I didn't know you needed one
Their short time in London was spent in a rather pleasurable manner. Newt was making some success with Credence and tonight his book had finally been accepted by his publishers. He was in such a good mood, in fact, that even being in his old dismal apartment didn’t dampen his spirits. He returned home that evening with an easy smile and entered to see Credence sitting alone on his bed, wincing in pain.
“Credence,” he rushed toward the boy and sat by his side, close enough that he’d feel Newt’s presence but not so close as to intimidate him, “are you alright?” Credence dragged his dark eyes up in the way he did when he didn’t want to answer a question.
He bit on the inside of his lip and fiddled with his hands a moment before whispering,“it hurts” and resting his head against Newt’s shoulder.
For just a second, Newt stayed very still, trying to process this new interaction between them. Credence rarely accepted Newt’s touch, let alone initiated it.
“What does?” He inquired. When Credence gave no reply, he pulled away to look at him. “Credence. What hurts?”
A moment of dread lingered in Credences eyes. He slowly turned over his hand which he had been cradling in his lap; across his palm was a web of scars in various stages of healing. Credence, who had been baring himself in silence, muttered quietly to himself, “everything,” and closed his eyes.
Scars were no strangers to Newt. He had had more than his fair share of them in his time, but these were different. Some of the oldest ones were covered with twisted skin, almost as if they had been badly healed.
“Who did this?” Newt whispered to the boy, who was trying very hard not to whimper away.
“My Ma…” Credence began, his voice was so weak that Newt hardly heard it. “She thought that…”
“No.” Newt interrupted, “I don’t mean who gave them to you. I mean who healed them?”
“... Mr Graves.” Credence could barely formed the name without wincing, “in return for my help he healed them.”
“Come with me,” Newt ordered, refusing to give any more time to the thought of that man.
Credence followed without argument, his dark eyes retreating to gaze at the floor. Once in the case, Newt acted quickly, his scarred hands fiddled with bottles and plants on the crooked shelves. His expression through this was one that Credence had never seen him wear, but one he knew far better than most could. Newt was angry. It made Credence burn - he hated to think he’d forced such anger on this man, to think he was a shadow that had so corrupted the light.
“Here,” Newt said quietly, locating a bottle of whatever he was looking for and some bandages, “now give me your hand.”
He moved back to stand in front of Credence and extended his own. Credence didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, though they flickered a little when Newt spoke.
“Your hand, Credence.” he noticed Credence glance at him a little from the corner of his eye and gave him a gentle smile in return, “it won’t hurt.” A few more minutes and Credence’s hands were safely wrapped and his even his spirits a little lifted. He’d watched Newt work with his usual fascination. True to his fashion, Newt never stopped talking as he worked.
“You see, you won't heal things just by using a spell. Any decent herbologist knows that nature is the only real magic involved in healing. What Graves...” (at this he stopped because Credence visibly recoiled) “what… happened here is; the spell simply pushed the scars and the pain away for a while- allowing you to ignore them, but not healing them at all. What these really need is time… and a little bit of love.”
By the time evening fell, Credence was already showing great signs of improvement. He was even tempted to take Newt up on his offer to teach him to play wizards chess; Newt swore that Dougal and Pickett were a good enough opponents but the team up on their part did seem a little unfair. As it turned out, the inequality of the teams didn’t make much difference, Newt had beaten them both in less than ten moves. Apparently he was adept at many things- even if he didn’t look it. Credence took full advantage of Newt not having to rush off to the ministry by watching him all night, and letting his fingers linger on Newt’s a little too long when he was passed his evening cup of tea.
When Pickett had finally agreed to go to bed, and the two of them were left alone, he once again rested his head on Newts shoulder (this time Newt didn’t move an inch). He spoke quietly, but not like he was afraid this time, the kind of quiet that implied he knew only one person ever needed to hear him.
“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” he smiled at the man who had been his saviour more times than he could count.
“I didn’t know you needed one.” Newt grinned back.