Mr. Grindelwald came for him exactly one week later, appearing suddenly in the alley where they usually met. “Diagnoskien,” he muttered, flicking his wand at Credence.
Credence flinched at the unexpected brush of magic. He didn’t trust it, now that he knew that it could be used to hurt.
“Damn,” Mr. Grindelwald said, sounding disappointed. He grabbed Credence’s elbow and wrenched them both back into the house where Mr. Graves was kept. Only Mr. Grindelwald’s hand on his collar kept him from falling headfirst down the stairs. Traveling by magic was disorienting, and if Credence had been allowed to have an opinion on it, he would have said that he didn’t like it.
Mr. Grindelwald dragged him down the stairs like an errant puppy and flung him at Mr. Graves’ feet. Mr. Graves stood up as soon as he heard the two of them at the top of the stairs. The look on his face frightened Credence. He looked at Mr. Grindelwald with terrifying intensity, like he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Mr. Grindelwald’s throat and squeeze.
“It didn’t take,” Mr. Grindelwald snapped. “Try again.”
“Of course it didn’t take,” Mr. Graves snarled back. “The boy is half-starved and entirely terrified. Have you forgotten how delicate those spells are? Even happy, healthy wizards sometimes try for years without success.”
Mr. Grindelwald hissed at him. “Did you do something to interfere?” he demanded. “Some contraceptive charm, perhaps? You’re powerful enough to cast one behind my wards.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mr. Graves retorted. “I promised you my capitulation. I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re canny enough to find loopholes, when it suits you, Percival,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “I would not advise doing so again. It will not end well for anyone.”
Mr. Graves went very still. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said, voice soft.
“It wasn’t a threat, Percival. It was a promise.” Mr. Grindelwald smiled at Mr. Graves. “Crucio,” he murmured.
Mr. Graves convulsed and fell over, screaming like the hounds of hell were trying to tear him apart.
Mr. Grindelwald ignored him, watching Mr. Graves with something like hunger in his eyes. He flicked his wand and Mr. Graves sucked in a huge, gasping breath.
“Bastard,” he spat.
Mr. Grindelwald smiled at him. “Next time, I’ll use it on Credence.”
“Yes, because that will absolutely make it easier for him to conceive,” Mr. Graves said, dripping sarcasm. “You might at least consider feeding him up a little. Or did you want your imaginary general to be scrawny and undersized?”
“He won’t be,” said Mr. Grindelwald, with the surety of prophecy behind him.
“Really,” Mr. Graves said, very flat and unimpressed. “The boy is skin and bones. Get a hot meal into him and I’ll do what you want. You can even dose it with a fertility potion.”
“You’re not really in a position to bargain, Percival,” Mr. Grindelwald pointed out, but he sounded almost … amused? Credence didn’t know what to make of the two of them. Every interaction he’d observed between the two of them had been very strange, even by magical people standards.
“Of course I am,” Mr. Graves said. “But you won’t like the terms. Get Credence a hot meal, please, and I’ll see about serving your,” he sighed. “Your greater good.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “If it means so very much to you.” He waved his wand and a table with more food on it than Credence had ever seen suddenly appeared. “Go on, then,” he said to Credence. “Eat.”
“I couldn’t,” said Credence, belly cramping with hunger. Even full rations of gruel weren’t exactly filling. And this – this was a wealthy man’s supper. Stuffed mushrooms, an actual steak, roasted potatoes and carrots, real wheat bread with fresh butter, a salad Credence didn’t recognize and at least three different kinds of soup. There was even, he noticed, real orange juice in a glass, smelling of sunshine and citrus and unimaginable luxury.
“Eat,” Mr. Grindelwald repeated, a little more forcefully this time.
Credence sat down at the little table. He bent his head and said grace, because Ma would know if he didn’t, and he reached out with trembling hands to take a slice of bread.
“You can have more than the bread,” Mr. Graves said softly. Kindly. “It’s not a trick. You won’t get in trouble for it. No one’s going to take it away, either.”
Credence nibbled the bread, dry, because butter was a luxury. It still tasted better than anything he’d ever had. It was soft and still warm from the oven.
“Try the steak,” advised Mr. Graves. “It’s quite good.”
“I couldn’t,” Credence said again. It felt wrong, to sit here and glut himself with both of them watching.
“Of course you can,” said Mr. Graves. “Try it, at least. It’s from the Waldorf-Astoria. One of their cooks is a wizard. Sometimes Oscar lets me get away with taking my meals home.” A wry curl of humor touched his mouth. “It seems he lets my imposter get away with it too.”
Credence had heard of the Waldorf-Astoria. New York’s elite used to patronize it, although according to the papers they’d moved on to greener pastures. Ma said it was a place for decadents and sinners, and no moral person should walk through its doors.
