Fantastic beasts fan fiction. The Witches Won't Escape - fanfiction for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them)

Newt took another step - the last one - down the stairs and froze, unable to go further. He froze, clenched and unclenched his fists, and grabbed the cold wall of rough stone. Some measly inches separated him from his goal. He must overcome them.
“Hello, Theseus,” the voice sounded hoarse, the tongue was dry, and against his will, his gaze darted to the side, looking for something to cling to. But there was only stone and torches around, whose flame left neither smoke nor soot.
- Newt? - Theseus frowned and rose to his feet, coming closer. Newt finally forced himself to look at his brother and swallow. Merlin... how he lost weight. Or it was the fault of the fire, which cast sharp shadows on the pale face and reflected in the blue eyes with flashes. - Why did you come?
“I...” Newt was always bad at explanations. A painful feeling coiled itself in my chest like a tight spring in a clock mechanism. The tension is about to become completely unbearable, and it will break. Or it will straighten up, piercing the chest.
-Who even let you in here? - Theseus asked irritably, looking over his shoulder. But Newt is down here alone. And no one will come for a long time.
- I... - my ears turned red. There is no use in lying to your brother. Theseus always sought the truth, no matter how Newt played around. But now lying is completely useless and will not solve anything. - I gave a bribe.
“That’s how it is,” Theseus grinned sadly. -Have you come to reprimand me?
- No! - Newt jerked forward impulsively, holding out his hand. But as soon as my fingertips touched the bars of the bars, a painful electric discharge passed through my body. He groaned and pulled his hand away, biting his lip. - No…
- Do you want to know the details? - Theseus asked. He looked at Newt coldly and distantly, as if through him, and the spring inside rang from this look. Newt remembered what else that look could be. How warm and caring he was just recently.
“No,” Newt shook his head, lowering his eyes to the floor and shivering from the phantom cold. The dungeon was much warmer than the courtrooms two levels above. - I read…
He read all twelve volumes, and, of course, he also had to pay for that. He flipped through page after page, reading the dates, looking at the familiar face from childhood on the collographs, and couldn’t believe it. But one thick folder fell on another, the discordant light of the candles hurt my eyes, and my temples hurt from reading small text for a long time. Dawn was approaching, and it was impossible not to believe the evidence laid out on paper. There was only no testimony from the accused. But, obviously, the Wizengamot decided to do without them.
“Then you know everything perfectly well,” Theseus spoke calmly, as if talking about something ordinary, like dinner. As if he was not dressed in the black robe of someone sentenced to death. - I'm a traitor.
“Not everything,” Newt wanted to touch more than anything. At least for a moment to touch and feel that there is still warmth in his brother, there is life. Keep this memory within yourself, hide it in your very heart, like a niffler hides the most precious of treasures. - Why did you do this? Joined Grindelwald.
Theseus remained silent.
- How were you caught? - Newt continued to ask questions. He asked about some other little thing until he fell silent, feeling like another Auror under interrogation. Theseus has already survived dozens of them, and then there’s Newt...
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Theseus finally said, looking into the void. - And I did. Nothing else matters. Tomorrow it won't matter anymore.
Newt winced. My throat was sore, my eyes were stinging, my legs felt heavy. A clock hung behind his back. Concentrating, he could hear their quiet, measured steps. Time moved inexorably forward, and even if Newt had stolen all the flywheels from the Department of Mysteries and performed a mythical forbidden ritual over the sand, it would not have made the world stop for a second.
“You’d better leave,” Theseus said dryly, sitting down on the cot screwed to the wall.
“Not now,” Newt sank to the stone floor and pulled out a folding coat from under the skirt of his long gray coat. chessboard. - Shall we play? Like before.
- Morgana... Newton! - Something broke in Theseus’s voice, as if he had a tight spring inside that was about to break. But he quickly pulled himself together. - Why can’t you just leave?! They're probably waiting for you.
- No, they are not waiting. “And I won’t go anywhere until they force me out,” Newt blurted out in one breath, torn in half by anger and bitterness.
Theseus looked for a long time. Without blinking, as if testing for strength. Indifferent and cold, like an antique statue. And Newt answered with a challenge. He didn’t look away, without hiding his intentions.
- As you wish.
Theseus knelt in front of the bars, getting as close as he could without risking electrocution. Newt laid out the board, arranged the pieces, looking around with interest and not wanting to stand in their positions until they started hissing at them. Turned white towards Theseus.
- You're the first.
In their youth, when they learned to play from a worn book borrowed from the library, and then, as adults, Theseus did not give preference to either white or black, but Newt preferred to go second and attack. He thought then - this is the right tactic, he will be able to calculate moves in advance, analyze the situation. Only every time a mistake leading to defeat crept in somewhere.
“Pawn on e4,” Theseus ordered, and the white piece obediently took two steps forward.
- Pawn on e5.
“There are no perfect moves,” Theseus said as they sat at the game. The war was over, but Theseus smoked cigarette after cigarette. Newt hoped that his brother would quit in a couple of months, but he only began to smoke less. - You can understand where you made a mistake in the opening and calm down, decide that you won’t allow it again. But in reality, errors accumulate at every stage.”
Theseus preferred to play on defense.
- Pawn on f4.
Newt's next move was to take it. The white piece, struck by a powerful blow, collapsed, and the black one pulled it off the board. Not a single muscle moved on Theseus's face as he sent the bishop to c4.
After the war, when they sat down with Theseus to play a game, it became heavier in their souls when, one after another, the white pieces fell from the board, but they could not snatch victory from Theseus’s hands. Seeing how the enemy’s forces were melting away, anticipating triumph, Newt lost concentration and the satisfied “checkmate” became a surprise.
“There is no place for chance in chess, these are not cards,” Theseus grinned, twirling the white queen in his hands, which once again brought him a brilliant victory.
“Don’t be proud, Theseus,” Lita warned, laughing and ordering the house elf to serve lemonade. She liked to watch the game, sitting on the sofa and resting her head on her fist. Rarely did the party get by without her presence.
“Why didn’t you defend yourself at the trial, Theseus? Why?" - the questions that were spinning in his head stung, but Newt could not ask them out loud.
He caught Theseus’s concentrated gaze and looked at the deep wrinkle on his forehead. And I was waiting for some signal, a sign to be ready...
- Checkmate.
Newt blinked slowly. White pieces lay in a pile on the side of the board. Theseus sacrificed the queen, but allowed the bishop to make the winning move.
- You always have some kind of plan, right? - Newt asked, smiling bitterly, putting away the chess. He turned the queen over and over in his hand for a long time before putting her away in the box. My hands were shaking, and my heart was beating loudly and quickly in my chest, like a king’s. Theseus remained calm. As always.
The damned clock measured time. The ticking alarm sounded in my head. Newt wanted to get up or say something else to interrupt this sound, or even sing the Hogwarts anthem, but an unknown force pinned his knees to the floor, pressing firmly on his shoulders.
Theseus didn’t answer, he just turned away slightly, staring at the wall. The corner of his lips twitched, and he whispered something inaudibly.
“Newt,” he called, suddenly thrusting his hand between the bars. The fingers, rough at the tips, lay on the cheek and stroked it gently. - Everything will be fine, remember. No one will judge you.
- For what? - Newt asked, struggling to breathe. With his palm he pressed his brother's palm - terribly cold, simply icy - to his cheek, sharing the warmth. - For what? - he repeated with emphasis.
But Theseus broke the touch, closing his eyes and exhaling through his teeth. Newt noticed the burn around his pale wrist turning red.
- Theseus?
There were hurried footsteps on the stairs and Newt jumped to his feet, hiding the board under his coat.
“It’s time, Mr. Scamander,” a bribed guard appeared in the doorway. He studiously did not look at the prisoner and, apparently, was ready to push out the illegal visitor by the collar.
“Go already,” Theseus said calmly, sitting down on the bed. - It's time.
Newt closed his eyes and bit his lip almost until it bled.

“My good, affectionate one,” Newt smiled warmly at the bay hippogriff, stroking his beak. - I'm near. You feel calmer with me, right?
The bay clattered its beak, but did not stop restlessly moving its hind legs. A nightingale mare approached from the right and lightly butted Newt on the shoulder, demanding attention.
- And don't worry, girl.
Newt looked over his shoulder at the house and the forest, over the very edge of which the dawn was breaking, coloring the treetops in yellow and red tones. Usually at this hour the lights were already on in the windows, and the appetizing smell of porridge, apple jam and strong black tea was spreading through the kitchen. But not today, just like not yesterday, the day before yesterday and, it seems, an infinite number of days before.
“Easy, friend,” Newt politely asked the bay. Unlike the nightingale and other tamed hippogriffs, he retained in its entirety the proud and tough character of his wild ancestors.
Newt rested his forehead against the bay's, cupping the feathers in his palms. A picture appeared vividly in my head: the stone-calm Theseus, who would not lift a finger when one of his former colleagues took the black cloak off his shoulders.
Newt unclenched his fingers, afraid to hurt the bay and get a well-deserved pinch with his beak. He just repeated, barely moving his lips and closing his eyes: “Nothing, nothing...”
… will not be. Who will look after the house later? It's a good thing he sent Tina and the kids to the States when this all started. Surely they will return when they find out...
Newt looked up at the dawn and the house casting a wide, long shadow covering the garden and stall for the thinning herd. You can take the hippogriffs with you; there is plenty of space in the suitcase. Theseus is unlikely to be against...
Theseus will show up. And if not, Newt will find him anyway...
The sun rose, drying the dew on the field turning yellow towards autumn, reflecting like a rainbow from the windows of the old family house. How strange it is that Theseus abandoned him, handing everything over to his younger brother...
Theseus also did not like apple jam, but loved plum jam, very sweet, so much so that no one except him was able to eat it. Even the sweet tooth Newt, who put almost half a bowl of sugar in his cocoa...
Lita could also eat plum jam with pleasure...
The watch in his breast pocket chimed softly as the minute hand made a full revolution. Newt winced.
The house will probably be searched, and Newt will be interrogated. But what will he tell them? He will only complain that he could have saved the game on the twentieth move. Theseus always had a plan, he knew his mistakes and never repeated them. It won't happen again now.
The White Queen, dangling her legs, watched the hippogriffs from the shelf on which Newt sat her. In the entire set, she was the most silent, and rarely indicated to the player how to dispose of her.
Newt felt an alarming signal from protective spells, and then saw someone appear out of thin air almost at the gate.
His trembling legs hurriedly carried him across the lawn to the gate, behind which someone was waiting. It couldn’t be Theseus; he didn’t need permission from the owner of the estate.
Newt felt the handle of his wand and squeezed it, unlocking the bolt and peering into the face of a man in a uniform ministerial robe, every moment expecting the appearance of a squad of Aurors.
- Mr. Scamander?
- Yes?
"Theseus..."
- You are allowed to take the body for burial.

Hello people 🖐

Olympia is speaking to you

Fantastic Beasts, another creation by JK Rowling

And I thought that many people would be interested in this

Keep in mind!

These are just theories. We don't know what Ro's mom has prepared this time.

The film "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" expanded the Harry Potter universe with new plots and meanings. This world was expanded with new characters, places, creatures and, finally, the colorful character Gellert Grindelwald.

The long-awaited sequel, Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald promises a balanced mix of new and old. Casting Jude Law as the young Albus Dumbledore shows viewers that the sequel will focus on developing the conflict between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

The main characters from the first film will continue to play an important role. Newt Scamander, Tina and Queenie Goldstein, Jacob Kowalski and Credence Barebone will once again be at the center of the story. Newt's suitcase filled with magical creatures will also be part of the picture, likely with new animals. The film will feature new characters such as Leta Lestrange and Newt's brother Theseus Scamander.

As more information about the film comes in, more rumors about the next innovative chapter begin to emerge. Magic World Joanne Rowling. Many rumors revolve around Dumbledore and Grindelwald, although there are also many stories about heroes like Newt and Leta Lestrange.

Here are 8 rumors we hope come true (and 7 we think don't) about Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Was Ariana Dumbledore an Obscurus?

The Pinhole theory was one of the most fascinating stories presented in the movie Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Obscuri are young witches and wizards who develop dark magical powers as a result of their magic being suppressed.

Grindelwald's search for the causes of obscurantism was key point in the film, given that he was investigating whether Credence Barebone was an Obscurus. This concept made fans wonder if Ariana Dumbledore was an obscurus. This would explain her condition and the explosive bouts of magic that were suppressed, leading to the murder of her mother Kendra Dumbledore.

This theory could also explain what really happened to Albus and Grindelwald the night Ariana died. The powers that Grindelwald saw and wanted from Credence could be rooted in his experience with Ariana. The film's focus on the conflict between Albus and Grindelwald seems to perfect moment to officially confirm this theory.

Will there be less Fantastic Beasts in the film?!

The focus on the conflict between Dumbledore and Grindelwald has sparked speculation that the film will feature far fewer fantastic beasts. The nifflers and evil swoopers may have been introduced to set up the plot, but now they can be let go.

It's preferable that this not happen, as Newt's animals played a vital role in the unique world of the first film. The characters and dynamics of Newt, Jacob, Tina and Queenie revolve around these creatures. These elements shouldn't be sacrificed, as this is still a sequel to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, not just a prequel about Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

The new film could definitely find a way to balance the existence of magical creatures with Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

DRAGONS?!?!?!

