As I Rise

She should never have gone.

It was just some dumb rub, just a bunch of stupid teenagers getting together and having fun. But James had promised he would be there, he promised . She should have listened to her mama, boys like that are just no good .

Tears blur her vision as she stumbles back home, shame humming a symphony in her blood. They said she was nothing but a bluenose, said she was too much of a good girl to be one of them. No one ever takes her seriously. But he had. He’d said she was pretty. He asked her to go with him.

Well screw him, and screw Mandy Jeffords for telling her it was a good idea when she knew , she had to. She knew he didn’t really like her. He was just playing. She knew and she didn’t say anything .

Well she’d show them. She won’t let it bother her, not after tonight. She’ll cry all her tears and then she’ll never let them wound her again. She’ll let them know they can’t touch her, can’t hurt her. She may not be a loose girl, but she sure as hell ain’t no cancelled stamp neither.

She shouldn’t be walking home by herself.

Mama always said be careful, don’t go off alone, it’s better to stick together. She said this was a cruel world for women, that one day, one day maybe things would be better, but right now she has to look after herself. Only, she didn’t want to walk home with any of the other girls, hell she barely knew anyone there. They just wanted to sneak around, but she was raised better than that. She sniffles, wipes her eyes again , and hopes the tears will stop coming soon.

This time of night, even the drugstore cowboys have either found a girl by now, or given up and gone away. There’s no one about, and she’s so close to home there isn’t any reason why she shouldn’t walk back.

Only there’s a man following her. It has to be a man, she caught a look at him in a shop window and he’s far too tall to be a dame. Tall and broad, easily strong enough to overpower her. She speeds up her steps, but he can’t be following her. That’s stupid. She’s getting nervous cause mama said never to find yourself alone at night. It’s just guilt and shame- so much shame - making her think the world is out to get her.

She looks again, he’s gone. See, just paranoia, just her feeling bad because she’s breaking the rules. She hurries on a little faster.

The tears have dried on her face, her fear like a dam keeping them back. Just a little further. Just a little faster. A glance back as she rounds the corner. Nothing. Still nothing, he’s gone. A sigh full of relief, of fear and sadness and hurt. Not far to go now and then she can strip off these stupid shoes, curl up in bed, and forget this night ever happened. Not far to go and she’ll be safe.

She doesn’t see the figure step out in front of her until it’s too late.

She should have listened to her mama.

*

Night crawls into day at some indeterminable time. Darkness greying to light as Graves stares at the book open on his lap, mind lost to wherever it wanders to these days. Keeping track of his thoughts takes far more effort than he can muster. He is going to have to untangle himself from the blanket and start the day, he knows this, but he is so very loathe to wake the boy.

The boy .

There’s something about him. He should have noticed it last night, should have seen something, felt something. But he was too tired, too embarrassed; same old Graves, too damn useless to do his job properly. Because it would have been part of his training, ingrained in him deeper than his own name. He should have noticed- the signs are there, clear as day. The boy is magical. It’s obvious in the energy that hums about him like the stillness before thunder, metallic almost, just shy of oppressive. And why else had he been sosure the basement held more than just a cat, trapped and hungry? Or a stray dog, all ribs and matted hair like the ones scavenging the dumpsters down the street? Something kept drawing him back, though his body burned its protestations through his nerves. Something was telling him all was not as it should be, it’s been broadcasting as much all along, he was just too blind to see it. Too blind or too stubborn.  

He can’t help but find some sort of gallows humour in it. He had been trying for weeks to distance himself from the very thing he just invited back to his apartment. Though, there is something different about him, something a little off. He doesn’t possess the arrogance most young wizards his age exude, has a personality buried under all that trauma which is more than just how good at duelling he is. If anything, he seems almost unaware of his magic; possible if he were a squib, but there is too much power there, too much raw magical ability to let that be so. So he remains an anomaly the size of which pounds out the most astonishingly painful headache behind Graves’ left eye.

Nausea churns in his gut. He can’t do this, he isn’t ready to face it all again. What if this is all just a part of some elaborate plan, just something Seraphina bloody Picquery devised to draw him back in? His lungs feel tight. What if he’s never actually managed even this tiny window of freedom? Heavy, difficult to breath. For all he knows, every other apartment in this building could be peopled with witches and wizards. Like a troll sitting on his chest. Maybe they still don’t trust him, don’t trust that he is who he says he is, not just another trick. Oh God he can’t breathe. Is he who he thinks he is? Is he really free? How does he know he’s not still locked up in that place, not still a prisoner to his own damn face? And why the hell can he not breathe ?

