uncover our heads and reveal our souls

[mund]

WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: The fountain, the inn, town hall, by the houses. Graves is curious and is out and about exploring, feel free to bump into him anywhere.
WHEN: 16 January morning, afternoon, evening
OPEN TO: Open to everyone!
WARNINGS: Nah, none. Will warn if it comes up.
STATUS: Open to new threads!

---

Fountain;
There is an incredible indignity in drowning, especially when one has been nowhere near any particular body of water prior to this episode. It's the disorientation that wrongfoots a person, skews survival instincts just enough for that damned mouthful of water before it really kicks in. Water down the throat means air is not where one needs it to be, and Graves' nose lungs are burning as he swims towards the surface, desperation powering every stroke before he breaks through it and breathes deep, coughing out the water he'd wrongly swallowed.

He grips the edge of the fountain and hoists himself out of it, soaking wet in a pair of red scrubs that is very distinctly not what he's been wearing before he ends up here, under wholly mysterious circumstances. The surroundings are jarring, rustic and wholly unlike the bustling rush of city that is New York; and he's certain no fountain in the city has inexplicably deceptive depths. Confused, disgruntled, and entirely annoyed by the unfavorable shift in circumstances, Graves runs a hand through his hair to slick it back (he'll look like a drowned rat otherwise), his mind runs through predictable questions. Where is he, how did he get here, who had enough magic to haul him right through without him knowing? He damn well hadn't touched a Portkey, he'd know if it turns out to be something like that, and it cannot have come at a more inconvenient time.

He perches on the edge of the fountain as he shrugs off the pack that's somehow been attached to him. Another unsolvable mystery, but as it turns out -- offensively cheap clothing, a blatant absence of his wand and the rest of his usual clothes, and of course, this day is the day that keeps on giving.

The lack of a wand is bothersome but not incapacitating, and he has half a mind to dry himself off with magic (it'll only take a fraction of a second), but Graves hasn't made it to where he is now by being careless. There are No-Majs here, and more importantly, there are others, the ones who feel different, the likes of which he hadn't experienced before. His senses feel blunted, but he senses them nonetheless, as if through a foggy veil -- which definitely doesn't help. Snagging his pack and getting to his feet, the chilly air more an inconvenience than danger, he poses the ever-important question to the person nearby.

"What is this place?"

inn;
They say clothes make the man, and Graves contemplates mistruth in it -- after all, he might still be in ridiculous scrubs, but it hasn't made him any less imposing, not after he's decided to make the most of it, and bear with the undesirable clothing items he'd been left with. No, things had been worse; Graves is used to worse, he plans to make the best of it, despite the fact that things are far more inconvenient when you can't use magic.

Like drying clothes, for one. Instead of an instantaneous drying spell that could have taken care of his wet clothes in an instant, but no. Of course he has to dry out in front of the fire like every other No-Maj; there are too many pairs of eyes on him, and Graves can never violate their most sacred, highest law, not when he's the one charged with enforcing and upholding them.

The fire is comforting at least, and he asks. "Does everyone come through the fountain?"

closed to credence
Speaking of too many pairs of eyes, however. Graves doesn't look away from the fire, aware of the shadow on his periphery. Graves been here nearly two hours, drying himself off and getting information, and he'd picked up on presence's the abrupt disappearance the first half of the visit -- as if that presence is looking to hightail it somewhere far away, the spike of distress acutely felt not so much through thought but a flicker of power that is both familiar and alien at once.

Interesting.

He straightens up, a hand on the warm brick above the fireplace as he watches the flames surge and dance. When he next speaks, his words are neutral, even, and clearly directed to the observer a distance behind him. "Are you planning to talk, or just watch me all night?"

town hall;
Graves finds himself exploring the area, mapping out the village in his head as much and accurately as he can. You never know when you're going to need it, and it never hurts to be prepared. The town hall is always a place to be when you want to take a measure of the village, of what it's like, and so far it's not very comforting.

Graves is ever-watchful and on the alert for more potential signs his dislike for current circumstances set aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There are no answers to be gleaned or extrapolated, the loss of his wand and the inexplicable diminishing of his magic leaving him unpleasantly vulnerable in a place he doesn't recognise. This is nothing like New York City nor its neighboring outskirts -- if the city had a heartbeat and pulsed with life, then surely this village is barely a shadow of it, bereft of everything Graves had grown accustomed to. Worse, he's dressed to a degree of drabness that he's ultimately unused to; even battlefields did not subject their soldiers to the indignity of unpractical outfits, but he supposes that, too, is a relatively minor concern in the face of bigger problems.