He cut a slice of steak, graceless and sloppy, and bit into it. Ma would beat him bloody if she knew he was eating food from the Waldof-Astoria. Such fine things were surely wasted on him, but it was good. The steak was tender, the juices running down his chin. Credence couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real meat. He scrubbed at his face and had another bite, daring to combine it with some of the bread.
Credence tried a bite of the potatoes and carrots. They were soft and flavored with herbs he couldn’t name. Those went well with the steak, too. He marveled at New York’s elite. They had food this good to eat, and they chose to go somewhere else? What could possibly be better than this?
The salad was covered with an unfamiliar dressing, and flavored with sweet nuts for variety. His sisters would have liked them. Chastity had a sweet tooth she was forever denying, because such luxuries were sins. But even she couldn’t have argued with their presence in a salad. Credence wished he could save some for her.
The soup was nothing like the thin gruel Ma fed the orphans. One of them was rich and meaty while another was thick and hearty, flavored with something Credence couldn’t identify and decided he liked. The last was chicken with noodles, the only one he recognized, and delicious beyond compare when it wasn’t watered down until it was almost unrecognizable.
The orange juice was probably his favorite. It was thick and pulpy and it tickled his throat, but it was sweet and tasted like summer. He demolished the glass without thinking and was startled to see it refill itself.
Credence ate until his stomach hurt, uncomfortably full. He’d eaten maybe a quarter of the food on the table, if that. The waste was unimaginable, but neither Mr. Graves nor Mr. Grindelwald commented on it.
Mr. Grindelwald pressed a tiny bottle into his hands. The liquid inside was a vibrant green color. It looked like spring in a bottle. “Drink,” he commanded.
Credence drank it. If the orange juice had been liquid summer, then the tiny bottle contained liquid spring. It was sweet in the way that berries were, just a hint of something tart beneath. He wished, greedily, that the little bottle would refill itself the way the orange juice had. It didn’t.
“See?” Mr. Graves asked. “I told you it was good.” He stared at Credence with the same sort of intensity that he’d turned on Mr. Grindelwald. Credence felt the first, faint prickles of fear and then he realized that Mr. Graves was looking at the food.
Credence cut another piece of steak and slid it between two pieces of bread. “For Modesty,” he lied, tucking it inside his jacket.
“Such nurturing instincts,” murmured Mr. Grindelwald. “I chose very well indeed.” He shoved Credence through the barrier. “Don’t forget your promise, Percival.”
FILL: "Nothing Shall Be Impossible" Part 4b/? - Grindelwald + Graves/Credence Breeding Program
Mr. Grindelwald came for him exactly one week later, appearing suddenly in the alley where they usually met. “Diagnoskien,” he muttered, flicking his wand at Credence.
Credence flinched at the unexpected brush of magic. He didn’t trust it, now that he knew that it could be used to hurt.
“Damn,” Mr. Grindelwald said, sounding disappointed. He grabbed Credence’s elbow and wrenched them both back into the house where Mr. Graves was kept. Only Mr. Grindelwald’s hand on his collar kept him from falling headfirst down the stairs. Traveling by magic was disorienting, and if Credence had been allowed to have an opinion on it, he would have said that he didn’t like it.
Mr. Grindelwald dragged him down the stairs like an errant puppy and flung him at Mr. Graves’ feet. Mr. Graves stood up as soon as he heard the two of them at the top of the stairs. The look on his face frightened Credence. He looked at Mr. Grindelwald with terrifying intensity, like he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Mr. Grindelwald’s throat and squeeze.
“It didn’t take,” Mr. Grindelwald snapped. “Try again.”
“Of course it didn’t take,” Mr. Graves snarled back. “The boy is half-starved and entirely terrified. Have you forgotten how delicate those spells are? Even happy, healthy wizards sometimes try for years without success.”
Mr. Grindelwald hissed at him. “Did you do something to interfere?” he demanded. “Some contraceptive charm, perhaps? You’re powerful enough to cast one behind my wards.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mr. Graves retorted. “I promised you my capitulation. I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re canny enough to find loopholes, when it suits you, Percival,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “I would not advise doing so again. It will not end well for anyone.”
Mr. Graves went very still. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said, voice soft.
“It wasn’t a threat, Percival. It was a promise.” Mr. Grindelwald smiled at Mr. Graves. “Crucio,” he murmured.
Mr. Graves convulsed and fell over, screaming like the hounds of hell were trying to tear him apart.
“Please,” Credence begged. “Please, stop hurting him.”
Mr. Grindelwald ignored him, watching Mr. Graves with something like hunger in his eyes. He flicked his wand and Mr. Graves sucked in a huge, gasping breath.
“Bastard,” he spat.
Mr. Grindelwald smiled at him. “Next time, I’ll use it on Credence.”
“Yes, because that will absolutely make it easier for him to conceive,” Mr. Graves said, dripping sarcasm. “You might at least consider feeding him up a little. Or did you want your imaginary general to be scrawny and undersized?”