Panic chokes him, gripping his chest, spurring on his thundering heart. That can’t be all a lie, it can’t. He is awake, he knows he is, can’t be in this much pain if you’re dreaming. But the doubt is there, niggling, churning, crushing; trailing its icy burn down his spine, through his insides. His heart is leaden, his lungs ice. A knot in his chest so tight he can barely think. He can’t remember how to breathe, his lungs clumsy and uncooperative. His head swims, consciousness fading.  He might die here in this dingy flat, alone but not alone.

He grips his hair so hard it hurts, muscles cramped and fingers straining. Tugs until the white hot pain is the only thing that burns through his senses. Grounding, centring. Slowly, slowly, the panic ebbs away, receding back into the well of his mind, gone but never gone. Leaves in its wake a jittery restlessness, though the tiredness is an ache down to his soul. He is worn out, done in. He cannot go on like this.

But there are footsteps on the floorboards, the low creak of his bedroom door. Credence emerges, all timid footsteps and apologetic shoulders. Graves steadies his breathing, wraps hands around his book to disguise the trembling of his fingers.

“Hello Credence” he croaks, throat drier than he expected.

“Good morning Mr Graves” he all but whispers back.

It makes Graves want to find the people who hurt him and make them hurt for what they have done. Taken a pleasant young man and filled him with so much grief and pain and trauma that he stands little more than a shell of what he could have been.  But he is young, there is still time for him too start again, to bury the bad and fill his life with something new, something like happiness.

He fidgets in the doorway, tugging uncomfortably at the remains of an ill-fitting suit. It hits Graves in the solar plexus. He knows that feeling, the discomfort that crawled over his skin when all he had were the borrowed clothes he’d gone home in. He spares a thought for the no doubt ludicrously expensive suits sat mouldering in a house he can barely acknowledge, the sharp rotten smell of dark magic clinging to the stiff fabric.  Reminders of a life he’s better off not remembering. Credence, he supposes, has nothing but the rags he wears, and they look to have been on their last legs a good few years ago. As much as leaving the apartment block pains him- and really, what once respectable wizard doesn’t become somewhat agoraphobic in their disgrace, it’s almost something of a tradition- he thinks perhaps a shopping trip might be their first port of call. The ability to clothe himself as he saw fit- not the spectre of Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement , but the broken pieces of the person he had since become- had settled him in some deep, emotional way that nothing else could. The foundations with which to build the person he will become.  

Credence isn’t like him, of that much he is certain. There is a thoughtfulness inherent to the boy, a goodness that leaves Graves stunned at its depth. He had never once, in the time that Graves had been hauling his aching body to and from the basement, been condescending to him. Not even when he fell did the boy try and lend unwanted aide. Part of his reaction is almost certainly based on fear, yes, but even knowing he means no harm, his business has not been encroached upon. So no, Credence and he are fundamentally different. This he knows- in as much as he knows anything about himself these days- but it is not the greatest leap of imagination to think the boy may benefit just as much from a chance to properly dress himself.

“Is there anything you would like for breakfast?” Graves asks on a groan, as he pushes himself slowly, achingly to his feet.

“Oh I can-”

“Credence” he cuts him off, gentle like a baby bird, “I've been cooking for you for weeks.”

“I'm sorry Mr Graves, thank you yes please.” There is a hint of something hidden in his eyes, not just embarrassment or fear, something close to mirth.

“No problem, I'm pretty sure I still remember how to make a decent omelette.” Graves mutters half to himself as he starts his slow meander toward the stove.

Credence laughs, a small, breathless thing; paper thin and oh so fragile. It's a beautiful sound, something the deadened void of his flat has been lacking.

Food preparation is slow, like a muscle kept too long unused, it has taken time relearn how exactly to fend for himself. After a childhood waited on by his parents’ house-elves, and an adolescence catered for at private schools, it was only- if he remembers correctly, and he doubts he does- during early adulthood that he learned how to look after himself. Somewhere between working himself to the bone rising through the ranks from junior Auror to senior, and the work dinners at restaurants in a time he scarcely remembers, he taught himself the one skill few wizards bother with. After all, why cook by hand when magic exists?

Credence is there with him, handing him what he needs with barely a word uttered between them, an almost comfortable silence settling into the space. When it is time to eat, they do so together, at the little wooden table Graves had neglected to use in all his time haunting the flat.

