips his feet in, and reads. It's Frankenstein, which he's sure he's read at least 30 times since Christmas, but it's not like he has anything new.

It's when he finishes a chapter that he looks up--he squints against the sun, frowning--and muses, not necessarily to the person passing by.

"Do you ever wonder why they don't give us books very often? The ones that watch us."

---

iii ➼ Iᴛ's ᴀ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴇʏᴇs;

Feel free to spy Credence at the fountain or by the river, or sometimes at the inn doing whatever needs to be done (most likely sweeping).

Comments

[mund]

Graves is aware of his presence even before he speaks -- Credence might be barefoot and quiet as a cat, no doubt habits he's picked up through the years of tiptoeing around Mary Lou Barebone's violent compulsions, but his question is unexpected. They've made something of a game of it, Credence asking questions and Graves answering them -- precise and to the point, no more and no less. It's training, he supposes; if you want the right answers, ask the right questions.

He looks over at him from the window, and supposes that this question is to be expected. Credence is too bright, too curious to not ask this one day, and Graves contemplates him for a moment, weighing his answer. He won't lie to him, no, and his gaze lingers on the dull scars he'd once seen when he had to undress him to apply much-needed ointment and dressings. Here in the light of an oddly never-setting sun, the scars seem more pronounced.

Not that it matters, either way -- he hears Mary Lou is dead.

"Yes, it seems so." Credence had seem particularly hated by her, and perhaps it's the Scourer blood in the woman that had picked up with MACUSA had missed, and in it is a tragedy. "Do you remember ever manifesting any kind of power when you were young? Any unexplained incident?"

[repressings]

He takes Graves' answer as an invitation, albeit a silent one, and carefully makes his way to him. He's proud at how he doesn't even hesitate, sitting across from him, although he does wish he brought himself some water, or anything to keep himself occupied in case things turn unexpected.

With Graves and questions, it always turns unexpected.

"Yes," He murmurs, and wonders what it has to do with anything. He can't quite remember what exactly, but he remembers before Modesty even came into his life--he remembers beatings worst than usual, he remembers Mary Lou's hisses of how Credence was a monster.

He'd rather not, but he remembers all the same.

"May I ask why?"

[mund]

"Children manifest their powers at an early age. It's usually something small, insignificant, but a sign to parents that their child is magical." Graves looks back at him, assessing, calculating. There are many reasons why a woman would take in a child, even a woman as full of hate as Mary Lou Barebone -- but he's often contemplated the idea that perhaps she knew that there was some measure of magic in the children she adopted.

Maybe this was her way of spreading poison. "Ms. Barebone," He says again. "You remember Rappaport's Law, don't you? The people who caused this to come into effect."

[repressings]

Credence nods, listening raptly. Of course, it makes sense. He can't quite remember all the details, but he vaguely recalls starting a fire on the wood stove when he was just a child. He certainly recalls the bruises he'd received because of it.

It makes sense that she'd known. Maybe Mary Lou had even known before deciding to adopt him. What confuses Credence is the why. Why keep him as a proverbial and literal whipping boy if she wanted all of their (his?) kind eradicated?

He's mulling this over, face pinched in concentration. "Miss Tina told me about Rappaport," He confesses, still looking determined to sort out his thoughts. "Why?"

[mund]

"The Barebones are the descendants of Scourers, corrupted, evil wizards who have hunted and tortured their own kind and are hunted in turn -- to face justice for their crimes." Graves tells him after a moment, his words objective, neutral. "But they disappeared into the No-Maj community before anyone could find them. And the children they had, magical children, were abandoned and left to fend for themselves.

"These children grew up hating magic bitterly, believing that it exists even if they cannot use it. The hate is passed down the generations, and your adoptive mother is one of them."

It's the longest Graves ever spoke, but this is what Credence needs to know, the knowledge that is owed him.

[repressings]

He nods a second time, finding himself drawn to his usual spot. This is one of their talks, it seems: they're switching back to old patterns again. Credence finds a soft sort of comfort in that, and while he doesn't lean back his shoulders straighten, just a little. He can ask questions here.

It's safe here.

"It makes sense," He murmurs, and after a moment he inhales sharply. His gaze flicks to Graves, as if momentarily unsure of what he's about to say, before he settles on the floor once more.

"I guess what I don't understand is why she took me in and helped me, instead of leaving me for someone else if she hated magic so much and she knew. She said--she told me my real mother, she was an unnatural, wicked person. So she had to have known, somehow."

[mund]

"There is no movement without footsoldiers." Graves says simply. The Second Salemers will be nothing without a loyal band of children -- and what better targets than children without parents, and especially a child with a mother that she despises? What riper target for an age-old vengeance, sins of the father passed on to their sons, and their sons after them.

