An animal. That's what they thought he was, too. He feels his chest tighten, and his hands curl into fists, nails digging crescent shapes on scarred skin.

It's not him, is it? It can't be. He just got here, and they've been wary for a while. Or has he always been here, just the other him, scanning the sky with inky black smoke, looking for destruction and chaos. Looking for those who have wronged him, for everyone that's called him a freak. If they find out, Credence wonders if there will be a lynching, or perhaps burning at the stake. Just to keep it traditional.

He decides he doesn't like this conversation very much.

"I don't," he agrees, and forces his fists to unfurl. This one doesn't know. If it isn't him--and he prays it isn't--then there's nothing to worry about. If it is?

Credence doesn't want to think about that. But he'll talk about weapons--even if he's certain Grindelwald had been grooming him to be one. "Um, no weapons, though. I really thought the village is safe."