He waves the boy away as he tries to clear the plates, with a soft “Go get cleaned up”, pausing a moment to bundle him up with spare clothing- doubtless too big, but enough for now- and point him toward the bathroom.  

Credence hesitates for a second, gives a shallow nod and disappears behind the perpetually damp wooden door, clothes clutched tight to his chest.

A knock at the door startles him so badly he almost drops the plate he was drying. The hobble to the front door seems to take twice as long as it should, the shuffle-clunk of his steps advertising his presence as humiliation boils in his gut.

Aideen is on the doorstep, the bright flowers on her dress matching the glow to her cheeks as she smiles like she is genuinely glad to see him. She is strangely absent of children, and it makes her seem smaller somehow.

“We’re having a little bit of a celebration tonight, Mr Graves, and we’d like you to join us.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear as she talks, and Graves feels an almost unbearable fondness for her fill his chest.

“That’s very kind of you” he says, forcing his lips into something as close to a real smile as he can muster, “but-”

“No buts, Mr Graves” she interrupts with a beaming grin as bright and true as a summer’s day, “this is a family dinner, and you are family”

“Thank you Aideen, but really, I have a” he hesitates for barely a beat, but still it feels too long, “friend visiting”

“Well bring them along too, you know you’re always welcome at our door and so is anyone you want to bring”

“We’ll have to talk it over but thank you Aideen, we’ll be there.” In truth he doesn’t know whether they’ll go, whether the energy will be there for him to scrape together, but the blinding smile his acquiescence brings is worth the lie.

“That’s all I wanted to hear Mr Graves, now you take care of yourself and we’ll be seeing you at six o’clock.” And with that, she turns in a twirl of skirts, and takes off down the stairs, curls dancing with her every movement.

He doesn’t shut the door until she has disappeared from sight, clinging to the brightness of her presence. They already feel like family in the most dangerous of ways, he shouldn’t force his presence upon them any more than he already has. And yet.

Credence appears behind him, bare footfalls soft against rough wooden floors, damp hair just starting to curl behind his ears. He looks agonisingly young like this, swimming in clothes entirely too big for him- though the trousers end just shy of his ankles. He has failed to gain weight, despite Aideen’s best efforts, but there is no way to lose the natural broadness of his shoulders, a cut too wide for Credence’s slight frame.

With something close to a smile, Graves excuses himself to get washed up, mind freshly made up. Today he would treat Credence to a new wardrobe all of his own, something he chose, not foisted upon him for whatever reason. Besides, seeing the boy drowning in something of his makes something all too close to tenderness throb in his chest. That way nothing good lay.

*

Credence has never been shopping for new clothes, not once in his life. Ma said there were more important things to be spending their money on, and she was right. He had grown through far too many clothes as a boy, growing and growing and growing like a weed. His sisters could share dresses, but not he. He had to be found something new every time his trousers crept too far up his leg, or his jackets became so tight in the shoulder he could barely move is arms. His ma would appear with a new scowl to accompany his new suit and that would be that.

Mr Graves wants to buy him a new wardrobe. Mr Graves who has been nothing but kind to him, who kept him fed in the darkness and led him to safety in the light. Mr Graves whose soul cries when he thinks no one is watching. Who has such sadness in his eyes, the weight of it must be crushing him. Lonely, hurt Mr Graves, who makes him feel safe.

There’s a part of his mind that still recoils in fear, so scared of being hurt again. His heart though? His heart recognises that same fear reflected back at him in the worn creases of Mr Graves’ face.

The shop they visit is much grander than anything Credence could have imagined. It’s almost too much at first, the sheer size, not to mention all the people- staring at him he’s sure. They must know he doesn’t belong here, he’s a dreadful, sinful child playing at being something he’s not. But Mr Graves gives him one of those looks, the ones that feel like he’s smiling even if his face doesn’t quite remember how.

He’s prodded and moved and asked questions he doesn’t know how to answer. Shown fabrics he could never hope to afford and grilled about suit cuts and styles. Mr Graves sits nearby in a comfortable chair, stretching his bad leg out in front of him with a well-disguised wince. He helps him where he can, explains that he’s a friend’s son from out of town and he’s never been to a tailors before. Lies that he lost his luggage somewhere on the way over and that is why he has had to borrow clothes that are not his. They come away from the experience with an order which costs more than Credence can bare to think of. He can never hope to pay it back, not that much money. But Mr Graves seems unruffled by the whole thing, or at least, he doesn’t seem to have minded the money. It’s being out in public, surrounded by all the strangers who whisper and gawk and stop to watch as they walk by, that’s what makes his knuckles whiten on the crutch he leans heavy on.