He bumps into someone when he turns to go, and reaches out to steady them if they need it. "Apologies. I wasn't paying attention."

wildcard, hit him up with anything you like!

Comments

[mund]

There it is, the key. You. He. The fact that Credence uses it interchangeably not once, but twice, is both unsettling and disturbing, like he's struggling to keep him separate from whoever it is that's involved with a diner and a knowing that Graves knows with all certainty he wasn't there for.

Graves studies him as he approaches, sensing the ebb of that power -- and he knows it as truth, this living parasite that's borne from Credence's trauma and pain. Graves, as a general rule, largely considers sentiment a defect in character (especially where the continued safety of the wizarding community and the tenuous peace between them and the unsuspecting No-Majs are concerned), but he cannot help a curl of guilt that simmers under his skin. MACUSA had let this one slip through, this one who had needed them more than anything else. He's no stranger to the conditions necessary for the birth of an Obscurus, and the scars he'd seen on his palms in passing, the extensive reports Tina had drawn up, her anger and her heartache, the very feelings that had made her intervene, sacrificing her career in the process.

Graves allows himself a moment for that guilt, for MACUSA's failings.

Moment over.

He reaches for the chair on his side of the table, pulling it out and taking a seat with polished efficiency, every movement calm and precise despite the danger that stands in front of him, the severe threat he poses to everyone here. For an Obscurial to live to this age suggests an immense power the world has likely never seen; and he can only imagine the damage Credence can cause.

"And you will. But I have questions of my own for you to answer." The director looks up, hands folded on the table before him. "Please, sit."

There are a whole world of questions whirling in his mind, each one seemingly more absurd than the last, but one -- one haunts Graves because he already knows the answer. He sees the hope, the eagerness in Credence's words despite his fear; he must have felt a lot for the man; which explains the distress, the erratic spikes of power he's sensed prior to this. Graves just doesn't like the conclusions he's inevitably reaching.

"The person who gave you that necklace. Did he wear my face?"

[repressings]

His ears are ringing. It's like the other's said a rude word, something akin to 'fuck' or 'shit' or 'witchcraft.'

He's said please. To Credence, of all people.And it's not the one across from him--no, it's one beside him. He wonders if it's for a reason other than efficiency--he wonders, briefly, if it's so he's within arm's reach. Credence swallows, thick and unsure, and can't help the feeling of dread mix with his previous hope. He's still worried--he'll always be--so as Graves talks, he moves silently to him.

Credence is in the middle of two things when Graves speaks: one, being still amazed at the fact that Mr. Graves has said the word 'please,' and two, physically moving the chair Graves has pulled out for him so he's further away but still next to him. A minor adjustment so he won't be in arms range, though will that even matter, if he lets himself go?

Regardless, it's as he's about to sit down that Graves says those words. They send a chill up his spine, and he can't shake the strange feeling of being doused with cold water upon immediately waking up.

Credence takes a very long time to answer, staring at his scarred knuckles not from fighting, but from his own belt. He opens his mouth. He closes it. And, finally, his voice is both a soft hiss as well as a pained whimper.

"Yes."

And who's to say it still isn't him, underneath that strong jaw and those brows?

[mund]

Credence looks like somehow Graves has reached over and slapped him -- or something similar, and he wonders if it's the simple courtesy that derails and unsettles him. From first blush, perhaps, when one takes in the sight of those scarred knuckles, the placement and criss-crossing, overlapping lengths of them displaying the deliberation and frequency of the beatings. This is not discipline, it's spite and hatred, and no wonder Credence is behaving this way, likely to both lash out and flee when he finally takes up his offer and sits, and until Graves can get a decent bead on when he plans to do either, it would do to keep him close. It's a purely strategic maneuver; this way, he can't hurt anyone else within the confines of the inn, and Graves has a hope of containing him.

His answer makes Graves' blood run cold; he has thought of it, the privilege of his position and the peril MACUSA could face if someone had somehow managed it -- it's one of the things you consider, when you hold so many secrets, and when you have the ear of the President herself. It's the smart thing to do; infiltrating through the highest echelons of the congress, but it doesn't make it any less horrific when it actually happens.

