A/N: I'm not gonna write this any time soon bc it definitely requires a little more effort than I have to spare but I hope y'all enjoy

PS:

:)

He once thought that there was grace in servitude. He thought that he could live like a flower: constantly ebbing, never close enough to full fruition. Useless to be seen. Only living for fear of dying.

Credence has only been seen by the likes of murderers. He has only had agency in his life while creating others' pain. He had been told that things that did not bear fruit would die - but there must be some sort of exception to that rule, because he is unfortunately still here.

He tilts his head into the drywall, thick bangs shagging away from his forehead as he stares at the cracks running through the ceiling. "Lumos," he whispers in the dark, with no intention, to no one. The only light bulb in his room splinters and implodes.

***

Credence bows his head as he eats, gaze fixed on his porridge. He can feel Tina staring at him from across the dining table, but he's never really known what to say except to thank her, and she'd told him to stop thanking her, so now he can't really say anything. He can't even look at her without feeling gangrenous shame. He's too old to be catered to. Certainly too old for this kindness.

"You don't have to do that, Credence," Tina tells him quietly. 

He picks his head up and finally meets her warm brown eyes. She's never been anything but kind to him, always maternal, and yet - Credence fears maternal. He fears her warmth. "We can talk," she says, tilting her head lovingly. "Right?"

Credence tries for a smile. "Sorry, miss."

"I mean the apologizing, too." She reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers, and they both know she can feel the lattice of scarring on the inside of his palm. "Don't be sorry. Ever."

He wonders if everyone who hears that finds the idea incomprehensible. Or maybe it's just him. "Yes, miss."

"Tina."

He holds her gaze for a second longer before going back to his porridge, his posture slightly higher. "Yes, Tina."

She shakes her head at him, a small smile spreading across her face. She doesn't let go of his hand. It feels like an anchor dragging him to the ocean floor more than it does something Credence can hold or control. "Tell me about tutoring," she says like it's a question. 

"It's good," he replies tentatively. "He taught me a light spell."

"Lumos? How did it go?" she responds in kind; hopeful, cheery.

"I... I couldn't." His chest constricts. "Do it."

"No one does, their first time," Tina says, offering a sympathetic smile. "And you're a little older than most starting out."

It took hours, Credence wants to say. How symbolic of his own state. Dim, fouled, sullied by repression.

"And how is your tutor? Not too gruff, I hope?"

He's..." - Credence swallows, although there is no food in his mouth, a question suddenly overwhelming him - "Miss-"

"Tina," Tina corrects.

"-if he doesn't want to do this, he really doesn't need to. He's been through enough. I'm not his responsibility." It's the most sentences he's strung together in a week, and immediately it drains him, leaves him witless. He regrets speaking up, regrets the softened pity that passes over Tina's face, becomes aware of his palm in between his thighs, always cold and always sweating.

"Percival Graves has never done anything he hasn't wanted to do. I couldn't stop him if I tried."

The name startles him, spoken from her mouth. He squirms in discomfort, removes his hand from her grasp. "But-"

"He wanted to do this for you." She's earnest. Credence wishes to God that she wasn't.

***

There is illumination in solitude, Ma had said as she punished him, alienated him, whipped him. Which was why meeting Grindelwald was so odd. There was nothing solitudinous in the way he had made Credence feel; like a flame phasing in and out of being, like a wave swelling towards sharp rocks. Graves - Grindelwald - had allured him in such a way that defied such notions. He had made Credence believe that he could be wanted, that he had purpose beyond himself; maybe he wasn't the antithesis to heavenliness. Maybe his power was indicative of the Lord's path for him. Maybe this pain he had always felt - suddenly extinguished by Grindelwald's touch - was a sign of strength, something to be proud to endure.

He had allowed Grindelwald to palm his cheek - caress him gently - in an alleyway. He knows he didn't know that it had been a well-constructed facade. But he doesn't feel at all righteous in his ignorance. Grindelwald touched him like something to be treasured and Credence had found illumination in that, in something so flagrantly base. Never mind innocent vulnerability. Credence had indisputably felt something far less than innocent towards Grindelwald.

He still dreams about it. Graves' thumb stroking the dip in his palm. Graves' eyes - black, black eyes - darting to Credence's lips, soft with tears. Leaning into him, experiencing desire that didn't wither away, that didn't sift through the spaces between Credence's scarred fingers. 

He dreams about Graves' thumb sliding into his mouth. When he startles awake in a cold sweat, half aroused and half repulsed, nausea rolls over him in relentless waves. He leans past the edge of his bed and heaves into the waste bin.