They go to another store, this one bigger than the last, filled with racks and racks and racks of things, rails of clothes and shelves filled with more colours than he can believe. Everything here is already made, no one tries to touch him for which he is beyond grateful. He doesn’t like it, the branding of another person’s touch, like a badge of ownership. It makes his blood freeze like ice in his veins, and his skin crawl like he is made of ants.

“This is where I can’t help you, Credence” Mr Graves says as he leads them slowly into another aisle.

Credence flushes as he realises exactly what they are shopping for. He had no idea there even were this many types of undergarments, let alone where to start in choosing his own. Mortification clenches in his gut. He can’t ask Mr Graves for help, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s doing.

He wanders back and forth amongst the clothes when Mr Graves has gone, fingers brushing over the stacks of brightly coloured fabrics. A man approaches him, tall and mean looking, not like Mr Graves with his hard face and kind eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing here, boy?” the man asks, his voice just shy of a threat. He has a meanness dancing on his eyebrows, a hard look like Credence is so very far beneath him. He can feel his body curling into itself, a familiar shame settling its weight on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry” Credence finds himself all but whispering, his body playing a familiar act and he hates it. “There are so many, I don’t-”

“Don’t what, boy? Don’t know where to start your thieving? We’ve had your sort in here before you know” he growls.

Credence knows, can see it clearly, the man wants nothing more than to fist a hand in the back of his jacket and pull him from the store. But Mr Graves is here somewhere and he wanted him to pick something, something to buy. He can’t let him down now, he can’t.

In his panic the lie trips off his tongue, and like the wicked boy he is he follows it. “I’m here with my ma’s friend” he explains through the trembling of his fingers. “I travelled here to stay for a while but I lost my luggage and I don’t know what-”

“Credence?” a warmly familiar voice calls, the triple beats of his footsteps abating the growing panic as it has done for weeks now. Shame bursts its warmth in his cheeks. He failed, he was supposed to do just this one thing and he couldn’t.

“Is this boy with you, sir?” the man asks, disbelief heavy in his voice.

Mr Graves bristles, his eyes darkening with something that should scare him.

“Yes” is his curt reply, dismissal clear in his tone. Then softer, “Is everything okay Credence? Did you find what you need?”

“I’m sorry Mr Graves, there are so many I didn’t-” his fingers ache from how hard he wrings his hands, shoulders hunching low again . He can’t stand himself sometimes.

“It’s okay” Mr Graves says, soft and reassuring.

He hands Credence the suit he was holding- another suit? Surely not for him- and takes over, sending an icy glare toward the sales clerk. Credence feels bad for him, he didn’t know any better, and he isn’t exactly dressed like anything but the homeless street urchin he has become. The sadness still swirls in his gut, churning with the cloying guilt for what he did. His family are dead because of him. He should be able to cry for them, but the tears are all dried up, lost in the nowhere place which taught him so much more than he could ever know.

His arms are weary by the time Mr Graves stops loading him up with things, narrating as he goes in a low tone that laps gently over his ears without ever entering. He doesn’t dare pay attention to the cost as they pay at last, just scoops up the bags, gratitude and shame warring inside of him. He will never be able to pay back the kindnesses. It weighs heavy on his soul, after everything Mr Graves is doing for him- everything he has done- there is nothing he can do in return, not like this. He knows now, knows he’s real, he’s human and he’s worth something. How can he ever hope to pay back something like that?

*

Credence is quiet as they walk home, purchases clutched to his chest like a shield against the world. His worry sits at the back of his mind, relegated by the itch of an ache in his leg, nothing he can’t handle yet, but it could go either way. It must have been overwhelming for the boy, he found it daunting enough even with- or perhaps because of- the echoes of memories spent in far more formidable company. He handled himself well enough though, better than he had when the tailor had first laid hands on him, the clinical touch coating the back of his throat in bile.

It takes what seems like an age to get back, longer than the mornings walk. Raphael is outside their building, talking urgently to a woman Graves has never seen before- not surprising considering how reclusive he has become. In truth, without Aideen he would probably not have spoken to another living soul in all this time. They’re not quite arguing, Raphael and the woman, their voices are pitched low enough so as not to draw attention, their movements tightly controlled as they gesture back and forth.

As they near, he just about catches the tail end of their argument, “She’s just another little black girl gone missing” she says slowly, as if this is a point she has had to explain a thousand times before, “do you really think the police are gonna care about that?”