If magical creatures continue to play an important role, new characters are likely to appear in the film. In particular, there are rumors that dragons will appear in the future. Fire-breathing monsters are not only iconic creatures from the world of Harry Potter, but also part of Newt's job at the Bureau of Research to contain dragons.

If his research becomes part of Newt's famous book, it is likely that he will meet dragons in the near future. How epic it would be for Newt and other characters to fly on dragons when confronting Grindelwald!

Even without Grindelwald, it would have been great to see Newt and his friends helping the dragons, and that would have been enough. If dragons do appear, it will be interesting to see whether they will be a familiar breed, such as the Hungarian Horntail or Swedish Shortnaut, or whether they will be a completely new breed of dragon.

Obsession with Lethe?!

Dragons may take a backseat to Newt if Leta Lestrange plays a significant role in the new film. In the first film, Leta was only seen in a photograph, and it was said as if she was Newt's longtime friend. Now fans know that she is engaged to Newt's brother, Theseus Scamander.

This led to rumors that Newt and Leta never had any relationship and that he was only obsessed with Leta and fantasized about her from afar. Since then they have been compared to Snape and his unrequited love for Lily Potter.

It is suggested that in this sense, Newt's obsession with Lethe could make him Snape in this film. For a time, Snape and Lily were friends. Newt with unhealthy feelings for Lethe will seem like a creepy character at this early point in the story. Newt's quirks are charming, but they'll be less charming if it all revolves around Lethe.

Leta will become a strong ally of Grindelwald?!

As a member of a family that will eventually include Bellatrix Lestrange, Leta has a lot of work to do. She shouldn't just exist to act as the object of jealousy in a love triangle with the Scamander brothers. Like Bellatrix, Leta must be strong in the Dark Arts.

Lethe could even form the kind of art that Bellatrix would one day inherit - becoming a powerful supporter of a dark wizard. Major villains have ruthless followers, and for Voldemort, that's Bellatrix. It would be a fascinating parallel and legacy-building for Bellatrix to have Leta become a powerful supporter of Grindelwald, acting as his right-hand man.

If this happens, it will be interesting to see how it will affect Newt, given his history with Lethe, and how Theseus will react to this conflict.

The birth of Nagini?!

The Lestrange family isn't the only possible connection to Voldemort's future. Rumors also suggest that new character Maledictus, played by Claudia Kim, will become Nagini. Her character carries a bloody curse that turns her into a beast.

She is also rumored to be a circus performer. One of her numbers is called "Charming Snake Girl", which has led some fans to speculate that this is a reference to Maledictus. Her curse and performance in the circus will turn her not only into a snake, but also into Nagini, the snake that Voldemort makes his Horcrux.

Nagini doesn't need an origin story. Voldemort seems to be connected to Nagini more than any other living being. This works well because it shows that Voldemort is truly the soulless heir of Slytherin because he cannot communicate properly with another person - only with a snake.

If Nagini was once human, this would conflict with his decision to make her a Horcrux.

Godric's Hollow and memories of Hogwarts?!

Even if Claudia Kim's character doesn't become Nagini, there's plenty of potential for other major connections to the original Harry Potter films. These may include memories of major locations such as Hogwarts and Godric's Hollow. The new film will feature younger versions of Albus Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Newt and Leta Lestrange.

The younger versions of Dumbledore and Grindelwald bring back memories of Godric's Hollow and their friendship that ended with Ariana's death. This could be the perfect way to confirm the Ariana Obscura theory.

Henry Potter and the Invisibility Cloak?!

Godric's Hollow may also appear in the new film. Harry's great-grandfather, Henry Potter, may have lived in Godric's Hollow and possessed the Invisibility Cloak. Grindelwald currently possesses the Elder Wand and has long been obsessed with finding and unifying the Deathly Hallows.

Under the guise of Percival-Graves, he even wore the Deathly Hallows symbol around his neck in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Grindelwald's obsession with finding the Deathly Hallows led him back to Godric's Hollow to claim the Invisibility Cloak. However, for many reasons this seems like a bad thing.

The revelation that the Invisibility Cloak had been given by the Pweverell family to the Potters was truly shocking to Dumbledore. He had no idea that James had the Cloak all these years.

There is also no evidence to suggest that Grindelwald ever possessed any of the Gifts other than the Elder Wand. The Invisibility Cloak shouldn't become the MacGuffin of the movie. The film should continue to expand the magical world and not make it revolve around the world of Harry Potter. After all, they are several generations away from the events of the new film to be at the center of the magical world.

Nurmengard will appear in the new film?!

Instead of the Invisibility Cloak, Grindelwald's story could revolve around Nurmengard. Grindelwald's fortress later became a prison where he would spend the rest of his life. This film is meant to demonstrate how Grindelwald used Nurmengard at the height of his power. The crimes he commits in the fortress may justify the life imprisonment he faces later.

Every great villain has his lair, and for Grindelwald it's Nurmengard. It could also serve as the location for the final showdown between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

Flashbacks to Hogwarts also seem likely, with younger versions of Newt and Leta giving insight into the true nature of their relationship and what led to the current state of affairs. Young Newt and Dumbledore will also be seen in flashbacks to Hogwarts and the incident that led to Newt's expulsion.

The final duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald?!

Some fans believe that the final fight, in which Dumbledore defeats Grindelwald in Nurmengard, will appear in this film. This would be problematic for many reasons, the first of which is that it conflicts with the stated deadline.

The events of the film take place in 1927, and their final duel should take place, according to the novel, in 1945. Jude Law has just been cast as Dumbledore in this film. Before the fight between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, many things must happen.

This duel should be the epic culmination of their conflict. The film may have a duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, but not the final one, where Dumbledore defeats his former friend and becomes the master of the Elder Wand.

Is Queenie's loyalty being tested by Grindelwald?!

Grindelwald should be a compelling villain not only for Dumbledore, but also for the main characters in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Queenie may be the character that gets tested the most. Grindelwald proposes a world where wizards and witches do not have to hide from Muggles, but rather control them.

Queenie's relationship with the Muggle Jacob seems to turn Grindelwald off, but he can use it to his advantage. Grindelwald may want to use Queenie's skills and seduce her with the idea that she and Jacob don't have to hide their relationship in the proposed world.

Ultimately, Grindelwald never condones their relationship, but promises to help their relationship survive in his new world may bring Queenie to his side.

The Philosopher's Stone is the key to defeating Grindelwald?!

Dumbledore's longtime friend and Philosopher's Stone creator Nicholas Flamel has been confirmed to appear in the film. This has led many fans to believe that the Philosopher's Stone will play an important role in the film and could even be the key to defeating Grindelwald.

Like the story of the search for the Invisibility Cloak, this could be another way to further confuse the story of the magical objects in the Harry Potter films. If Fantastic Beasts 2 gets too involved with this stone, it will look a lot like Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

It is not yet known how significant Flamel's role will be in the film. Although his invention will be mentioned, it is hoped that Flamel's appearance will be based on his friendship with Dumbledore.

Beauxbatons will appear in the film?!

Since the film will likely take place in Paris, it is possible that the French School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be featured. Newton and the Goldstein sisters often argued which school of magic was better - the British Hogwarts or the American Ilvermorny. Now Beauxbatons enters the arena.

It would be interesting to see what kind of school this is, which appeared long before Fleur Delacour and Madame Maxime created their own school. If necessary, the film's characters can go to Beauxbatons for help. It's possible that Dumbledore could head there since he is likely familiar with the current administration of the school.

This could be a safe haven or simply a place that will provide magical resources to allies in desperate times. In any case, it will be great to see this school.

Dementors will be created thanks to obscuras?!

As with all the main films in the franchise, there are a ton of fan theories surrounding the plot of Fantastic Beasts that there is a connection between Dementors and Obscuri. Fans believe that the first Dementor was born from Obscurus.

Both Dementors and Obscuras are scary, but they are unique. They shouldn't be connected to each other.

The huge difference is that Obscuras require living witches and wizards, while Dementors do not. There is nothing human or living about them. They are simply creatures of pure evil that drain the world of happiness and suck out the souls of people.

Viewers already know that Grindelwald, following the Obscuras and Dementors, can carry out his criminal schemes, but this does not mean that he is connected with them.

Johnny Depp won't play Grindelwald?!?!?!

Ever since reports of Johnny Depp's bad behavior towards Amber Heard surfaced, many fans want Depp to turn down the role of Grindelwald. Depp appeared briefly as Grindelwald in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Fans suggested Farrell play this role instead of Depp. Unfortunately, the studio appears to have double-cast Depp: the title, synopsis, cast list, and Rowling's blessing all point to his involvement. It is unlikely that anyone else will play the role in the upcoming film.

Since justice is a major theme of the Harry Potter films, some viewers will continue to hope that the role of Grindelwald will be given to another actor.

:rewind: :aquarius: :fast_forward:

And these are the theories fans are making in anticipation of a new creation...

Write in the comments how you feel about this theory?

LettLex

Notes:

"One mom, two mom
The witches won't escape!
One mom, two mom
The witches will all die!”

Modesty's song gradually began to get on his nerves, but Credence felt that fear was also mixed in with the usual irritation. There was a witch in New York that the boy wanted to catch with his own hands.

Work Text:

"One mom, two mom
The witches won't escape.
One mom, two mom
The witches will all die.
Witch number one..."

Credence paced along the pavement, moving sharply and tightly, like a mechanism with too tight springs. He shook his head on his long neck to the beat and waved his arms, like a marching soldier, humming Modesty’s song with his lips, it turned out to be very affectionate. Ahead, a few meters away from him, was a witch. Credence tried not to lose sight of her gray cloak.

Modesty composed the words to please her mother and under her strict guidance, although it is unlikely that she herself liked the content. She turned out to be a very cunning child and was certainly not as benevolent as her mother would have liked. Oh no, it's Modesty and Credence reading books about witches that their mother burns in the backyard. Credence always gets caught for this: he is too tall and, no matter how he stoops, he cannot hide, and he does not have enough ingenuity for any kind of shelter. Not long ago, in one of the books, he and Modesty found a picture, something from the history of Salem - witches and wizards put in a cage. Unlike other engravings, this one did not depict fire. Just a bunch of people who were stared at by the Salemites as if they were wild and, undoubtedly, dangerous animals. I wonder if her mother kept him and Modesty for the same purpose? Show it to the rest of the “second Salemians” as hunting trophies?

Credence didn't want to think about it. Such a thought was too bold, and the entire reserve of his courage was already actively used for each new step along Fifth Avenue following the witch. If his mother finds out, she will probably beat him like never before in his life. After the incident when the witch appeared right on their doorstep, Mary Lou for some time tried not to take it out on her adopted son too much. And yet she did not miss the opportunity to swing at him or shout at him, so that the boy would not completely lose fear of her. One thing was absolutely clear - now Mary Lou hated Credence even more, this magical patronage was like a personal insult to her. She could have kicked the boy out into the street and, God knows, it would have been even better for Credence. This is probably why the woman increasingly insistently tied her adopted son to their “home,” a rickety abandoned church on Thirteenth Street.

Credence often wondered what he would do if Mary Lou threw him out onto the street. Wandering around the gates, making ends meet, receiving alms and eating what he could - all this was not at all different from how he had lived until then. He could also get a job. I would clean a cafe or shine shoes, maybe even get a job in a factory.

No! Credence shook his head. Such thoughts were too vivid, too unrealizable. They gave wings. The boy knew from his own experience how fragile these wings are - they shatter into fragments after the first blow with a belt. And the pain that comes when they break is impossible to get used to. Therefore, Credence destroyed them in the bud, eradicated them from himself before Mary Lou got to them. It's not enough to just have Wings. You need to be able to fly. And the first swing nailed Credence to the ground, a few years ago.

At thirteen, Credence ran away for the first time. He made a living as best he could, went to eateries and shops, begging for work. In a candy store he was sheltered by the nice red-haired Irishman Marty. Credence helped him carry boxes and put candy in display cases. And on the second day free life he was surrounded by a crowd of children fed by Mary Lou, and Credence did not resist. There were more of them and they devotedly served the “mother”, so he had no chance. But Marty’s look when he left with this warlike horde... He didn’t seem to judge, but the boy still felt guilty. Sometimes he visited his store, and the Irishman always asked with unfailing friendliness how he was doing and whether he was going to help him again. Marty must have cared about him as much as he could have helped. He couldn’t take the boy with him, and why should he? He only hoped that Credence could live to reach adulthood and retain the strength to escape from Mary Lou. The boy felt this hope and realized with bitterness that he might not live up to his friend’s hopes.

In general, there were few things in Credence's world that made his life at least somewhat bearable.

Walks came first, when he didn’t have to hand out leaflets or look for places to hold meetings. Then he could easily walk to Central Park and hide for hours in the thickets of bushes from sunlight, from people and from his own thoughts, which still haunted him. He liked to walk around New York and not think about anything. He felt like a lens passing the city through him, increasing or decreasing its details. He disappeared into its noise.