Like this, Mary Lou can take her hate out on him however she wants -- disguises it as discipline, manipulating him into believing that magic is wrong, hateful, a perversion of nature when it is nature. Graves has grasped the depths of the woman's spite and hate, and Credence, well. Credence comes out the worse in all of these machinations.

"Your real mother was a witch, and Mary Lou Barebone likely hated her to the core." Although how she managed to get access, how she knew, he would never know. "Perhaps she knew if she could twist you to hatred, she would have another warm body in this fight against magic."

Little did she know that something else happened entirely. Graves is quiet for a moment, regarding him. Graves is owed answers, too; and this is merely another round in their nightly sessions, a familiar habit he finds a small measure of comfort in. He asks, "Did you love her?"

[repressings]

It's poetic--flowing, almost. Graves is less of a police officer and more of a general, he thinks. Competent, but with knowledge instead of blindingly following orders.

Credence is fairly certain his position as second in command is on purpose. Now, even moreso--a true leader works his magic in the shadows, he's learned that much from Grindelwald. A strategic position is key.

He wonders if, when Graves leaves, he'll leave to become the next President. Graves is right: they were her footsoldiers, she the brave leader. They did her bidding, even if it was often just for a bowl of soup. What Graves says next, he listens and listens carefully. Credence knows, deep down, that's the reason why. He knows that Graves is correct, just like Tina had been.

It doesn't make it hurt less. If anything, it makes him feel even worse, and his face twitches into an odd sort of smile before he slumps inward.

"I don't remember her," He answers truthfully. His real mother was an absolute mystery--he hasn't even seen a single picture. "Sir--when you were ill, all those months ago, you told me about your mother." He presses his lips into a thin line.

"I like to think she's as beautiful and smart as you described yours to be."

[mund]

"I meant Mary Lou Barebone."

He corrects gently, aware that this is a very sensitive subject and thus has to be handled delicately. Graves doesn't have the full picture of Credence's thoughts on his adopted mother yet, even if they'd touched briefly on the subject from time to time during their evening sessions.

The director observes him silently, how the world had come to treat him and yet he still remains relatively kind. Credence is a gentle-spirit, even if he is deadly when wronged; and he can see the hurt written on his face, his hunched shoulders, and that open wistfulness that is too honest to be purely manipulative.

"I understand you had a difficult relationship." A tactful way of putting it -- theirs was unhealthy, abusive, and wrong.

[repressings]

"Oh." Credence's voice sounds flat; surprisingly lifeless. Not quite disappointed, but not quite willing to talk about it, either. He supposes he owes Graves--he knows all about Graves' mother, after all, he knows all about what he feels like are intimate moments. He wonders if Graves had known what he'd said until now, with Credence politely reminding him.

He's quiet for a few moments, trying to come up with something to say. Eventually, he settles on something he hopes is satisfying without tearing open any of his wounds.

"She was firm when she needed to be, sir, I'm grateful."

[mund]

Grateful. Graves' words catches on that term, and he knows Credence has picked the most tactful way to describe what things were like with the mother Barebone. Surveillances teams had sent consistent reports to Graves from time to time -- it's always best to know what ridiculousness the people like them are accusing wizards of.

At least, thinking about that is easier brooding over the the fact that Credence knows about Graves' mother, details he had let slip in a state of fevered delirium. But he's earned that, he thinks; Credence is as shrewd as they come, the gift of one who's always had to hide to survive.

"I suppose mothers teach valuable lessons. Sometimes they are ones you'd rather do without. And sometimes -- "

[repressings]

"Sometimes, sir, it doesn't quite matter at all." Credence is surprisingly tight-lipped all of the sudden, but he's here; they're here, and it's another one of those careful dances. He's not sure he wants to talk about Mary Lou anymore, he's decided, and while he still can't say no--he never can--he can at least change the question.

Mary Lou was a bad person. She had hurt him, hurt his sisters, molded one of them in her image and was on her way to doing the same with the other. But Credence still holds on to the good: he was fed for the most part, clothed for the most part, and was able to stay dry.

"That was rude," he says, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I--I worry about what she left. Who I left, too. Modesty."

[mund]

Modesty.

One of the sisters. He's learned that in a report, and in what Credence had told him in the months prior to this. He watches him carefully, realizing just how Credence withholds from speaking ill of her even though it would probably be fully within his rights.

His discipline runs deep, he thinks. As does an innate decency. Graves cannot help but nod at that. "Where is she?"

[repressings]

"I don't know," he says finally, and if his expression is anything to go by--pained, unsure, twisted into a sad, sad smile--he regrets it.

"When things happened, she started... I mean.. Mr. Graves, I--I left her. Ma and Chastity are dead and the last time I saw her she was hiding under a bed, scared because of what I was."