He stares at Credence for a long moment, perhaps Grindelwald knew of this boy's power, too. Perhaps he had seen something Graves hadn't, and knowing what they know of the wizard's extremist delusions, it's not a stretch to understand what it is he's trying to do. Get close, use Credence as a tool to start a war, but somewhere, somehow along the line, something broke. Something turned. Credence sounds both pained and angry, and Graves can't quite get a grasp of what changed.

"And he tried to get close to you through me." The only explanation for how Credence would know him, and react that way. What diner? His jaw sets. That necklace was given as a token, and what with how hard he clings to it despite whatever it was that broke -- that speaks volumes. "But it didn't take. Why?"

[repressings]

Credence's hands are in his lap, long fingers curled gently into themselves to keep from fidgeting. His entire posture is one that could use some work--slumped over, shoulders hunched, head forward and down. It's a closed off way of sitting, confident only in the fact that if he isn't left alone something will go wrong. Now, it's just habit.

Graves' words send another wash of chills down his spine, and it doesn't take long for him to pinpoint why: it's the way he's speaking, calm and careful like Stella, but he glances up just in time to see that jaw set and he looks pointedly at his knees.

You know why, he wants to say. He wish he were Kira, with bravado and confidence. He wishes the other was here now--but that isn't the case. The important thing is he needs to not trust so easily. He needs to not be that man in the desert in search of water. The one he felt like he was shuffling around alleyways in New York, finding the child that was him all along.

"I'm very sorry, I don't mean to be rude," there's that confidence. All he has to do is think about his friend. "But how can I know if you're--you?"

[mund]

(What is the difference between a sheepdog and a wolf?)

"You don't." Graves says simply. It's the truth, when it comes right down to it; there are so many ways one can lean towards one way or the other, so many ways to read into what is said and what isn't, and Graves isn't in the mood to sugarcoat anything. Graves is still trying to come to terms with Grindelwald infiltrating MACUSA by impersonating him, an anger simmering underneath that he can't quite conceal. MACUSA is his home, it's protected territory, and here is one who wishes to plough its secrets for his selfish, pointless agenda, not caring who he steps on along the way.

Graves is silently furious, hateful of all that Grindelwald stands for; the wretched, twisted idealism of a child that refuses to grow up, that depraved, obstinately myopic view that they could somehow become the No-Maj's masters. They can't even fucking control their own, what the goddamn hell makes them think they can control another race entirely? And meanwhile, blood will flow like rivers; No-Majs, and most especially their own kind, sacrificed for a toxic, ill-conceived ideal dreamed of through a madman's warped lens.

Here Credence sits, a victim of circumstances and coldblooded ambition, a creature -- no, a person -- of great power, infected by a parasite, and all Grindelwald will see is a catalyst, a spark to light the fires of war. He will let you burn out.

Perhaps there is a way to illuminate that difference, after all. "Do you know which is the winning side in wars, Mr. Barebone?" A beat, best to narrow it down. "The one that ended years back; you were a child then."

[repressings]

"Credence," He corrects, and he swears he feels a tang of copper in his mouth when he does. He shouldn't be correcting someone like the man who isn't or is Mr. Graves.

It feels like he's walking into a trap. All of this does. But he's here, sitting, waiting, trying to sense the other. He can't--he's not magical, not in that way at least, or if he is he doesn't know how--so he has just his intuition and his gut instincts. Right now, everything the other is saying is telling him to run.

But here he is, hands moving to clasp together tightly. He does it as a mimicry of his mother when teaching lessons to the younger kids. The ones that don't realize, yet, how cruel Mary Lou Barebone is.

"I'm not sure there is a winning side when it comes to war," he says cautiously, but then quickly remembers that even if this is the Mr. Graves he knew, he wouldn't want him expounding wisdom. He'd just want the answer.

"We did."

[mund]

The correction, quiet but firm, is unexpected. Credence looks like he wants more than anything to fold into himself and disappear.

"Credence." He concedes, and the way he pronounces is name is both familiar and alien all at once. It's not a lover's snare like the other's, but it's spoken with care.

"We didn't. The people on our side just took a longer time to die."

Graves continues simply; the words of a man who has seen war up close and personal, and what he has seen is repulsive and ugly. And that's the whole, entire point. Too many people died from both sides, and his gaze is steady. "I don't know how he discovered you, but I can tell you he's willing to bleed you dry if it means he gets his war."