Then there was Mr. Graves, strong and magical. The messenger of the world that attracted Credence. The boy knew he belonged to something bigger, and then along came Graves, alive to that confirmation. Although, it was worth admitting that Credence was afraid of him too. Not like Mary Lou, expecting a slap or a harsh word, the boy was afraid of disappointing him. He wanted to be needed, perhaps even irreplaceable. Like now, when Graves turned only to him to find the child. And this was another reason for fear - Credence spent all his free time hunting witches, instead of looking for the child. Well, he could afford it. He could talk about the obscuri at any time, but then Graves would no longer need him. What would he do if he found out the truth? Would he want to lock Credence in a cage? The boy shuddered. He didn't want to think badly of Mr. Graves.

The latest pleasant thing was Credence's recent hobby, which he privately called a "witch hunt." The second Salem did not manage to catch a single witch, but the witches clearly did not take their eyes off them. Credence saw her at every rally, she followed Second Salem like a shadow, and clearly laughed at him. And Credence laughed too, in his heart. The thought of finding this witch glimmered in him from the first day, as soon as he felt witchcraft in her. The obscurus marked this like a compass. After the witch protected him, the boy became stronger in his desire and, armed with all his courage, he began to follow her.

He followed the witch's tail, but constantly lost sight of her when the witch disappeared with a loud bang in one of the gateways. The longest he could have pursued her was to Fifth Avenue, but this time the witch was clearly in no hurry to disappear. Credence was encouraged by this. He kept a few steps away, but still did not dare to approach her. For what? He had nothing to say. Is it just a “thank you”? But was it worth the time he spent tracking her down?

Credence was so lost in thought that he did not see how the witch disappeared from sight, and the boy himself found himself on a wide Avenue, and an impressively sized car was driving straight towards him. A strangled scream was heard somewhere nearby, brakes squealed, and the collar of his shirt cut painfully into his throat when someone pulled Credence by the collar. The young man tried to pull his head into his shoulders and curl into a ball to hide from the angry glances of passers-by.

Boy! Are you crazy? - a mustachioed man in a leather apron pounced on him.

Everything is fine? - The driver leaned out of the window.

“Y-yes,” Credence nodded, trying to fall underground right now. If only these people didn't look at him so evilly.

Leave the boy alone,” the hand released his collar and gently lay on his shoulder, stroking him. And the pleasant female voice continued: “Excuse me, Mister, the boy was lost in thought.”

Yes, the weather is such that it’s not a sin to dream. Just be careful,” he said and, smiling at Credence, left.

Tina, is this your boy? - the man in the leather apron asked gloomily. Credence turned around carefully and stared in amazement at the short-haired girl in a gray coat.

Mr. Hernandez,” she nodded, besieging the butcher with one look and a smile. “Everything is fine.” I'll look after him.

Well, well,” he snorted and threatened the boy with his finger.

Tina? - Credence asked carefully and hesitantly touched her warm palm with his fingers.

You cold? - the girl asked, as if everything that was happening was in the order of things and she was waiting for Credence. “Let’s go,” she said and pushed the guy towards the nearest alley.

She walked him silently through several blocks. Sometimes she winked conspiratorially at the boy, pulling him into yet another gateway where decent people would never think of going. Credence followed her and didn't think why or where they were going. The witch probably bewitched him, but there was so much goodness and simplicity in her, like a drop of sun. And Credence followed limply, reveling in this light, knowing that it was intended for him.

"She's so kind..."

Although, how could he know? Doubt stirred like a snake somewhere between the ribs. What could a witch want from him? And what will he tell her? It also made me feel uncomfortable thinking about how Mr. Graves would react to the fact that Credence has a new magical acquaintance. But the boy decided not to think about this - he wouldn’t say anything to Graves, but would just... chat with Tina? He felt bolder, so much so that it didn't seem right. And Credence enthusiastically took one “wrong” step after another, looking around with even greater admiration - nothing happened. The sky did not open and there was no bloody rain. Only Credence himself felt very good. He smiled timidly at his own thoughts.

Aren't you afraid of me? - Tina asked, catching his gaze. Credence would like to answer her with a smile, just as warm and affectionate, but the expression on Tina’s face seemed to strike him. The boy had already seen sympathy on other people's faces, Mr. Graves often pitied him, but it had never been so... bright. Credence looked down and shook his head.

No...” he whispered quietly.

“Okay,” Tina nodded encouragingly and came closer. - We're almost there.

Where are you taking me?

To my home. There's no one there now - let's have some tea. Queenie must have left me something.

“You didn’t spend the night at home,” Credence said slowly, looking the witch from head to toe. She looked tired and sad, despite all her smiles. His eyes were red, his voice was a little hoarse, and there were stains of ash and whiskey on the sleeves of his coat. Credence carefully picked up Tina's sleeve and showed it to her. -You are not very careful.

The man whom I pulled out from under the wheels told me,” the sorceress answered. She took out a wand and removed all the stains in one fell swoop. - And you are observant. Queenie is at work now, so no one will scold me. Let’s go,” she said and pulled Credence along with her. The guy stubbornly resisted.

What do you want?

“I don’t want to hurt you, Credence,” Tina said softly, but took a couple of steps back just in case. “And I’m not nearly as dangerous as your mother says.” Even more - I want to help you, Credence. I feel very strong magic in you. If you want, I will make a request to the archives, and together we will establish both origin and abilities.

Why do you need this? - said the young man. It sounded too good. Even Mr. Graves didn't agree to do something like that just like that.

Tina extended her hand as if trying to hug her, but Credence didn't notice. He diligently studied the pavement under his feet. He examined every facet of the stone, polished to a shine, and listened intently to how the sorceress was breathing heavily, trying to find the right words.

I know how hard it is to live without parents. And what this woman is doing... I can't bring her to justice, but I can help you. You are a wizard or have magical origins. We will prove this with the help of an examination - and you can start a new life. To forget what happened is like a bad dream,” she took a breath and tiredly rubbed the bridge of her nose. Credence looked at her from under his brows and did not believe. I just didn't believe it. Tina smiled bitterly and said in a completely different, broken voice: “And my whole life is now going down the drain.” And if I can't help someone who is weaker than me, then what am I good for?

Credence was ready to agree, but then his hands and feet seemed to be shackled. She said "expertise". Credence didn't quite know what it was, but something told him that then the other wizards would be able to find the Obscurus. And what will they do with him then? The guy knew that, to put it mildly, no one was happy about his antics, and if the truth came out, he would have no peace anywhere. Credence clenched his fists until it hurt. He bit the inside of his tightly compressed lips, not allowing any sound to escape. Everything he could dream about suddenly moved away from him somewhere to Alaska and beyond, where he would never be able to get “another life” or anything else. “Another life” coexisted with his consciousness, obeyed him, his thin pale fingers, like a magical musical instrument. But judging by the raid staged by Graves, no one will be able to appreciate Credence's talent. What will they do with him? What? What?!

The boy shakes his head and steps back, feeling bitter tears forming in his throat.

Credence? - Tina says almost fearfully. Light and soft, as he did not deserve.

But it's not his fault. And it’s not this witch’s fault. Nobody, it just happened. Credence is dangerous, he himself understands it, and some small fragile part of his soul demands that he give up this hope of life among wizards. Let him be content with a dream flickering in the moonlight.

“You know that everything will fall apart as soon as you touch it. I will protect you."

The words sound like a cold, sharp hiss. It holds Credence by the throat almost affectionately. How tenderly a clawed paw can hold. The boy winces and runs his hand over his face. It torments him, but...

"It's for your own good."

Sorry, Tina,” muttered the young man, turning pale as a sheet. Tina looked at him in surprise. “Thank you.” It’s time for me to go home,” my face was distorted with a grimace of pain. Credence felt dizzy. A little more and blood will flow from the nose.

“At least come in for tea,” the witch said pitifully.

“I have to go,” he repeated powerlessly and immediately rushed to run while he still could. While his legs held him and fear gave him strength. He was afraid again. This time - myself.

In the small church no one noticed him coming. If he wasn't late, then no one was waiting for him. Credence quickly ran up the creaking stairs to the very attic, where a squashed straw mattress lay under the sloping roof. I wonder if wizards have fleas? The roof was leaking in three places; a large piece of tile was torn off right above Credence’s bed, so that now one could freely stick one’s head and shoulder through the hole.

Credence fell noisily onto his bed and curled up into a ball, trying to disappear. A gap somewhere between the worlds, so as not to harm anyone and so that no one could harm him. But the impotent rage could not be quelled, no matter how much the boy wrapped his arms around himself. Familiar waves of dark magic ran through his veins, trying to merge with him, suppress his consciousness and take over. At such moments, Credence closed his eyes and began to pray; someone who could end this nightmare.

And Tina? Could she not be scared?

Suddenly something loudly hit the floor right next to Credence’s head. Obscurus let go of him for a few seconds and, hissing with displeasure, disappeared into his refuge somewhere around the boy’s spine. Credence looked up and saw a checkered napkin next to the mattress. On it stood a white plate with a neat piece of chocolate sponge cake. So huge that it barely fit. There was a note nearby:

"Dear Credence,
I know I might have scared you. Sorry if that's the case. I do not go back on my words, and if you need the help that I am able to provide, you can always find me at 123 25th Street.
Tina"

The boy smiled under the incredulous hiss of the obscura. Let it go. Credence admitted that he believed her. He carefully broke off a piece of biscuit and fell on his back. The sky was visible through the hole in the roof, and the sun's rays fell like warm spots on the boy's face. The sharp blades cut into the mattress like wings.

Craig met him in the presidential office standing, with his back straight, stretched out like a military man. The hand that supported the cane was white with effort. He hid the second one in his pocket, tightly clenched into a fist: after a long-standing injury, the muscles had not recovered. My fingers were hard to control, and the signature on documents was illegible. The scrolls were copied by the court secretary - the stubborn old man refused to use pens.

I think now we shouldn’t see each other more often than the service requires, so that the ubiquitous newspapermen do not suspect a conspiracy,” Percival began, “Henry Shaw from Mercury would have paid for such a story with interest.” And the common people will be delighted.

Craig didn't even blink. After Picquery's ouster, they met only once, at the appointment of Craig as interim president. Both then and now, it was as if a full-length ceremonial portrait of a general stood in front of Percival, and not a living person. A mask of impartiality froze on his wrinkled face.

I didn't know you cared about what the press said. Are you also planning to nominate yourself? - asked Craig.

I’m not going to, although I haven’t made an official statement yet.

And completely in vain,” Craig coughed and continued: “Your father would consider how close you came to this chair a reason for pride.”

Every second person in the Auror spoke about this behind Percival’s back, and every first person thought about how convenient it would be for a magician of his pedigree and position to step forward, take responsibility, declare his participation in the elections, before the story with Bethany had yet faded , Obscura, Grindelwald and the Picquery reveal. Percival replied:

Perhaps, but I have no merit in this. We are standing here only because the previous president stumbled. My place suits me better than others.

Craig grinned, the corners of his dry lips twitching under his tobacco-yellow mustache. Then slowly, like a person not used to trusting even own body, with a noticeable effort, sank into a chair. He winced, glancing at the windows, behind which splashed the muddy water of the Thames, rising high in a labyrinth of stone fetters. After Pikveri, nothing was changed here - they waited to see how the elections would end. Craig did not give any instructions, did not show in a word that he hoped for a favorable outcome for himself, but no one in Congress was deceived: if he manages to take office on a permanent basis, not only the presidential cabinet, but the entire MACUSA will return to the well-forgotten old - to the pompous and ossified classics of past centuries.

Craig motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite. Clicking the gnarled fingers of his sore hand, he lit the pipe and slowly lit it, releasing gray streams of fragrant smoke from his reddened nostrils with greed and visible pleasure.

Picquery. You knew her much better than I did. If you have a bunch of questions for your former boss, I think you would prefer to ask them face to face. Well, it’s time,” on the next exhale, he closed his eyes satiatedly.

By special decree you forbade anyone from being allowed to see her. What makes you think that now, after two weeks of deathly silence in captivity underground, she will talk to me? We weren't friends.

If it does, it will only happen to you, Mr. Graves.

You have too much hope for me.

She spent a lot of time completely alone. The prison in which she is imprisoned is a place that is extremely cruel to its guests. Pikveri is ready to cooperate, you'll see. And if she’s not ready right now, she’ll get used to the idea as soon as she sees a tiny ray of hope after weeks of darkness.

Do you want to offer her a deal?

Craig nodded.

Both her and Grindelwald. At least Mordred and Morgana, if necessary. They should not be allowed to speak freely in front of the court and listeners. It is unlikely that they will praise us. There is too little time left before the elections and many unfulfilled promises.

A deal with the devil is a dubious achievement; the public is unlikely to appreciate it. I hope you don't read newspapers. They do not mince words when describing the scandal in Congress.

Craig took another drag, leaned his head back and replied:

The new president will be chosen not by the public, but by individual representatives. It’s not for me to tell you how everything works here. People want too much to know who to blame for everything. Now the truth is almost more dangerous than a lie.

But everything we ever tried to hide sooner or later turned against us.

The red, wrinkled skin on the old man's neck stretched, and the smell of burnt tobacco became stronger. The stone gargoyle guarding one of the presidential secretaries covered its nose with its clawed paw in displeasure.

The deal is what will allow Pikveri to preserve the remnants of self-esteem and respect in the eyes of others. It will be beneficial for her to remain silent.

Let's say. But what about the story that Grindelwald insists on? Just imagine these headlines: “President Picquerie hid the location of an artifact stolen from Damascus for years.” Moreover, this artifact was taken out without any right, violating dozens of laws of the countries involved in the war, by her own father, who then held a post in MACUSA.

