Angels causing accidents;

[repressings]

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: The edge of the village, the inn
WHEN: 2/15
OPEN TO: OTA with a closed section for Graves
WARNINGS: severe injury via explodey lightning, mentions of Credence's history re: blacking out, talk of severe abuse in the threat with Rory
STATUS: (Is it open to new threads?)

---

ɪ. ɢʀᴀᴠᴇs ⇼ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ;
It's a strange sort of dance, pushing and pulling. Credence doesn't trust Graves, even if the man holds all of the answers. He hasn't lorded it from him, not yet, but he's waiting. It's a matter of time, he thinks, before Graves pulls the carpet out from under him. Soon, he will somehow turn into that blonde man, and soon, it will be too late and Credence will have to do what he wishes.

Now, though, it's peaceful. It's odd, but in the same way that the fact that speakeasies are illegal and yet there are thousands of them where he's from. A strange sort of familiar type of peculiar that lets Credence feel somewhat balanced. Despite everything, he finds the village peaceful. He finds the place safe.

Even though he should be more wary of Mr. Graves--and he is, extremely--he's walking along with him. Walks, Credence had explained to the older man softly, are the best thing to do around the village perimeters, so long as you had a knife. They clear the mind and you can either think about things or not think about anything at all.

"And Mr. Graves, if you'll let me be a little bold," he had inquired, "I think maybe if you had a walk without a purpose, you might feel better." That's how the both of them are near the village outskirts, Credence bundled in his peacoat and scarf and his wool gloves. He's relinquished his extra pair, made of fine fur, over to the older man in order to keep him warm.

They talk. It's quiet, and almost like more of their games in the evening. A question for an answer, and an answer for a question. Credence has learned that this is the best way to get information, and he's quite pleased that it's moving forward so quickly.

"If you can perform magic without a wand, then why do you need one?" He asks, and it's as he turns his head to actually look at Graves that it happens. White, hot light, and then a blazing heat surges down his spine, causing every part of his body to stiffen and spasm before he immediately drops to the ground. He doesn't know what happened.

Credence, struck by lightning, falls unconscious and stops breathing.


ɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ;
He wakes up with a jolt. Panic claws through him, and there's that scratching, whispering, hissing voice in the back of his head that all but confirms his initial thought: he'd passed out again.

This time, he doesn't wake up in the subway, or in his bed at NSPS headquarters--this time, it's in the inn, sides bandaged and eyes wide. A hand immediately holds his injured side--burn marks, perhaps--and he whimpers from the unexpected pain.

"I did it again," he manages, trembling. His throat is sore, hoarse, and he has no idea how long he's been out. Hours? Days? His dark eyes scan the room, wildly, and settle on whoever is there, be it passing the hallway while the door's open or sitting in the room with him:

"Is everyone safe?"


ɪɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴘᴀᴄᴇ;
Credence will be recovering for a while, not just on the 15th. When he can make it upright, he'll be in the inn, closest to the fire and writing everything he can in his journal. He may even be staring at whomever's closest to him, friend or stranger, lost in thought.

Comments

[putorius]

In a way, the mark on Draco's arm was like Credence's necklace, but also the scars across his palms. It was something he could never remove, a punishment and a reminder. A symbol of dark and nasty magic. But also it was like the destruction Credence left in his wake. A mark of something dark and wicked inside him that threatened to devour him whole. Only this was something he needed to choose to do, not something that could come burst out of him. Perhaps it would be easier if it could, he could just let go and have his mission done. It was far easier to bring death upon someone when it was justified, when they were wicked and sparked a protective fury. It was different when he needed to find that cold rage required to take a life and aim it one of the few people who did not bow to his father, and showed Draco genuine kindness. Not because he was required to, not because fear and driven him to it, but because he was a man who cared for his students.

But here in the inn, he couldn't even summon the ire to be cruel. Part of him wanted to, to lash out and hurt someone. Prove he was still in control, prove that he still had all the power he'd been torn from. But the parts of him that just didn't have the energy to do it, knew that there wasn't a point. There was no one to impress, no one to prove himself to. He had no reputation, no wealth, no name to protect. He was better suited putting what little energy he had into more important things.

"Of course you learn spells, what else would you learn?" The words came naturally, but they were dull, their sharp edges rounded severely. "It's--" he let out a sigh. "You've got different classes in different types of magic. Charms, transfiguration, potions, that sort of stuff."

[repressings]

This is much more agreeable than their last meeting. Credence doesn't dare disturb it, for fear of Malfoy's temper sliding through with one slip of the tongue. The problem is he's curious--he's so very curious, and the other's words pull to him like a siren's song.

"Of course," He echoes quickly at his first part--how foolish of him, he hides behind, how stupid, he agrees, and he bows his head and listens.

He's describing a world he yearns for. Something he wants to be a part of, one that the man promised him in the dark alley. He inhales, writing a few of the words down: charms, transfiguration, potions--

"Magic potions?" He says suddenly. "Like making people fall in love with you, or deadly poisons?"

[putorius]

That temper never really had anything to do with anything Credence was capable of saying. It was instead something complicated and precarious, a delicate balancing act laid with hair triggers. Some day it might just take someone breathing the wrong way to set him off. The product of a strict upbringing with little in the way of emotional support. The nature of a pureblooded wizard expected to carry the family name and reputation when he lacked a few of the key skills required. Even if words out of Credence's mouth seemed to set it off, it would never really be the case.

"Both..." Again, a word that should have been sharp and stinging but sounded limp and almost lifeless. "But there's a lot..." he continued, sounding tired. "Regrowing bones, liquid luck, sleeping draughts, potions that transform you into other people, prevent werewolf transformations, make you tell the truth..." He was finding it difficult to dredge up what had once been so easy for him. Potions was one of his easiest subjects, yet he was so exhausted he found it difficult to remember even a list of standard potions.

[repressings]

He sounds tired. Credence picks up on it somewhere between the first example and the last one, muddled in the middle.

Is it tiredness, or defeat? Weariness or just the lack of wanting to fight back? Credence steels himself, tries to think of some way to phrase this politely. His interests can wait.

It's not like they matter anyway. He's bothering this poor man.

Carefully, he folds his hands together, and leans just a little forward.

"Sir?" He keeps his voice neutral, quiet. "Are you feeling alright?"