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Despite Ma’s best efforts, Credence’s body had always been dirty. The grim and smoke of New York stuck to him like a shadow; on his skin as well as in his lungs.
Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t noticed earlier. Or perhaps It hadn’t left any marks prior to now.
Credence sits in a bath, water filled to the brim as he traces along one of the many black marks staining his skin. They run the entire length of his body, following the previously blue veins like smudged ink. Up his arms, across his chest and down his legs. Credence observed the sprawling web of black markings across his body with mounting horror. His clothing would cover most of them, except for those crawling up his neck and the ones on his hands.
But later wasn’t the issue. Now was the issue.
There was a knock on the bathroom door, “Credence, can I come in?” Mr. Scamander’s voice came through clearly.
Credence had tried to stall as long as he could, claiming that he would prefer to wash himself in privacy despite the many wounds cutting his body. The bath water was equally pink and gray from blood and grim.
“I…” Think, think, THINK.
“Credence, we really need to take a look at those wounds. I swear we mean you no harm. No judgment either.” Came the patient, gentle reply. “I’m coming in,” Newt warned, slowly turning the knob and pushing the door open.
Credence sank as much of his body into the bath water as he could. His knobby knees were thrust into the open, but at least his chest and neck were covered. The dirty water was too opaque to see through.
That is, until Newt cleans it with a series of spells; refilling the tub with clean, and clear, water.
Credence yelps, arms shielding his body, and masking the spider web of marks. He doesn’t dare look up at Newt, he knows the look of disgust he will find. He’s seen it so many times before. Somehow, he had tricked himself into believing he might not see it from this man. This man that had been so kind and gentle. But Credence couldn’t have nice things, he didn’t deserve any kindness.
“Oh.” Newt sighs. Credence can’t help but flinch.
“I’m sorry,” Credence says, a fervent whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please—” He doesn’t know what he’s pleading for. “I’m sorry, please.” He begs anyway.
“Credence…” Newt moves closer and the wounded man flinches away. As far as the tub will allow, his body plastered along the porcelain. The water had started to tinge pink again.
Credence knows that pain is coming. He would usually accept it with a straight back and eyes downcast, but not today, not from this man. Not when he had thought that it might finally be over.
His whole body shivers despite the warm water, as his voice hiccups “I’m sorry, please, plea—“
A hand lands on his shoulder. Credence can’t breathe. It will turn into claws, tear his flesh to shreds. It will beat him, slap him, turn his flesh black and blue.
The hand is warm. Steady. It waits.
Credence’s body rebels, it heaves in air as he shakes. The hand stays where it is. It’s almost comforting.
No. He doesn’t deserve comfort. He hasn’t earned it. It won’t last, like it hadn’t with Mr. Graves. It’s a trick. It has to be.
(Maybe it isn’t?)
Credence loses track of time, his mind at war with itself. All the while, the hand stays like an anchor.
Eventually, Newt breaks the silence. “Well, that answers one of my questions, I think.”
“What?” Credence croaks out, the statement pulling his mind out of it’s frenzied cycle.
Mr. Scamander continues speaking, “I would imagine that if you were still hosting an Obscurus, it would have manifested itself by now, don’t you think?” His hand still a steady pressure on Credence’s shoulder.
“It’s gone?” Credence asks.
“I imagine the Aurors managed to kill it.” Newt answers.
“But, then, how am I…” Still alive goes unsaid.
Mr. Scamander gives a little shrug. “You managed to live with it for a decade longer than any other Obscurial on record. It appears you remain more powerful than it, even now.”
“There are… others?” Credence asks.
“There have been. None have survived. The Obscurus-Obscurial bond is frighteningly under-researched. Part of the issue is that Obscurials don’t usually live past the age of 10, another issue is that most of the magical world would rather pretend the issue no longer exists now that we have the Statute of Secrecy.” Mr. Scamander explains.
Credence doesn’t understand half of what has just been said, but nods along anyway.
Mr. Scamander gies a quick squeeze to his shoulder. “May I treat your wounds now, Credence? I don’t want them to get infected.”
Credence stiffs at those words. Everything comes with a price, and Credence doesn’t have anything left to give.
“I just want to help you Credence,” Newt says, oh so gently. “We can figure out the rest later.”
Credence wants to believe him. Wants to with fiber of his being. But year and decades of neglect make him hesitate. His trust is a bruised and beaten thing.
But so is his body—split open, bleeding ugliness everywhere.
Credence is aware that he’s taking too long to answer, that Mr. Scamander must be getting impatient. Ma and Mr. Graves hated to be left waiting.
Another part of Credence wants to see what Mr. Scamander will do. Wants to shatter the facade of Mr. Scamander’s calm and let the truth shine from the cracks.
But Mr. Scamander does not shatter, break, or crack. He stays exactly as he was, patient and calm.
It is Credence’s body that gives first—the constant tension too much for his tired limbs to sustain. His back falls gently back to rest against warm porcelain, Mr. Scamander’s hand on his shoulder anchoring him above the water.
Softly, he asks, “What do you want from me, Mr. Scamander?”
“I only wish to help you, Credence.” Mr. Scamander says, as if it could ever be that simple.
“Everyone wants something from me.” Credence says, because it is the only truth he knows for certain.
“Well, I’m not everyone.” Again, Mr. Scamander says it simply.
“But… why, then?” Credence asks, frustrated. Could he be wrong about this too?
“Why what? Help you?” Mr. Scamander asks.
“ Yes. ”
“Because you deserve it.”
What?
“I’m not a good person, Mr. Scamander.” Credence says, the scars on his hands and back echoing in phantom aches.
But Mr. Scamander waves away the statement. “I disagree. I think you are a good person, despite having every reason not to be.”
“Why.” Credence asks again.
“Because. You had the power to destroy all of New York, and you didn’t. Because you could have killed us all in that subway station, and you didn’t. Because you want to be good, and that’s all that really matters.”
Every new word chips away at the hardness in his chest, allowing hope to bloom and for the first time Credence can properly breathe.
Someone thought he was good.
“Truly?” He asks.
Mr. Scamander eyes go soft at the whispered question, his hand traveling up from where it was resting on Credence’s shoulder to gently cup his cheek. “Yes, truly, Credence.”
For the first time in his life, Credence’s eyes water not due to pain, but of happiness. Mr. Scamander’s answering smile is brighter than the sun.
“Now, may I treat you?”