Craig rubbed his palms as if suddenly cold. Skinny upturned shoulders sagged under a strict uniform.

If what was stated in your report is just another false lead planted on us by Grindelwald, who is too bored to be in prison, I would not want this story to leak out of the office doors.

What if this is true? “Percival had already turned it this way and that, trying to understand whether he believed in it or not, and every time the even turned out to be odd.

Then even more so,” Craig snapped. - What do we know about the artifact?

Someone's property that ended up in no man's land at the wrong moment. The Horn of Moloch has been considered hopelessly lost for the last couple of centuries - it would be better if it were so. It fell illegally into the hands of Attius Picqueri in the confusion of endless wars.

Dark magic is fueled by human blood and the lives of those who could not resist and took the horn for themselves, right?

The smoke stung my eyes. Percival shrugged.

Grindelwald seems genuinely convinced that the horn is neither dangerous nor particularly interesting at this point.

It's not just how dangerous the horn itself is, Craig muttered. - Attius Picqueri, although he did not hold a high position in Congress, was the representative of a magical America that held neutrality in the territory for which other countries fought. Stealing an artifact is not just theft. This is an international scandal.

We know about the artifact, Picquery knows, Grindelwald knows. We will continue to pretend that nothing happened, and then someone will spill the beans. Theft and scandal are not the worst words to describe what happened. There are others: provoking parties in a world war, espionage, concealment.

We survived one storm, Mr. Graves, but confrontation with the Confederacy, Piquery and Grindelwald will kill us at the same time,” Craig objected: “This is not the time to stir up this anthill.”

No one will believe that we let Picqueri go just like that. The terms of the deal will have to be kept completely secret for at least a dozen years. How do you explain this?

It will be difficult, I have no doubt, but for these ten years we will buy ourselves peace of mind.

“I don’t believe that this is even possible,” Percival said firmly.

If the conspiracy with Grindelwald had not been revealed... - Percival began, but Craig interrupted him:

She would have stayed for a second term. Picquery is dangerous and knows enough to drown many members of Congress. Besides, people like her more than me, an old man from a bygone era.

He seemed to hesitate before continuing, but looked just as straight:

And more than you. I don't want to say anything bad about you personally, Mr. Graves, but an Auror at the head of magical America could be another sign of dark times ahead. A harbinger of a war that only one man truly desires.

A week later, a new suit appeared in the wardrobe, the same dark as the one that Credence was given back in the hospital, but made of a completely different fabric - smooth to the touch, not restricting movement. Two weeks later a second one appeared, a little lighter, with a cut more reminiscent of Mr. Graves's clothes. Credence didn’t even touch him and, without looking him in the eye, asked that same evening:

Please don't. My own is enough for me.

The bed in the room was a single bed, not wide, but on it you could stretch out to your full height without hanging your legs over the edge or pulling your knees to your stomach. The springs of the mattress did not scratch the back and sides, the blanket weighed no more than a down cape. The cotton sheets and pillowcases were basic in appearance but smelled and felt good.

The bedroom windows faced north. It was getting light here quickly. There was snow in the shadows, and with the appearance of the sun there began to be a strong smell of melt water. Mr. Graves left the house earlier and returned later, his eyes appearing completely black because of the shadows lying beneath them.

In order not to be left alone with the darkness, Credence waited until dawn and only then went to bed. The nightmares did not return, but he waited for them - waited every evening, loosely closing the door behind him, going to bed, blowing out the candle.

On the table next to the window, a stack of books, borrowed from the hospital library or borrowed from the Graves' personal library, grew faster and faster: history and theory of magic, biographies of great magicians of America and other countries. Credence took first one, then the other, swallowing them faster than he could digest them. I realized a lot of things with my mind only many days after reading it, but I couldn’t stop.

He even begged Madame Erbe to give him a couple of special textbooks on herbs. She reluctantly agreed, having previously made a promise that he would not try to brew the potions himself. Credence did not try to cast spells; he did not even dare to pronounce spells out loud. But Mr. Graves did not insist. IN last days it seemed that he barely noticed his presence: he often frowned, rarely smiled, dined alone and slept little.

Credence tried to return the dying tomes to the shelves no later than once every couple of weeks: old textbooks for first-year wizards and collections of fairy tales had their own characters, gathered dust and withered away from their rightful places. Some sensitively pinched their fingers when trying to open them without a polite greeting, others growled. Still others bared real fangs - to pacify them, it was often necessary to call on the help of an older house elf, who grumbled under his breath and was not too happy about the fact that in his old age he had to babysit an unfamiliar boy.

During the first tour of the house, he was especially stern.

The first section of the library is reserved for fiction. The second and third are for scientific purposes. The fourth is the family archive. The fifth is the one where it is better to go with a magic wand at the ready: half of the hunting books and grimoires have fallen into childhood and are being charmed by old age, the other half is painfully touchy and pugnacious. The sixth and seventh stores unsorted scrolls, for which the owner never has enough time.

The house-elf pursed his lips primly, rattled his bunch of keys, and cast a disapproving glance at Mr. Graves.

The elf would never dare to offend his master's guest with mistrust. And yet, is it wise to give the keys-to-all-the-doors to a young master who does not know enough about the rules of magical houses?

Spare us your lectures, Vincent, and finally give us the bundle,” said Mr. Graves. - Neither you nor I need keys, we both remember spells by heart.

He turned to Credence:

When you master part of this, you will also be able to do without enchanted keys.

“In the meantime, I will be calmer this way,” Mr. Graves did not say this out loud, but Credence still heard a quiet echo of a thought, hardly put into words. Madame Erbe called it an inevitable side effect of the split-sleep potion. The images occasionally thrown up by someone else's imagination were vague: someone's faces, palms extended to Mr. Graves for a handshake, snatches of conversations with colleagues.

The sensations slowly faded, getting weaker each time, and did not cause any inconvenience. His own thoughts became louder over time, drowning out the restless flow of others. Credence would be happy about this. And willy-nilly he suddenly began to get bored. Queenie tried more than once or twice to explain how the shields instinctively put up by the mind should work, but Credence still lacked the determination to abandon the last support.

Before going to Picquerie, Percival drew the curtains on the windows tighter and turned off all the lamps, leaving one candle. Wincing, he pressed his wand to his temple, pulled out a thread of memory about his last meeting with Grindelwald and sent it into the pensieve.

The water became foggy, and in the shallow bowl it spun, unwinding wider and pulling inward, a silver spiral: the soft light of a recent February day, barely penetrating to such a depth, a terrible pit that had served as MACUSA’s prison for more than three centuries, in which, for a couple of weeks, alone with himself many prisoners went crazy.

A man on the floor, a man on his knees, a man rising to his full height at the sight of him.

One of your people who for some reason doesn't like me, McKinley, if I'm not mistaken, tried to slip me Veritaserum. Fortunately, this potion does not affect me - I have an individual resistance to it. As with many poisons. I don’t recommend wasting expensive ingredients for nothing. Would you be so kind..? - Grindelwald nodded at the carafe of water: - My mouth is completely dry.

You’ll have a drink later, when I’m gone and your hands are free.

He just shrugged his shoulders - the shackles dug deeper into his skin, which had turned gray without sunlight.

If I'm not mistaken, you came to talk about the distant past. Thirst makes me forgetful. If you want to hear an interesting story, you will have to return the favor.

Fair.

Percival filled a small goblet with water - it looked clean, clear, but smelled of flowers. He brought the goblet to Grindelwald’s lips, feeling nausea rising in his throat at the sight of his Adam’s apple, moving quickly up and down, sharply sticking out on his thin neck. Grindelwald drank greedily. Having had his fill, he spat the last sip at his feet and sighed contentedly.

Now we can talk. What do you want to hear?

True, for the sake of exception. About how you managed to force Pikveri to arrange an escape.

Grindelwald chuckled and sank back down onto the stone floor, a smooth movement that could have deceived anyone if Percival had not known from experience that imprisonment is not so easy for a prisoner. Every day the body and mind give in - little by little, at first completely unnoticed. Joints click, bones crunch, the spine seems too fragile to continue to withstand such pressure, and voices that precede madness settle inside.

I arranged my escape myself, albeit with the support of caring people. Pikveri only closed her eyes in time and gave a head start. Don’t you think that in all of America there isn’t a single sane magician who would willingly want to help me? However, if this helps you survive the betrayal, you can believe that Picqueri was under Imperio. Not a bad tale for your new president and the rest of the idiots in Congress. As you can see, the truth is overrated.

For them it is possible. But I didn’t come for fairy tales,” Percival noted.

And what will happen to me for this? - asked Grindelwald.

I don't think bargaining is appropriate in your situation.

Oh, I'm sure bargaining is more appropriate than ever. Time is running“The elections are approaching,” he clicked his tongue. “The President is clearly dissatisfied and hopes to extract a couple of other people’s secrets from me, since he allows you to postpone other matters for my sake.” Tick ​​tock, tick tock.

You are the Auror's main case for the last ten years. A more important job could not be imagined.

And you're a rather inept flatterer, Mr. Graves, although I'm still pleased to hear it. But what will you do if I refuse to cooperate? Are you going to torture me? Maybe even Unforgivable? Many would choose the Cruciatus - the pain wrenches the body so much that from the outside the attack is somewhat similar to the peak of passion. But personally I prefer Imperio.

There is nothing more intimate than contact with someone else's mind. And resistance only intensifies the sensations. So what do you choose? Shall we be on good terms? In a bad way? Or, in the best traditions of interrogation, will we alternate one with the other?

Craig really is impatient, but I'm not. My position, thanks to the fact that you are back in prison and the conspiracy with Pikveri has been exposed, is stable. It's a risk, but I'll wait. I bet time moves especially slowly here,” Percival paused, then continued: “I’ll come see you in a couple of weeks.” Or in a month. Or even after two.

Grindelwald shook himself like a dog sweaty from a run, shaking his head to push back the dirty hair that had fallen onto his face from his forehead.

I see that you have gained some skill in the last few days. An American prison is not the worst place I've been, but, frankly, it's all starting to get on my nerves.

He still didn’t seem alarmed, quite the contrary - sparks of amusement flickered in his darkened eyes:

For the first time I will share the information for free, but next time you better come up with something worthwhile as a response gesture. Deal?

He eloquently glanced at his palms, which were barely visible under the magical bonds, and waited for an affirmative nod from Percival. He looked around the camera, openly amused by the pause. He lifted his head up, closing his eyes. Then he spoke softly and quietly, like a real storyteller, and Percival did not interrupt him:

Everyone loves stories, Mr. Graves. Take yours for example. They don't bring us newspapers here, another depressing omission, but I can imagine what a hero you look like in the press. The knight, whose armor had become a little tarnished and whose sword had become dull, over the years of trials did not lose faith in his craft, saved an orphan, brought him to his home... Other characters living side by side with you, I assure you, are no less interesting. Madame Picquery's tale, for example, is as follows: first, imagine a city so old that its walls are like an indestructible rock in time, against which the waves of invincible Hittites and Persians, Mongols and Roman legionnaires who came from the sunset crashed. He saw Alexander, Saladin, Richard the Lionheart and many others. It was ruled by Egyptian pharaohs, Muslim caliphs, Christian patriarchs, Ottoman sultans, and Assyrian kings. The last remaining piece of the promised land. A city of lush gardens laid out in the middle of the desert, a land of tiny meadow lakes and drying up river branches. A real distillation cube of peoples and cultures. A sacred place where scientists, poets, craftsmen and sorcerers of all stripes lived one step away from each other. It was not for nothing that the best steel was produced in the melting pots of Damascus, and impeccable glass was blown from the purest sand. To the north is the Mediterranean Sea, to the east is the now dead Mesopotamia, the lost ancient Mesopotamia, from which only cracked soil remains, having absorbed many tears and blood, containing terrible gifts. Dangerous gifts, for which many were ready to give their will and countless other people’s lives. And many gave. Year after year, century after century, one thousand years after another.

And in our century, as if all the past wars between these idiots weren’t enough, Muggles came and began to cut, burn, and kill again. To share, as if the spoils rightfully belonged to them, something that simply cannot be divided among mortals. The British and the French - and these are only those who acted openly. How many others were there? You may be surprised by my anger. I do not deny the right of force, it is a natural law. But the violence of those who are weak against those who are strong, but because of absurd morality do not allow themselves to defend themselves, is unforgivable.

He swallowed and chuckled contemptuously.

Of course, the magicians did not officially intervene in the conflict. In each case, they acted at their own peril and risk, as private individuals. The export of magical artifacts from the territory of Damascus and border lands was prohibited. Shortly before this, the Babylonian vault was looted by Muggles. Everything that had any value was hidden from Muggle strangers as best they could. One old alchemist managed in time to hide the horn of Moloch, which had accidentally fallen into his hands from a murdered Persian collector, an artifact that had been dormant for centuries, whose power was nurtured on the darkest magic - on the blood of innocent children donated to the demon by the Moabites. The old man fled with his priceless burden to Beirut, where, thanks to incredible luck, he was able to hide for the night in the unfinished wing of the observatory, where many foreigners worked, but with his appearance he disturbed the protective spells. One of the delayed scientists came to the noise.

