He knows it hurts -- he can see it in the way Credence grimaces and struggles to hold it in. Burns are different than lashes, the pain doesn't cut nearly as deep but it hurts much more than that. Graves takes it slow even if he's firm and deliberate, his only concession to softness is the way he knits together a wordless spell to take the edge off the pain, healing magic seeping into his skin where his hand passes, cool and clean and nothing like the cloying warmth of Grindelwald's attempt.

More of the flesh begin to heal up just a little more, open wounds slowly closing up, becoming smaller. Graves is still exhausted, but he does this for him all the same, wordless and conscientious. Credence is well-behaved, quiet and pliant, and he knows that he's fighting to be brave. He knows the look so well, and Credence is a young man quite incapable of keeping his feelings locked away if you know where to look. The village has done him good, and the fact that they're so close together now doesn't escape him.

He takes care not to make it hurt more than it has to, and he looks up when he apologises.

"There's no need to be sorry." Firm, but gentle. "This is not your fault."

But protracted silence, he supposes, will only make one dwell on that snippet of a thought during the treatment, so it's only a few moments after that Graves speaks up again, low and even. "You're fortunate it was only the lightning and not a dragon that got you. Some of them can have a terribly nasty temper."

Yes, dragons. Dragons exist in their world.