He gestures to the necklace briefly. He's leaning forward, eyes dark and filled with purpose, a powerful charisma fueled by the pillars of his beliefs, his oath to protect and defend, and the nightmares he does not acknowledge. "This is what your necklace means. Dominion over the No-Majs, and he will pay for it with your life, the lives of wizards and No-Majs alike. Did he tell you what your condition entails, or did he just venerate you as blessed?"

[repressings]

Credence. The way he says it, Credence feels a strange flash of something. Confirmation, maybe. It's not the same way the other had said it--either when he was trying to get him under his thumb or when he had found him useless. It's far more distinct.

He feels a small bit of hope. It's there, a spark, that he's not lying to him. That this is real, that this is the one he doesn't know at all. He doesn't like the feeling of constantly weighing the pros and cons, but the idea of just trusting him doesn't sit well. Not with after what happened.

But something happens--there's a shift, and Graves' words are simple and straightforward as he explains how the man that isn't him will work. He's right--he's right, and Credence wants desperately to cry out that he knows, he knows all about bleeding for a purpose he thought was pure. That it's happened.

The words die in his throat. Instead, he follows Graves' train of thought. War. That matches what he'd heard--or thought he heard--during that hazy moment where he was dying. Or is he dead now, and this is Hell? He's doomed to never be able to make out whether or not this is him? It would be a very fitting Hell.

That lean--however small it is--is noticeable. Especially to Credence, who knows when to stiffen when something like that happens. When Mary Lou looks a certain way, or her knuckles turn white, or a certain set of her jaw--Credence knows. Microexpressions that cause him to clam up. Cause him to dart, knowing full well what's about to come. This is the same scenario, just a different person.

Credence shoots back in his chair. He leans as far back as possible and his hands grab the edge of his seat, knuckles shining white. His head is also tilted back, but he looks at Graves, looks him right in the eye, frightened. A deer in the headlights as he speaks.

This is a different kind of power, Credence realizes, and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows, rooted, listening. This isn't the power the other version of had. This is something else. Credence's voice nearly cracks as he answers.

"He told me a lot of things, sir. I don't think I believe them anymore."

I'm not sure I believe you, either.

[mund]

Credence looks terrified, and Graves is startled by that unexpected reaction. He draws back in turn, realizing he's in wildly uncharted territory. He draws back carefully, restoring their distance. Grindelwald must have done more of a number on him than he'd thought -- the fact that he recoils like this from him speaks volumes, although what, exactly it means, it's not too clear.

Only that he's afraid of him, frightened and distrustful, and Graves feels an anger bubble anew -- not at Credence, but all that's been done to him that he cannot quite reach. He tells him he doesn't believe all that Grindelwald has fed him, but he picks up readily on what Credence doesn't say, either. Credence doesn't trust him, and that's to be expected, but what's more disturbing is what occurs to him.

"Did he punish you?"

[repressings]

You should know that, too. there's a lot of things he's finding he wants to say but can't. He's not sure if he's suppressing himself or if it's that scratching down the back of his spine that's doing it for him, but either way, despite his mouth opening, no sound comes out.

He at least loosens his grip on the chair. Graves has backed off; it's a sign. It's a good sign, because at least this one knows patience. Or maybe that, too, is a game. Maybe this is the same one that knows about everything. One who knows how to handle him better.

Graves asks that question, and it cuts deep, sending shivers down his spine and causing him to bite at the inside of his cheek to contain himself. There it is again; that heated, feverish whisper. 'I can help,' it says. 'I can take care of you.'

Credence speaks instead of it: "What's the last thing you remember, Mr. Graves?"

He's not giving him a proper answer. He's startlingly straight when he leans back to his normal posture, and his movements have stilled, staring pointedly at Graves' chair leg. If he concentrates, maybe it will break, he thinks, even though he's well aware it won't.

[mund]

The last thing he remembers is classified, and Graves guards his community's secrets fiercely, prizing them above all else. Their safety is in his hands, and if he slips up, if he is careless, he could expose them to war, to death; and he will not allow this to happen.

But Credence Barebone is a part of them, whether he knows it or not. He will be hunted down -- if he hasn't already -- but fearful No-Majs and wizards alike, but Graves sees the boy before he's ever seen the monster, and perhaps they can again perform a miracle. Credence's unique, continued existence has been a miracle thus far, what is another?