What happened next is not difficult to guess: both turned out to be business people and found a common language. I believe the scientist promised to keep the Horn of Moloch away from bloodthirsty wizards and Muggles. And, amazingly, he kept his oath - otherwise, according to legend, we would have been faced with a new war, completely different from the ones we are used to: the descent of angels from heaven and demons from the depths of hell. The fate of the old man is unknown - maybe he is still living, rejoicing at how successfully he got rid of his load, or maybe he told the wrong person about it and is dead a long time ago. But the scientist... The scientist calmly returned to his homeland and retired. IN last time appeared in public at the ceremony naming his daughter President of Magical America.

Grindelwald finished, cleared his throat - Percival flinched at the sound of his dry cough, blinked several times, driving away the image of a distant time, a distant country, that did not want to disappear.

Is the horn fake? Is he the one?

Who will say now? There is so much magic in it that if you bring it into a room with thick curtains, all the shadows will instantly disappear from it - the darkness will pour into the ancient bone, in which the cracks have been covered with human blood for centuries. If the horn was not Moloch's originally, it is now as strong as the real thing.

How to neutralize it?

No way. He's capricious. To awaken him, you need to call Moloch himself - fortunately, this ritual has long been forgotten. The horn accumulates power for centuries, drinks the soul from the one it recognizes as its owner until his death - and artificially maintains life in him for several hundred years longer than allotted to an ordinary person. However, this is no longer a person, but only his pale shadow. I'm afraid Attius Picqueri will last longer than you and I combined. But he is unlikely to be happy about it.

Do you know where to look for the artifact?

Grindelwald smiled wryly, biliously - the conversation no longer entertained him.

I was distracted by the obscura, sorry, I had no time to make inquiries. If I now knew about the exact location of such a useful thing, would I waste time doing nothing in prison and meaningless conversations with you?

He rolled his eyes, but reluctantly continued:

In a well-fortified hiding place, I believe. Attius Picqueri is a passionate collector, he knows how to hide what he does not want to lose.

At this point, the silver spiral of memory curled back into a ball and dissolved in the agitated pool. The obsession slowly melted away, but Percival still felt as if sand was creaking in his teeth, Grindelwald’s voice was ringing in his ears, and the hot air of Mesopotamia was breathing into his face.

He straightened his legs, which were stiff from his motionless position, and rubbed his numb palms together. I put all the things I had to do until tomorrow on the edge of the table and pushed the cup away from me.

On leaving the office, he hesitated for a moment, then called for a scarf, a coat - it is unlikely that after a visit to Pikveri there will be any desire or strength left to return to Congress and again read endless papers. Better go home.

Home: to where he fled seventeen years ago to a cramped city apartment, into the eternal noise of New York. Where he had been coming day after day for the last couple of weeks. There, where he could no longer be alone with himself, but for some reason he was not burdened by it.

Camera former president was as deep as Grindelwald's, but Picquery was not swaddled hand and foot with spells and enchanted chains, and along the icy-to-the-touch wall there was an ordinary bed that did not resemble a Procrustean bed.

Tell me what he caught you doing.

Didn't you hear about it from him?

I'd prefer to know your version.

Pikveri was silent for a minute, then sighed:

I also attended interrogations. No matter what you say now, I don't think I have a choice. If you want to listen to everything from beginning to end, you better sit down.

Percival sat down on the edge of the bed. A dried out stool was brought for Pikveri.

In one thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, immediately after I turned three years old, my father, Attius Picqueri, a certified expert in ancient magical devices for observing the starry sky, received an invitation to the best observatory of that time. To Beirut. We left everything in Savannah, bought a small house on the outskirts of Damascus - my father liked it better there, he preferred to apparate to work rather than live in the same place where he had to conduct business.

Seeing her in a gray robe, without a turban and strict, but invariably elegant dresses, was unusual - everything here was unusual, incorrect, like a puzzle, the parts of which did not fit one another.

Mom wasn't thrilled about the move, but she accepted it. My father could be called an unofficial ambassador. Magical America at that time did not have recognized consulates in the Levantine states. Then the relationship between the parents deteriorated. It became unsafe to stay with my family in the city. In 1990, terrible pogroms began; an Austrian diplomat was thrown into the sea in Mersin. Mom and I returned. I graduated from Ilvermorny and became an Auror trainee. Mom died, I started visiting my father.

Pikveri spoke monotonously, as if she was reading a text from a sheet - without a trace of feeling, without bitterness or remorse. Without nostalgia, without hesitation and careful choice of words. It was as if she didn't care whether they listened to her or not.

He always adored rarities and could not refuse if they offered something worthwhile. Sometimes he took bribes. In the fourteenth year, the horn of Moloch fell into his hands - for nothing, from some old man scared to death. And then a war began between everyone and everyone, amnesties for exiled criminals. There were no more inspections at the borders. My father could not give up his passion, and I could not refuse his request, although I knew that I should not give in. That fall I took the horn to America. My father returned immediately after me and took him away. He retired and began to live as a hermit. We haven’t seen each other for five years, but I saw a photo of him - he’s sixty, but he looks ninety.

She tiredly closed her thin eyelids, which were turning blue from the visible veins.

Now it's too late to fix anything. Both for him and for me. Has Craig already prepared a deal? You can tell him: I will agree if a quiet solution is what he really wants. The publication of this story, the international scandal with France and England, who will probably want to return the horn, which they consider theirs by right of the conquerors, the proceedings with Damascus, which is gradually regaining control over the territories - all this will be too unpleasant for each of the parties. And the horn will kill your father in any case, even if you force him to part with the artifact.

Picquerie was silent for several moments while Percival looked around, noticing under each layer of enchantment a new, even more skillful one. Finally, she slowly raised her gaze and asked absentmindedly and quietly, as if she was not expecting an answer:

There's one thing I can't understand. How did Grindelwald find out?

Don't know. But if you trusted me a little more, believed in the people you commanded for so many years, a little more, many troubles could have been avoided.

Picquery shook her head.

We were never friends. It's not for you to teach me trust.

Her hair, not covered by a scarf, fell on her shoulders in a tangled wave, her hands restlessly stroked her knees. She suddenly felt sorry for her.

That's right, they weren't. And now we won’t.

Heavy locks creaked overhead: the hour and a half allotted for the visit had ended. The light came on and the reddish hair of the ever-irritated jailer appeared.

Are you ready, Mr. Graves?

Picquerie suddenly jerked forward and grabbed Percival by the elbow - hard, not noticing how the overgrown nails were digging into his arm through the thick sleeve.

I am truly sorry that this happened. Let me give you one last piece of advice: don't make the same mistake I did. Don't listen to what Grindelwald says.

For Ma, there was only one book - from the Bible, she taught children to sort out letters, form the first words, and offer prayers of thanks to the Lord. She used it when it was necessary to deprive them of their voice, their will: for every offense in cruel parables there was a punishment, for every disobedient glance - the name of sin, which burned and hurt no less than the mark of a bestial brand.

There was not a single Bible in the Graves library, but there were hundreds of books on how to turn a word into a weapon or salvation, to cut or heal human flesh with one phrase, to bind the legs and arms or free them from fetters. Sleepily running his finger along the lines and often blinking his eyes to drive away fatigue, Credence regretted that he could not know all this earlier - he did not know how to stop the whip, rod, rod raised above his head.

Ma, perhaps, loved him - heartlessly and cruelly, the way those who thirst for power over someone become attached to a creature doomed from birth. Did his real mother love him?

Parents' house he no longer dreamed of, and Credence did not want to see in the future, those dark rooms, narrow passages, elegant sentimental things on the dressing table, once given as a sign of affection, which now protected the memory of the dead.

There, in the corridors frozen in time, in the afterlife, thick as honey, but cold and bitter, he felt neither safe nor happy. The mirrors reminded me of this every time. Credence tried not to look in them, and when he had to, he didn’t see anything scary there. In the reflection there was always only him, with unevenly cut hair at the temples, with eyes reddened from reading, chapped lips, which he often bit, out of habit. And yet, still...

At night he sat on the bed for a long time, with one leg tucked under him and the other hanging down. The naked foot was bathed in pleasant warmth coming from the wooden floor heated by the magical fireplace. In front of Credence stood a small bottle made of thick glass: a raspberry sweet potion for sound dreams. Instead of drinking a couple of spoons and sleeping until the morning, each time he threw a jacket over his pajamas and went downstairs. He stepped carefully, so as not to disturb Mr. Graves by the creaking of the floorboards, walked right to the door, and took old newspapers from the cabinet in the hallway. He took them to the library and sat down to read - eagerly looking through article after article in search of who knows what.

They truly forgot about him, Bethany and Obscura. Now everyone was only interested in the upcoming elections and Grindelwald. In the latest issues we managed to find only a small essay, in which they argued either angrily or mockingly, as in modern world There are still a lot of merciful fools who can’t see beyond their own noses: while America’s chief Auror is busy restoring justice and saving an innocent sufferer, a decrepit dog managed to steal the presidency from him.

The font in the newspapers changed at its own discretion, the letters danced, photographs and drawings grimaced, frowned, jumped impatiently in place and screamed in thin squeaky voices if Credence accidentally turned the pages out of order. "Mercury" and "New York Phantom", "Magical Messenger" and many other magazines, brochures, information leaflets. At the end of each week, Vincent sent them to the waste paper basket - Mr. Graves read the newspapers at work, but did not seem to notice them at home. Or maybe he really didn’t remember that he ordered a subscription. He was absent-minded, staring blankly at his toast and cup of coffee at breakfast, as if he was trying to solve several difficult problems in his mind at once.

Mr. Graves answered inappropriately, sometimes left after dark, sometimes did not return to spend the night. Like yesterday, on the evening of an endlessly drawn-out boring and gloomy Saturday, after which, if you believe the view outside the window, an equally gloomy Sunday promised to come.

He will not come?

Looking at the old clock in the dining room, which occupied an entire corner, with a heavy pendulum, a huge dial, a body made of dark wood and silver engraving on the glass, Vincent shook his head sadly - the tufts of gray fluff on his bald patch shook - and put one device away.

Credence sank into a chair, feeling as if with every word, every movement he was violating a dozen unspoken rules of etiquette. He did not feel awkward alone with Mr. Graves, but the presence of the elves reminded him of what he had managed to ask Queenie, read from the family archives: in this house, one brilliant generation of magical nobility of the New World had replaced another over the past four centuries.

Now the house seemed decrepit, an empty monument to a dusty past, but even time could not deprive it of its former greatness. In the uninhabited guest rooms and the large dining room hung portraits of arrogant ancestors, slapping swords on their thighs, pursing their lips of ladies in crinolines, hiding sharp long hairpins in high wigs.

The ancestors observed everything, evaluated everything, had their own opinion about everything, although they were only shadows of themselves cast on the canvas. Even the things here, every curtain, every piece of furniture, every silver plate polished to a shine, remembered them: those who left.

Credence felt uneasy. There was only one thing that was reassuring: Mr. Graves acted as if he, too, were a stranger here.

After midnight, the bells above the entrance rang quietly. Credence rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, wondering whether he should have waited in the living room or whether it would have been better to go upstairs, pretend the potion had worked, and lie with his eyes open, counting the repeating hooks and curls in the pattern on the ceiling.

The door opened silently. Mr. Graves slowly made his way to the fireplace, fell into a chair, with a familiar gesture, which now came out stiff, summoned a glass and a decanter of strong-smelling, dizzying golden-amber Firewhisky, uncorking it right in the air. And only then, having taken the first sip, he shuddered, noticing that he was not alone in the room. The hand that had just been hanging tiredly from the armrest twitched, as if he was about to defend himself. As if he didn’t recognize, didn’t understand who was in front of him.

Mr. Graves exhaled with relief and a forced smile, which he himself didn’t seem to believe in:

Sorry if I woke you up. In this turmoil I no longer remember myself. Can't sleep either?

Credence shook his head and began to look at the sharp crystal edges of the decanter, snatched from the darkness by fire.

All his life he dropped dead as soon as his head hit the pillow, only to wake up before the first rooster crow. And here, knowing for sure that in the morning buckets of ice water, heavy pitchforks, mud on the road washed out by the rain and manure in the barn, shouts and orders from Ma would not await him, he went to bed late and tossed and turned for several hours in a row, rising at noon completely broken.

Are you afraid of the dark? - the question came out uncertain, blurred. Firewhiskey softened his voice.

“It’s not fear,” Credence answered. “I’m just lying in a bed that’s too warm, on a mattress that’s too soft, and I can’t stand it.”

The potion isn't helping?

Something else helps. Sometimes I pull the sheet onto the floor and sleep on the bare boards. Vincent threatened to tell you. I don't know why he didn't do it.

He waited: now they will persuade, beg, and convince. But Mr. Graves remained silent. Then, when Credence had almost forgotten how the conversation began, he said a short and choppy “I see.” He finished what he had poured in one gulp, poured it again and finished it. He put the glass on the floor.

Mr. Graves struggled with the cufflinks and collar pins for several seconds, and finally somehow tore them off - there was a crack, but the fabric held up. He combed his hair back, rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned the top button on his shirt - just one, but it immediately became noticeable that the stubble was breaking out not only on his chin and cheeks, but lay a dark shadow on his neck all the way to his Adam's apple. He explained in an apologetic tone:

After your father’s whiskey, it’s better not to even try to cast a spell, it’s a real fiery poison. I once tried to light a lamp and instead nearly burned down the entire east wing.