“He won’t be,” said Mr. Grindelwald, with the surety of prophecy behind him.
“Really,” Mr. Graves said, very flat and unimpressed. “The boy is skin and bones. Get a hot meal into him and I’ll do what you want. You can even dose it with a fertility potion.”
“You’re not really in a position to bargain, Percival,” Mr. Grindelwald pointed out, but he sounded almost … amused? Credence didn’t know what to make of the two of them. Every interaction he’d observed between the two of them had been very strange, even by magical people standards.
“Of course I am,” Mr. Graves said. “But you won’t like the terms. Get Credence a hot meal, please, and I’ll see about serving your,” he sighed. “Your greater good.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “If it means so very much to you.” He waved his wand and a table with more food on it than Credence had ever seen suddenly appeared. “Go on, then,” he said to Credence. “Eat.”
“I couldn’t,” said Credence, belly cramping with hunger. Even full rations of gruel weren’t exactly filling. And this – this was a wealthy man’s supper. Stuffed mushrooms, an actual steak, roasted potatoes and carrots, real wheat bread with fresh butter, a salad Credence didn’t recognize and at least three different kinds of soup. There was even, he noticed, real orange juice in a glass, smelling of sunshine and citrus and unimaginable luxury.
“Eat,” Mr. Grindelwald repeated, a little more forcefully this time.
Credence sat down at the little table. He bent his head and said grace, because Ma would know if he didn’t, and he reached out with trembling hands to take a slice of bread.
“You can have more than the bread,” Mr. Graves said softly. Kindly. “It’s not a trick. You won’t get in trouble for it. No one’s going to take it away, either.”
Credence nibbled the bread, dry, because butter was a luxury. It still tasted better than anything he’d ever had. It was soft and still warm from the oven.
“Try the steak,” advised Mr. Graves. “It’s quite good.”
“I couldn’t,” Credence said again. It felt wrong, to sit here and glut himself with both of them watching.
“Of course you can,” said Mr. Graves. “Try it, at least. It’s from the Waldorf-Astoria. One of their cooks is a wizard. Sometimes Oscar lets me get away with taking my meals home.” A wry curl of humor touched his mouth. “It seems he lets my imposter get away with it too.”
Credence had heard of the Waldorf-Astoria. New York’s elite used to patronize it, although according to the papers they’d moved on to greener pastures. Ma said it was a place for decadents and sinners, and no moral person should walk through its doors.
He cut a slice of steak, graceless and sloppy, and bit into it. Ma would beat him bloody if she knew he was eating food from the Waldof-Astoria. Such fine things were surely wasted on him, but it was good. The steak was tender, the juices running down his chin. Credence couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real meat. He scrubbed at his face and had another bite, daring to combine it with some of the bread.
Credence tried a bite of the potatoes and carrots. They were soft and flavored with herbs he couldn’t name. Those went well with the steak, too. He marveled at New York’s elite. They had food this good to eat, and they chose to go somewhere else? What could possibly be better than this?
The salad was covered with an unfamiliar dressing, and flavored with sweet nuts for variety. His sisters would have liked them. Chastity had a sweet tooth she was forever denying, because such luxuries were sins. But even she couldn’t have argued with their presence in a salad. Credence wished he could save some for her.
The soup was nothing like the thin gruel Ma fed the orphans. One of them was rich and meaty while another was thick and hearty, flavored with something Credence couldn’t identify and decided he liked. The last was chicken with noodles, the only one he recognized, and delicious beyond compare when it wasn’t watered down until it was almost unrecognizable.
The orange juice was probably his favorite. It was thick and pulpy and it tickled his throat, but it was sweet and tasted like summer. He demolished the glass without thinking and was startled to see it refill itself.
Credence ate until his stomach hurt, uncomfortably full. He’d eaten maybe a quarter of the food on the table, if that. The waste was unimaginable, but neither Mr. Graves nor Mr. Grindelwald commented on it.
Mr. Grindelwald pressed a tiny bottle into his hands. The liquid inside was a vibrant green color. It looked like spring in a bottle. “Drink,” he commanded.
Credence drank it. If the orange juice had been liquid summer, then the tiny bottle contained liquid spring. It was sweet in the way that berries were, just a hint of something tart beneath. He wished, greedily, that the little bottle would refill itself the way the orange juice had. It didn’t.
“See?” Mr. Graves asked. “I told you it was good.” He stared at Credence with the same sort of intensity that he’d turned on Mr. Grindelwald. Credence felt the first, faint prickles of fear and then he realized that Mr. Graves was looking at the food.
Credence cut another piece of steak and slid it between two pieces of bread. “For Modesty,” he lied, tucking it inside his jacket.
“Such nurturing instincts,” murmured Mr. Grindelwald. “I chose very well indeed.” He shoved Credence through the barrier. “Don’t forget your promise, Percival.”
“Believe me,” Mr. Graves sighed. “I haven’t.”