Raphael catches his eye then, throwing him a wave just this side of too casual, clearly signalling that they are no longer alone. A cloud of confusion darkens his face briefly at the sight of the boy at his side, clinging hard to their bags, which clears again almost as soon as it appears. She turns as they approach, levelling Graves with a look he is sadly familiar with, the shrewd, omnipotent scan of a newspaper reporter- or something of the like. She’s certainly dressed the part, a neat business suit hugs her slender frame, tight black curls cropped close to her head enhancing the delicate roundness of her face.

“Good afternoon Mr Graves” Raphael says, uncertainty colouring his tone. His eyes flick to his companion just briefly.

“Good afternoon Raphael, Ma’am” he greets them in turn. He doesn’t want to get himself involved, truly he doesn’t, wants nothing more than to hole up in his flat forever and never have to hold himself this tightly together again. But the way they were talking sounded too serious for him in good conscience to leave alone. Damn his bleeding heart. He can’t have been this soft before, back when he was a whole man, without the cheesecloth mind of a half-mad recluse.

He slips Credence his key and ushers him inside, though in truth he is so tired he wants nothing more than to sit down and never move again. The thought of the long trek up those damn stairs stays him though, as uncomfortable as this may be- mentally and physically- it has to be better than the liquid fire of that long climb.

An awkward silence clouds the air around them for a few beats or more. They reluctant to say any more in his presence, he reluctant to leave.

Eventually, it is Raphael who breaks the silence. “This is a good friend of mine,” he says, hand firmly on the small of her back, grounding and staying all in one. “Letitia García.”

“Pleasure to meet you” Graves replies easily. He won’t do her the injustice of reintroducing himself, he’s not arrogant enough to presume she would care who he is.

“She was just telling me about a friend of hers”

“A friend of my sisters” she cuts in. There’s something refreshingly self-assured about her, she seems unafraid to make her presence known, the kind of person who would not shy away from confrontation. He envies her for that.

“She didn’t come home last night, the family are getting worried.”

“She’s not the kind of girl to stay out late,” Letitia aims a frustrated glare at Raphael, as if to tell him with her eyes that he shouldn’t be blabbering their business to strangers. Graves couldn’t agree more.
“After all,” she continues, “it isn’t exactly safe for girls like us at the best of times, let alone after dark.”

“And there were no witnesses?” Graves asks, as much to his surprise as theirs. The old training is rearing its ugly head, reminding him of a life lost. He doesn’t quite miss it.

“None that’ll come forward” she says, drawing herself up and looking him dead in the eye. Though reasonably shorter than him, she stands tall and proud, a woman who will not be crossed. He admires her more than a little.

“I’m going to be keeping my eye out for any sign of her, I swear it”

“Thank you Raphael,” she rocks up onto her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss against his cheek. “Good afternoon Mr Graves.” She holds out a hand, wrong for tradition, right for him. Her handshake is firm, delicate fingers strong in his grasp. With a smile for her friend, and a nod for him, she whirls around and walks away, not once turning back.   

Raphael turns to him then, a shrewd look in his soft, brown eye. For a second he panics about Credence, he doesn’t honestly know how to answer for his presence. But he is safe, and Credence, it seems at least for now, is forgotten. “Mr Graves” he says with a growing grin, “are you with the police?”

He can’t exactly say no, though it wouldn’t exactly be a lie. But he doesn’t want to live with half-truths, and if he can do anything to find this girl, useless as he is, he’ll give it a try.

“I was a senior detective” he settles on, “in a serious crimes division.” It is as close to the truth as he can allow himself to get, as close to the life that still haunts him.

“But not anymore?”

“Medical leave,” he gestures to the crutch, to his delicately trembling leg and all that it entails, “Not got much use for someone like me anymore.” His smile is more of a grimace, sadder than it has any right to be. But as much as he vehemently doesn’t miss it, he can’t help but feel a burning ache where his magic once lived, vibrant and free.

“Well, any help you can give I’m sure she’d appreciate. What with everything that’s been going on lately, she doesn’t want anything to happen to her sister.”

Graves nods in understanding, his eyes catching on the distant figure striding defiantly down the street, seemingly unaware of the people moving out of her way. He wishes he had her confidence. As she rounds the end of the block, he turns once again to Raphael.

“I’ll do anything I can” he says with a nod, and he means it. This self-pitying husk of a man isn’t all he has to be, and with or without magic, if he can help reunite that family, if he can keep another little girl safe, he’ll do everything in his power to help.