For the first time in the months since the night they met, between the hospital and the court - not much time, if you think about it, although during this period almost more events happened than in all the years in Mary Lou's house - Mr. Graves suddenly became what Credence imagined him according to Margaret. A person who feels his own walls around him and knows that he does not need to keep his face inside them.

There was something unusual about this, which excited me with vague anxiety. His posture became relaxed, fluid, his eyes sparkled. Credence realized too late that he had been staring for an indecently long time.

It would be natural to look this way at the calm Margaret, who let him into her house, or the stubborn Tina, who believed him. The beautiful Queenie, who always knew when to speak and when to listen. But in front of Credence there was only Mr. Graves, tired and unsmiling, in response to any gratitude he insisted that they were even, since because of his mistakes Credence had to confront Grindelwald, there was nothing to pay for, nothing to be grateful for. The one who, just like Margaret, opened the door for Credence, just like Tina, took him at his word. Who, perhaps better than Queenie, felt where the line was between “possible” and “impossible.” A silent man in an empty, outdated house, a warm presence nearby, a dark gaze, an outstretched open palm.

I think I've had too much drinking. I'll have a headache tomorrow. It's awkward to ask you for help, but I have to get up somehow, otherwise my poor old back will suffer too.

Credence pulled him towards him and squeezed his elbow with his fingers. The first touch in many days scalded, like a hot late summer wind. The breath smelled of honeyed dope, hot liquid amber.

Credence helped him up the stairs, brought him to the bedroom, wished him sound dreams, without ever looking up: he suddenly realized that in the response glance he would see the truth about himself.

McKinley, somewhere upstairs, cursed quietly and jerked his hand holding his wand so hard that the mattress shook from side to side as it levitated. Finally I shook it off at a height of half a meter from the floor. He fell with a loud thud. Dust rose. Grindelwald didn’t even flinch, he just raised his eyebrows questioningly:

One of two things: either I’m imagining all this, or the president finally changed his anger to mercy and you decided to appease me with at least something. Thanks anyway, bare floors give me nightmares.

Percival shrugged.

Just keeping up my end of the deal.

I always knew it was a pleasure to do business with you. Now what? Assign me an official monthly ration, at the same time denouncing me in front of everyone as an informer who does not know how to keep his mouth shut? Or will we be best friends? Maybe you can release me on bail?

I don't think we can get along. You entered my ancestral home without an invitation and threatened my sister.

Grindelwald sank onto the mattress and stretched his legs as far as the chains would allow. The joints cracked loudly.

Why not? Maybe not now, but later, when we get to know each other a little better.

Now he was squinting, but did not take his eyes off the small sphere containing liquid light inside, hanging at shoulder level.

I will even consider an offer to become an informal consultant if you are my contact and not some idiot from the president's office.

Percival forced himself to grin - he knew that this was exactly what was expected of him.

Consulting Congress is too exhausting a task, and as far as I can see, you are exhausted.

Gridewald sighed heavily and nodded, looking around the camera.

It's really not a very healthy environment here. Take your subordinates, no respect...

Without waiting for Grindelwald to finish, Percival interrupted him and threw a warning glance at McKinley:

It's probably still difficult for you to get used to your new position.

The door at the top slammed shut, and the wheel of the magically reinforced bolt clanged from outside. Percival sat a little closer and changed his tone:

I admit, I admire you - from a purely professional point of view, of course. I have never met a more narcissistic criminal. Such self-belief, such scope. It was just a little short, and it’s not your fault: who could have known that Credence’s strength would return. I'm sure you'll try again.

Now, before leaving, Percival checked the doors and windows every time, looked for loopholes in spells that were not there, could not be - his father’s house was almost four hundred years old, during these years he, if he did not begin to live a life invisible to the owners, then his walls and the castles have definitely learned to not let uninvited guests onto the threshold. Credence was safe. Credence knew how to defend himself, he proved it. But this thought did not make me calmer.

Grindelwald smiled quite peacefully and remarked:

Sometimes I think I chose the wrong mask. If I tried on your face, Credence would go to the ends of the earth to follow me. Behind you, Mr. Graves.

Just dare,” the words came out before he could bite his tongue.

Grindelwald laughed quietly, with disgusting sympathy in his voice.

What a ridiculous threat. I'm locked in your cage. The key to it is in your hand. Even if I were free, the opportunity was lost. This won't work. I saw Credence only twice, but I can say for sure: already in the hospital he looked at you not only with his eyes, but also with his heart. But the heart is not so easy to deceive.

I have no idea what nonsense you are talking about. The suppressive charm must have done you no good after all.

I would applaud, but my hands are tied. How true this sounds! - Grindelwald bowed his head to his shoulder, suddenly looking like a once white raven, wallowing in soot and dirt, a bird with a blind, dead eye. - As if you are really blind in everything that does not relate to work. A story worthy of Shakespeare, a scene in which everyone lies to each other and to themselves. And of course - a tragic ending. The theater-goers are delighted, the girls are crying, the respectable ladies are pressing handkerchiefs to their eyes. Tickets are sold out a year in advance.

Even if you’re one of the wigged-up, make-up-covered clowns in this theatre, the script is certainly not yours,” Percival snapped.

Terribly rude, Mr. Graves. An overly impolite remark. Did I offend you? You don’t have to answer, I see that I’m offended. The script is not mine and not yours, true, but also not that imaginary old man living above, among the stars. I don't like to act in plays that I don't know in advance.

It is difficult to know and predict everything from here.

You have begun to think like the Muggles here, Mr. Graves. You don't have to see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears to know the truth. Look around. You have brought me down to the bottom of the deepest rock gut imaginable on this side of the Atlantic. It is so dark here that I began to distinguish shades of morning, afternoon and evening blackness. Ideal conditions, no contact with the outside world. And so hour after hour, endlessly - enough to drive you crazy. But this also works in the opposite direction: feelings become more intense, greedily biting into every thread that they manage to pick up. I no longer feel myself - neither the smell of a dirty body, nor the stench of my breath, nor other even less pleasant things. But with visitors it’s a completely different matter.

Grindelwald sniffed noisily.

You just came here, and I already felt the aroma of the strongest tea in your breath - a couple of cups in the morning, maybe three. Unusual choice. I thought everyone in this country was crazy about coffee.

Percival involuntarily pulled away. Grindelwald closed his eyes.

Shaving lotion, mint tooth powder, verbena sachet for laundry. And underneath all this is the special sandy smell of insomnia and several glasses of Irish firewhisky,” he grinned: “It was a good weekend, huh?” I think I can smell your subordinate’s light perfume in the air, simple and unpretentious. Disgustingly cheap cologne and McKinley's sweat, no wonder - you can kill with this cocktail. Madame Picquery. Glad you paid her a visit before me. What else, what else... The most intriguing thing is this: you smell like another person - not as superficially as others. I think there is no need to name him.

Don't worry, it's not too noticeable. Everything is within the bounds of decency. I speak from my own experience: this happens to people who spend all their time under the same roof, breathe the same air, and touch their shoulders when walking. However, I bet you'll come home today and can't help but wonder: Is this all there is to it? Is this enough for me? How many days will it take before you start to notice that he smells like you too? Probably a lot.

Percival blinked. For a brief moment, Grindelwald's face, the white patch of his hair in the darkness of the cell, the bestial gleam of light in his eyes went out. Suddenly he imagined: now he would put down his wand, without rolling up his sleeves, and hit Grindelwald, almost without aiming - sharply, the way they hit everyone who looked askance at them in a bar, Muggles driven to despair by the war. With the edge of the palm across the bridge of the nose, along the Adam's apple, with a fist into the solar plexus. Blood flows over colorless lips - thick, very dark, stagnant and poisoned by the air of the prison.

One two Three. Three is enough to drown out the anger. After the third blow, sanity will awaken.

He will dust himself off and signal to McKinley. For the first time, he will look at him with something resembling real respect in his eyes. Percival will return home and shake his soiled coat onto the floor. He rolls up his crusty brown cuffs. With shaking hands, he pours himself firewhisky to the brim - all without magic, for such a person magic is of no use. Maybe he'll smoke, leaving bright fingerprints on the cigarette.

They will come for him, but that will come later: they will take him out of his father’s house under the indignant glances of his ancestors in the portraits, they will bend his elbows, and tie his wrists with a magic belt. In MACUSA they will say: another one has gone crazy. Not the first, not the last, right? Right. Court, prison - that's all. Curtain, finale.

No, no: he will return home, throw his coat on the floor... But he is not alone in the house. There is also Credence, and this - firewhisky, the smell of smoke, prison - is like a blow to the gut for him. In Congress they will say: another Auror has gone crazy, who will you mess with... Now you don’t have to stand on ceremony with his boy. Not the first and not the last, right? Wrong: for Credence's sake it's worth waiting and being patient. This means that the final is still far away.

Percival rose to his feet and clenched his hand behind his back, feeling his fingers begin to tremble. He muttered as calmly as possible:

Do you also know this from your own experience? Anyway, that's enough. You are great at composing on the fly, it’s no secret to anyone.

Grindelwald obediently stopped, shrugging.

You asked and I answered. We agreed: one question, one answer. Next time you decide to chat, bring a basin and a couple of towels with you. I don’t know how you can stand your Aurors; with them you’ll die of boredom before you get anything done.

Thanks to you, I never get bored.

The radio that Queenie once brought, although it was not magical, hissed loudly, as if alive, and tried to switch frequencies on its own - Credence soon gave up on it. Mr. Graves himself took out the gramophone along with the jazz records somewhere, saying that he could no longer stand the voices in his head. He, of course, smiled, but it looked as if there was no joke in his words at all.

On Tuesday night he appeared quietly, as if he had been standing on the threshold of his own house for a long time, not daring to enter. The floors creaked, and in the hallway a porter in an ancient livery, looking like a walrus, grumbled from a portrait.

Mr. Graves stopped near the gramophone, thoughtlessly touched the stack of cardboard record covers, then hooked his index finger on the needle. The melody stopped, and the clock began to strike loudly and heart-rendingly. Credence shook off his drowsiness and sat up straight, feeling the cold running down his legs - he forgot to close the window.

Sorry about Saturday. He got so drunk that he couldn't stand. I doubt it was pleasant for you to drag me upstairs.

I was just helping. It's not that difficult.

I'm unaccustomed to what it's like to accept help. Probably shouldn't have relearned it.

You do not believe me? “Credence probably wouldn’t be surprised.” Saying out loud something about which no, no, and even a thought flashed, turned out to be doubly unpleasant.

Mr. Graves rubbed his neck, looked up - slowly, almost doomedly, as if he painfully did not want to look Credence in the eyes, but there was no other way.

Rather, it’s the other way around,” his mouth twisted slightly, but now it didn’t even look like a shadow of a smile: “It’s better to get out of the habit right away, so you don’t have to break yourself all over again later.” This house gets on my nerves, wakes up something that would rather not wake up, as if the old days that I tried so hard to forget are returning.

When I leave, you can return to the city. Forget about the old days.

Have you already decided where you will go?

Credence answered as indifferently as possible:

I have little time left before Madame Herbe officially releases me.

“I can’t call myself an outstanding specialist in this area of ​​​​magical law, but it seems that you have the right to appeal to the Supreme Court,” Mr. Graves noted. - Demand compensation. File a lawsuit against the social care system because all these years, people who are obliged to take care of the well-being of the children of magical America have not lifted a finger to find you.

Credence shook his head.

There is no way I will return to that building of my own free will. And I don’t want you to waste time and money looking for an official representative who would take all the troubles upon himself.

I'm sure the case would have every chance.

I don’t need anything from these people - neither someone else’s nor my own.

It sounded harsher than I would have liked, but the words came out on their own, and Credence did not take them back. Mr. Graves paused, closed his reddened eyelids for a moment, and then nodded.

Your right.

Credence leaned forward and spoke quickly, just to have time to explain himself before they stopped listening to him:

Sorry, I don't...

Mr. Graves stopped him with a gesture and sank heavily into the opposite chair, closer to the fire that was licking the blackened wood.

It is necessary that you at least now choose what you consider right for yourself. Living here next to me is not very safe and certainly not fun. Everything is fine. You're fine - or you certainly will be, once you figure it out.

He tiredly pressed himself into the back of the chair, threw his head back - the back of his head was forcefully pressed into the wooden curls just above where the pillow ended. Credence froze in concern.

But you're not okay. Something happened?

“When I came in, I thought I was going to try to persuade you to wait to move,” Mr. Graves said. - Stay here a little longer until everything calms down. And now I don’t even know what we’re talking about.

A dull laugh, followed by seconds of dead silence.

Recently I almost hit a man whom I had no right to touch at all. For him, this would be a ticket to freedom, a gift from fate. And a few days ago I almost fell into Picquerie. I knew the risks from the very beginning and yet I barely stopped myself.

But they stopped it? This is the main thing.

You can't know that.

I know you.

And that's enough?

For me - yes.

The persistent rain washed the winter out of New York, licking the dust off the window panes and the dirt off the cars, which looked like beetles with shiny black shells. The newsboys, late due to the downpour, jumped along the streets between the puddles, dodging the splashes flying from under the wheels. Whirlpools swirled above the sewer hatches in deep funnels. It was worth using the water-repellent charm, but it was too pleasant to feel the cold wind on your face.