But to do that, he has to get through to him. Graves is fighting something else, mending a wound of Grindelwald's making -- the problem is that he still doesn't know how deeply it goes. Credence evades him like wisps of smoke and mist, unwilling to be caught, and what hangs in the balance between them is crucial. Credence is raw, a powerful, fearsome creature, but he also just a boy, abused and neglected. One of their own, left out in the cold and forgotten; no more. Graves protects his own.

And so he gives him an answer, inasmuch as it's within him to give without compromising secrets.

"The last thing I remember was your family's file on my desk." He leans back, deliberately adopting a non-threatening posture by crossing his legs. He meets his gaze evenly. "My Auror, Tina. She broke our laws to save you."

[repressings]

Tina. Credence visibly perks up--he knows Tina. He trusts Tina. And he was right--because Tina stopped all of it, once. Tina pulled him close and let Credence cry. Tina.

Was that what she was? An Auror? Was that what they called those brave witches and wizards interfering in mundane life like that? Credence ought to thank her. A terrible part of him hopes she'll come out of the fountain, too, just so he can. That would be selfish, and wrong, but the last time he'd seen her had been in the subway.

He doesn't want to think about the subway. Not now. Now, he wants to think about how what the other is saying is looking like it's possible. Like maybe, he's not lying. He'd said they'd never met, but the mutual connection is there.

Credence presses full lips into thin lines, and lets his gaze flick over the other--even, briefly, meeting his gaze before dropping down. This time, it's to his own lap and not the chair leg. He doesn't want the chair to break anymore.

"Is she in trouble?" Because that thought occurs to him, suddenly--that if Tina broke laws like he'd said, then surely there were repercussions. Especially in a place so secretive.

If there were, then Credence has one more thing to blame himself for.

[mund]

They can never interfere in mundane life, not in that way, not when it puts every witch and wizard at risk. The hatred for magic and wizardkind is etched into Mary Lou's bones, burned into her psyche at birth, the result of a legacy that stretches back to MACUSA's very roots and beyond.

"Yes." Lying to Credence is an unnecessary risk at this point in time -- Graves intends to foster trust, not cultivate a false image the way Grindelwald ostensibly did. His words are low, quiet, out of anyone's hearing. "Our laws protect us from the No-Majs, and they keep the peace between both." And Graves breaks it for none, not even for one of his best and most promising. Nonetheless, he had quietly spoken for her, negotiated a punishment that kept her out of prison and in the depths of MACUSA's most convoluted bureaucratic hellhole.

Which, if you asked Graves, isn't much of an improvement. But it is what it is. He catches the look in his eyes, parses the intent of that question, and simply adds. "She's fine."

[repressings]

He's sure this is the truth. It's stark but firm, like the verbal equivalent of a neatly pressed white button-up. Credence had almost been expecting a yes no matter what. Perhaps this was the real one choosing not to lie to him? The man who was and wasn't him--the one who gave him the necklace--had said so many things just because Credence wanted to hear them. This is distinctly different.

The reassurance doesn't help. In a strange way, it makes Credence's stomach churn.

"She's a good person, sir," Credence says in spite of himself. "She--she helped me, after. In the subway, when you--" He stops there, voice soft and quiet.

"I'm sorry. It's confusing, you and... him."

[mund]

Him. Of course. Graves will be in his shadow, as far as Credence is concerned, the man that he is overshadowed by the one that's usurped him, and perhaps had gone on to cause untold damage. Credence is too guileless to carry off a convincing lie, so Graves rules out manipulation, and accepts his confusion as genuine.

But it sticks in the craw, the things Credence lets slip, and the more he speaks, the more questions Grave has. He frowns.

"What happened in the subway?" After what?

[repressings]

Credence is quiet for a long moment. He falls silent with no indication he's going to speak, not at first, simply staring at his scarred palms. It's a difficult thing to do, to explain.

How do you tell a total stranger you've killed so many people? How do you tell them you wanted to, even if that moment was brief?

How do you tell the one who spurred it on that it worked? That his plan to some extent was still carried out? Credence isn't even sure if it's fixed. He could have very well broken the secrecy forever.

Instead, he avoids the question altogether. He looks up, lips pressed into a thin line, and while he doesn't look at Graves, it's as close as he can get.

"If you need anything and can't find it, I'm in room 3. May I please be excused?"