Percival tossed one of the boys a quarter of gold, silently refusing the change, and picked up the latest edition of the Daily News from the portable counter, which in his hands turned into a magical Mercury. The entire editorial was devoted to warnings about impending bad weather - almost on time, except for the fact that the first drops fell at night. At the top, under a small painted visor, the letters of the title jostled restlessly: “Second global flood will affect all Atlantic countries."

He quickly flipped through the Mercury and grinned when he saw on the third page, dedicated to speculation on potential presidential candidates, familiar portraits: Berg's sideburns shaking from another passionate speech and Craig chewing a yellowed, smoky mustache. Next to Craig was the face of Percival himself - half hidden from the cameras by a shadow, with the inscription: "The head of the Department of Magical Security, Percival Graves, refuses to talk about who he will support during the race."

Old Henry Shaw, the current owner, once bought the newspaper as an unprofitable enterprise for mere pennies and literally in a few years turned it into one of the most popular. The magical combination of absurd gossip and speculation with real news worked real miracles. Percival turned thin sheets four times and put it in his pocket to return to reading later.

It was necessary to have time to stop by the bank, work until the evening at the Aurora and return home on time, at least no later than nine. Credence didn’t say anything, didn’t even hint that he felt uneasy if he was left alone with the house at night, but it was noticeable in his eyes, in his twitchy movements when he hurriedly went down the stairs or jumped out of his chair to meet them.

A crowd had already gathered in the bank lobby: dissatisfied, gloomy faces. Percival hesitated, then finally knocked on the goblin guard's window. He shook himself, looked him over from head to toe, without showing in any way that he was surprised by the client’s appearance - his shoes were dirty, his collar was wet, his hair was dripping.

The pass in the form of a small monogram of the bank was imprinted on the back of the hand with a sharp pop. He was finally allowed inside during the rush of an early New York business day, capping a long week of work.

Same amount as usual? - The bank employee didn’t even look at him: he had already gotten used to monthly visits. - On the same account? Sign here and here.

The small money inherited from her mother’s parents was given to her sisters. Neither he nor Margaret protested. Father almost did not spend the treasures that had accumulated over the years, allotted to the Graves for their service to the good of the country. The fortune was enough for several generations to come. Once a month, before the weekend, Percival transferred a small amount to Margaret to repair an old Irish house, which, despite the supporting magic, either had a leaking roof or a clogged fireplace.

After waiting in the bank among gloomy goblins, magicians hurrying about their business and the clinking of coins, I wanted silence. Percival glanced at his watch: ten in the morning, too late to go home for breakfast - Credence had long since woken up, now awkwardness and awkward questions could not be avoided.

In the nearby park, ducks who had recently returned from winter were quacking, the wind shook the branches, swollen with moisture, and sprinkled small drops down the collar. The small custard tart bought at the bakery from a vaguely familiar No-Maj quickly ran out. Percival shook the crumbs into the withered grass and apparated to the Auror.

Long hours dragged on until the late Friday lunch break - with Craig's arrival there was almost more paperwork, only one thing was a little reassuring: he was not suffering alone. On Abernathy's desk, folders jostled and pressed against each other, the most restless ones fell to the floor and tried unsuccessfully to crawl back along the vertical surface. Tina came in with reports, looked for a stamp to renew security passes for McKinley, who was unusually quiet and did not even mention the transfer from prison to the field of active missions. Looks like Grindelwald got him after all.

The general uncertainty about what will happen tomorrow felt like stuffiness: at first you don’t notice it, but the further you go, the more difficult it is to bear.

By five in the evening the lines were dancing and rippling in my eyes. “Prohibit”, “allow”, “postpone” - what difference does it make if it all ends the same: in nothing? In the bottom drawer there was still a small flask of firewhisky, left over from a mission during which he had to warm himself with alcohol. If you get it...

Abernathy's arrival seemed almost like a blessing. He stuck his head into the small gap, after knocking. He knocked and even uttered words extremely measuredly, with a sense of his own dignity:

Sir, President Craig would like to see you.

Craig did not waste time shuffling around for a long time, he began to speak as soon as Percival crossed the threshold:

You've spent too much time with Grindelwald, I don't think it's wise to continue these... consultations, or whatever you call them, in the future.

Percival closed the door behind him as quickly as possible, moving his fingers. Craig continued:

Congress, of course, will not give access to any of your wards, not the same level of secrecy. The wisest decision would be to pause everything, but this is impossible. As an acquaintance of your father, I advise you not to rush too much new meeting to jail.

Don't you trust me anymore?

Don't take it personally, Percival. You know how it affects people. If we had a choice, I would ban visits altogether. I trust you more than anyone, which is why I warn you in advance: he feels what you are thinking about, what you are afraid of. What do you crave most?

I knew this from the very beginning. I prefer to think of our meetings with Gridewald as a potential advantage. He sees me, you can’t argue with that, but I’m also watching him at the same time. Grindelwald is powerful, but he is not a natural Legiliman. I choose what to show him.

Not a single person, even the most powerful magician, is able to predict in advance which of his emotions will leak out.

From his cell he can't really reach me.

I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mr. Graves.

I will remember your concerns. If that's all that was on the agenda, can I go?

I couldn’t wait to go back out into the cold air that smelled of wet paving stones, to let it into my lungs, to emerge at least for a while from this endless stuffiness. Even in my father’s house, which had been empty for several years, there was no smell of dust and desolation in recent days. Only a lived-in space: heated wood, a hot fireplace, lemon zest and tea, fresh milk. Verbena sachets that Credence loved so much. Peppermint powder, shaving lotion, which Credence shyly borrowed, softly foaming lavender shampoo, which Percival had previously found irritatingly clingy, but not now, not on him...

One more issue requires discussion. I don’t think that patronizing an adult magician who has only recently been released from custody will benefit your reputation.

Now Craig did not look Percival in the eyes: he himself knew that he was crossing the line between what was under his control and what was not. It's like I read my mind.

I thought you were the one who put the Supreme Court stamp on Credence's case. The verdict, in case you forgot, read: “Decided to be found not guilty.” And my reputation is in perfect order, which cannot be said about the reputation of MACUSA.

Craig began to fiddle irritably, tapping his knotty spider fingers on the table.

I remember everything. Your kindness did not go unnoticed, you can stop pretending that you took this matter to heart. Now it's worth thinking about how best to look after this Barebone if he is deemed ready for discharge. And you are already a hero.

Percival asked in disbelief:

Do you really think that I did this... for what? For a couple of big headlines in Mercury and New York Phantom?

Is not it so? I see no other reason to invite yesterday’s accused, who caused you personally so much trouble, into your home and worry about his further well-being.

This is my family home, I have the right to invite any guests there.

It's yours the last word?

Craig suddenly seemed like a confused, confused, decrepit old man who was still boasting with all his might, believing that he would be able to outwit death, which was approaching ever closer.

Very good. Then you can go.

There was little good in this, especially in the condescending gesture of a dry and pigmented brush: this is how noble gentlemen used to let cab drivers go. Craig turned pointedly indifferently to the window, lounged in a chair in an atypically casual pose, no longer showing that he noticed Percival’s presence in the office. And only muttered barely audibly in the back:

In my time, an Auror was something more for us, and not just another step up.

Percival used to think that working with Picquerie was not easy. Now he remembered her almost with nostalgia. Mordred would have taken that obnoxious old man.

March crept in an old house late at night, silently, like a thief; He breathed perspiration on the windows, and before his time, he ran his warm hand over the grass flowing with dew. Mr. Graves must have been asleep and not felt the change, but Credence felt it, waited for it. Somehow I knew: I must definitely survive this winter, endure it. Say goodbye to her so she doesn't come back.

When spring came to Bethany, for many miles around it began to smell like the rotten sleepy earth into which grains would soon be dropped, the wind from the hills and meltwater from the river breaking out of its icy prison. Cows mooed in the stalls, and the bull shifted restlessly on its strong legs. Modesty tossed and turned next to her, she couldn’t sleep - in the dim window the stars were becoming brighter every day, the sun was rising earlier, the neighbor’s rooster was crowing.

As soon as the soil became docile, it was time to plow. By noon, the back of my head and lower back were burning in the gap between my wet shirt that had ridden up and my too warm woolen pants, and sweat was running down my face. At night, dogs howled loudly, and somewhere in the distance, in the damp haze of fog, a coyote whined. At midnight, cats were fighting and petting on the roof.

By May the heat became completely unbearable. The bull climbed onto the cows, the rooster lazily trampled the hens in the shade of the canopy - the natural call of the flesh, nothing beautiful, but nothing unnatural either. At this time, Ma disdained even to pass by the neighboring farms, looked at Credence especially intently, as if she hoped to read all his sins from his appearance alone. He hid his palms with splinters from the shovel handle behind his back and hid his eyes. He took on any task if it was hard enough to exhaust him to the point of exhaustion, and, washing the sheets in a tub in the morning, he did not remember his dreams.

Now there was nothing to forget about. Credence didn’t want to, but he remembered everything gradually - when he tried not to look into the eyes of his reflection, smoothing his hair in front of the mirror, and the outlines of thick steam suddenly became like the white smoke of long-burnt houses.

The rough cross over the church is the first of many memories: made from aspen stakes, black from rot and rain. Second: the smell of berry juice diluted with water, which served instead of wine, and the taste of unleavened bread instead of bread. Third: an old Bible bound in cracked leather, from which pages had been removed, a gutted, emasculated book of human destinies. The Old Testament, which Ma especially revered, was missing a couple of dozen sheets, and in the New the lines were circled: about sorcerers, malachis and homosexuals, about predators, slanderers and thieves. Previously, Credence could not even imagine how many sins one human vessel could contain, but now he knew: it could easily contain as many as there are in the world.

There were no Bibles in the Graves house, but Credence dared to ask for one. Now it lay on the table - unbearable, like stone tablets. Not a single lost page, each one smooth, with clear outlines of capital blue-black letters, as if it had only recently been printed. The cover smelled of either dust or the dead inter-time of forgotten shelves.

Inside is something that has long been learned by heart: the Law of Moses, the books of kings and prophets, chronicles and scrolls, writings and psalms - punishment for everyone according to word and deed, a measure for every offense, a name for every sin. And new, unfamiliar: Song of Songs, which the pastor called a sprout of sin, thrown into a vat of good grain, and personally tore it out of every Bible on a bright Sunday.

Credence held the volume suspended for a long time until his outstretched arm began to hurt. The corners of the pages are rounded, and golden threads are woven into the yellowish paper along the margins. The book is warm to the touch, but strange, unlike any other in the magical library. There are only words alive in her: cruel, containing an ugly meaning in their forms, perfect in beauty.

The eternal Bible had many answers, but none that really mattered. Ma called Credence the bad seed and the devil's spawn, but she never learned the names of his other sins.

A fourth memory also came, an unreal one, coming from a witchcraft dream poisoned by the fire of Bethany: hot fingers on one’s face, on one’s cheek. Hot skin on someone else's wrist, hidden under a wet white cuff. Just the sight of it made my lips dry and my ribs ache. I wanted not only to drink, but to lick these hands, to catch this wet palm between my palms, to run it over my forehead and neck, over my burning chest. To repeat the words spoken recently, only now in a different way - firmly preparing to wait for the answer: why are you doing all this for me, Mr. Graves?

The chain of the amulet rubbed his sweaty neck, but Credence, once he put it on, never took it off. The silver pendant fit comfortably into the hollow between the collarbones, was cool, and attracted the eye. No, no, and you’ll touch it by accident.

Credence stroked the amulet with his fingertips, whispered with his lips the lines that suddenly came to mind: “Like a seal on the heart, like a ring on the hand...” and looked around guiltily, as if here, in the darkness of the bedroom, someone could see or hear him . He got up from the table and waved his hand - the only magic trick he could do, a pathetic trick to blow out a candle. Then he opened the window wide.

From afar there was a whiff of peat and the spicy smell of the first weak grass that had barely emerged from the ground. It seemed as if even the lungs had collapsed over the long winter, but now they were working at full capacity. If the air had been a little warmer, Credence would have drunk it all, like berry juice.

The bed was cool, the cotton touched the skin softly, caressing. Credence slept only a couple of hours, but firmly, as if for the first time, he felt and believed in the invisible protection covering him completely.

In the morning, wiping his hands, burning with shame because of the way the underwear with dried semen stuck to his body, he still remembered what he had seen in his dream: as if he was burning like the last fire, without which a traveler cannot survive, the aromatic oil in lamp over the lectern, desperate desire and fierce hope, forest fire and the beam of a lighthouse. And then dry hands, lips touched him, and the flame, which could not be extinguished even by the whole sea, obediently went out.

On Tuesday, Picqueri was released - they were allowed to sign a magical contract that required silence from both parties, and their clothes and wand were returned. Instead of shaking hands, Craig hunched over her hand and kissed it. The palm trembled slightly, the gallant gesture did not come out - everyone felt awkward.

Percival did not shake her hand, he only quietly and quickly repeated the final part of the agreement, almost without looking at what was written:

By signing here, you have committed to sharing everything you discover only with senior officials Auror and the President's office. You are required to find out the location of the Horn of Moloch and convey the information to us. Until further notice, you are prohibited from leaving your registration site without prior approval from Congress. It is forbidden to use magic in cases that do not require the protection of oneself and others, it is forbidden to meet with journalists, to disclose the terms of the contract, or even to hint at them in a conversation with third parties. In the event of a breach of contract, a protective protocol will come into force.

Pikveri nodded goodbye, as if this month in the cell had not happened to her, and said quietly, without looking into the eyes:

It could turn out that you would now be in my place, and I would be in yours. But since it turned out the other way around, don’t be too upset, Percival: I would have done the same to you as you did to me.

Craig clapped his dry palms, and she was led away - the Aurors walked a little behind, at a distance of two steps, and instead of shackles on their dark wrists, gold bracelets clinked again.

Now Craig turned to him, chewed his lips, craned his neck, getting ready to speak. About Grindelwald or about Piquery, about elections or about obscura - any option could not be worse. Not feeling ready to restrain himself during another meaningless exchange of remarks, after which Craig would only blush deeper and look like an angry but powerless plucked goose, Percival hastily rose to his feet, bowed his head respectfully, hiding his gaze:

I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I have to go too. An urgent matter cannot be delayed at all.

On the threshold of the house, swaying, stood Vincent, disheveled, as if after a good beating. In a raspy voice, clutching his frequently heaving chest, he declared:

These are all garden gnomes, master. They went completely wild, probably because of the spring - they climbed into the basement and ruined a couple of pipes. I'm afraid your bathroom can't be used yet. I caught a couple of scoundrels, but there was one more, the third, the most nimble.

For Merlin's sake, feral garden gnomes? Right now?

Vincent raised his head and measured him with a look designed to say: “Look at what universal catastrophes I have to cope with while you’re not around.”

Feral garden gnomes. I have never seen worse than these.

Then you will have to forget about the dream of warming old bones in hot water with Madame Herbe’s infusion.

The guest wing bathroom is available and working properly, sir.

And Credence?

Vincent replied with a straight face:

Your guest is where he always is - in your precious library. Probably putting ink stains or dripping candle wax on another priceless book.

Percival exhaled slowly, feeling stronger than ever the desire to give up on everything and immediately go for a ticket on the ship. IN last letter Margaret had a barely hatched heather sprout wrapped in a rag soaked in a magical tincture - in the flight over the ocean it did not have time to dry completely. All you had to do was break it, knead it between your fingers, and it gave juice. For a long time, my hands smelled of rotten earth and the promise of future flowering.

The second bathroom was a little smaller than the master bathroom, a little darker, but it looked like it had been used much more often, the last time being as recently as half an hour before. The silver-framed mirror was fogged up, the air was humid and hot - a little sweet mint and an echo of the soft aroma of richly foaming soap from the pharmacy that Madame Herbe's cousin kept in New York. Its aromas easily permeated clothes and lay on the skin as an invisible fragrant film.

And under all the applied smells - lavender shampoo. Not concentrated sugary syrup in a bottle, but diluted - on dark hair. It’s almost impossible to catch such an aroma in its pure form and pour it back into the bottle. It lives for several hours, mixes with warm body odors, loses brightness, but gains depth. Is it so difficult to get used to it enough that you don’t even notice it on someone else, on yourself? Is it really that hard to catch? Maybe there is a special magic - to preserve everything fragile that you cannot see with your eyes or touch with your hand?

Percival rinsed his face with water, without wiping himself, and took out a razor, foam, and a shaving brush from a tiny cabinet, much more spacious inside. Wincing, he unbuttoned the collar of his stale shirt. He preferred to shave without the help of magic.

Suddenly I remembered how Credence stood in the same room, with his back turned to him and slightly hunched over - not because he wanted to appear smaller, but so that it would be more convenient for him to cut his hair. That day, Credence himself held out the scissors, almost for the first time truly allowing him to touch himself.

The hand naturally rested on the base of the neck in a natural gesture in which there was no desire to direct. The tips of the finger ran over the unevenly cut strands. Credence shuddered and exhaled:

The ones on the back of my head were impossible for me to reach myself.

Maybe it's not worth it?

It's necessary.

With each black strand falling into the sink, Credence’s face changed, his features became sharper. He reluctantly admitted:

In a dream, they grew to the shoulders, like their mother’s,” Credence suddenly smiled strangely. - I don’t want to remember.

The razor blade slid too quickly along the cheek, cutting the skin on the chin. Percival shook his head and put down the razor to heal the cut.

While changing into his home clothes, he almost fell asleep, but his head gradually became clearer.

The dining room table, long and heavy, was designed for dinner parties. Percival had long wanted to remove it or transfigure it into something simpler, but Vincent insisted on maintaining the old order. We dined in silence, opposite each other. In the twisted copper brazier, the coals flickered without cooling. Ruthless etiquette required that Percival sit at the head, and the guest at the opposite end of the table, but Credence was already too stiff, concentrated on chopping each piece of food until only crumbs remained, and each time he froze for a second before select a device. Etiquette could wait until better times.

The last to arrive were plates of thinly sliced ​​homemade apple pie. Tired of the lifeless silence, Percival caught Credence's gaze and put down his dessert fork - the silverware clattered loudly. He broke off a small piece of the pie with his fingers and winked.

Credence stared for a few moments, not understanding. Then the lips, darkened by wine, trembled. He laughed, very quietly, but sincerely, leaning back a little. Even as he turned his eyes back to his plate, Percival continued to hear the echo of that laughter.

The day after tomorrow Madame Herbe is waiting for us.

It’s as simple as that, as if at the snap of a finger: just now everything was going well, but now the moment is completely lost. I didn’t want to eat anymore, the pie became sticky and sticky in my mouth. Percival hastily corrected himself:

You. But I'd like to go, if you don't mind.

Credence narrowed his eyes slightly and said dryly:

Don't you have more important things to do the day after tomorrow?

He never asked for time or attention, and did not even ask his parents about the results of his search. Sometimes it seemed that it would be better to demand it - it would be easier to understand where the dividing line lies between care and importunity, between honesty and brutal directness.

It's necessary?

Percival nodded and continued:

We could go out into the yard. Or go down to the basement, it will be safer and warmer there.

Credence immediately shook his head: he never went down to the basement, he even avoided the stairs down - he probably couldn’t forget the one in which he was locked, in Mary Lou’s house.

So, into the yard.

In the hallway they threw a couple of old hunting jackets over their shoulders and walked out the door to the sleepy grumbling of portraits. It was still light, the sun was slowly melting into thick clouds somewhere behind the western wing. Percival lit a pair of lamps, one moved using a levitation spell so that the handle caught on the tail of the stone griffin above the entrance, the other left standing on the damp ground. He pulled out a long quill feather from his pocket and handed Credence his own magic wand - with the end that should have been taken forward:

You’re not supposed to have your own yet; it all depends on whether they give permission from the hospital. Mine is hardly suitable, but you can try something simple with it.

Levitation Charm?

Percival smiled:

I see that Vincent was not in vain killing himself because of how many candles we are translating in the library.

Credence carefully squeezed the wand and twirled it in his fingers. Nothing happened - Percival decided to take this as a good sign.

Wingardium Leviosa.

The pen did not move in the palm of my hand either on the first, or on the second, or on the tenth attempt. On the eleventh time, the glass in the lamp that remained below crackled and immediately burst, and a thin fracture passed along the ground beneath it. Credence stubbornly cast the spell one more time, the last time, closing his eyes tiredly when nothing happened. He turned away for a second, and then returned the wand without saying a word.

What if you repeat the same thing, but without a stick? Before this you succeeded. Have you tried to do magic yourself?

Sometimes, rarely, it is possible to brush the flame off a candle. Most often, no,” Credence shrugged his shoulders chillily and looked up. In the pale blue twilight it was impossible to see the facial expression, and the voice sounded tired, almost indifferent: “Please, let’s stop.”

Credence took the broken lamp and swayed slightly. He grabbed the doorknob and turned around:

Good dreams, Mr. Graves,” and disappeared into the darkness of the house. Percival was left watching in bewilderment as the last flickers of light faded into the night.

On the appointed day, at the appointed hour, Credence nervously ran his hand through his hair for the last time, without looking at his reflection above the collar of his shirt, and pulled down the cuffs that were trying to slip into the sleeves of his jacket.

Mr. Graves showed neither word nor glance that he noticed his agitation.

Ready? - He extended his hand.

The stone path was damp and slippery from the morning drizzle.

Credence reached out to meet him. Warm fingers quickly slid across the palm and gently grabbed the wrist. They were pushed into a narrow and cramped funnel and spun around with force. On the other side they were already waiting - the well-known heavy doors with the hospital guards forged from cast iron, baring their claws and fangs, opened in front of Credence again.

I can stay here,” Mr. Graves hesitated, as if he could not decide whether to take the next step or not. Credence flushed and shook his head:

You've seen the worst. It's unlikely to be any worse now. Maybe it's more shameful. But that’s okay,” and he was the first to cross the threshold.

He came back under the dome, which covered the Blackwell Island like a translucent bowl, only in the evening twilight. Outside the hospital, he finally took a breath of fresh air, took a deep breath, but continued to smell the potions on his clothes, the taste of bitter herbs on his tongue. His stomach was twisted from hunger, his legs and arms ached from long inactivity: first he had to wait until the meeting of healers ended, in the waiting room, among the patients. Then he stands for a long time in the center of a small protective circle, pretending that he still believes that he can achieve at least something from himself - the slightest success, a tiny magical spark. As if he still believes that all this actually makes sense.

The certificate, which had so many stamps that the handwritten letters could barely be seen under the bluish imprints, stated: “Physically healthy, but unstable, subject to observation. Self-control is weakened. Containing magical potential traumatizes both the magic and the wearer. The causes of injuries are mental. Eliminating them with the help of legilimency is possible, but at this stage it is not indicated, since it can be dangerous not only for the patient, but also for the healer.”

They touched him on the forearm. Credence quickly turned around, not immediately seeing who was standing behind him. It’s even funny: who else could it be?

Where to now?

Is there really a difference?

Mr. Graves shrugged and turned up his coat collar.

It's too cold to stand still. If you don’t want to Apparate home straight away, you can cross the river under the closed Queensboro and walk around the city until your legs get tired.

Then Queensboro. And then - on foot.

They reached a place where twisted steel cables grew from the dark skeleton of the bridge, breaking off a little further. The metal seemed alive: just a little - and these cables would have passed along the bottom of the East River and braided the opposite bank.

At a distance of several dozen steps from the water, a secret tunnel went into the ground. Credence stepped into it cautiously, expecting his shoes to sink into the mud. The walls will tremble, the stones holding them will be washed out of the recesses by the river and flood the entire island. However, the soil was dry.

The No-Majs who built this steel colossus have their own science, and we have ours,” Mr. Graves explained. - It works no worse.

At the other end, the tunnel ended in a cramped and filthy trading shop, in which all the goods had long been buried under dust. Credence almost stumbled, coughed, hitting painfully against some stuffed animal. Mr. Graves held him by the elbow, but immediately let go.

Behind the doors of the shop, without any transition, New York began - a crossroads of perfectly straight streets and avenues, smells, colors, past lives. If you gape here, your feet will be trampled in no time. Or even worse, they will send the evil eye or curse you. True, not now: Credence did not see Mr. Graves muttering anything or taking out his wand, but they carefully did not look at them, in such a crowd they did not even touch their clothes.

Credence would prefer this gift to any other: so that no one would look, touch, or notice. The chilled fingers in the gloves trembled.

Have you ever thought that I'm using you for my own purposes? - Mr. Graves said hoarsely, without slowing down or speeding up, as if he were a mechanism that was driven forward only by the habit of a clearly measured rhythm of steps. - Or will I use it in the future?

“I’m more trouble than I’m worth,” Credence replied. “I’m no good for anything, even with magic.” Nothing comes of it.

During the inspection, the wand offered by Mr. Henry, who had turned pale and lost his feigned kindness after Grindelwald's attack, seemed like a dead tree branch in his hand. The simplest spells, which even a child could handle, did not sound like that. Only flashes of magic remained - bright, painful, unpredictable. Madame Erbe frowned at them and covered her eyes with her hand.

This will pass. You were born into a family of magicians, their blood...

Are there not many squib children in magical families? - Credence grinned, strangely clearly imagining what he looks like from the outside: a spasm curls his tightly compressed lips, black eyes stand out on an ugly white face. Spawn of bad blood. - Without magic, I pose no danger, no one needs me, I have not crossed anyone’s path. Maybe this really isn't for me.

Does this upset you?

This makes you sad, Mr. Graves. You won’t understand, but it makes me even calmer.

For Mr. Grave, magic is an invisible ally that cannot be mistrusted; he would be horrified if he suddenly felt that it was not only not helping, but betraying. And Credence is used to it.

When nothing works out, I can force myself to believe that I am who I was considered to be all my life,” Credence said, not knowing why he answered so frankly: “The one I was raised to be.” Maybe I'm not a monster in true sense- a monster is never powerless - but there is no light in me. I killed those people.

Not you,” Mr. Graves countered.

A part of me. The one who always wanted this and turned out to be stronger than others.

If it were up to you, would you do the same now?

Credence paused in response, not knowing what to say, then shook his head. Mr. Graves exhaled.

So this part is not that strong.

You can't know for sure.

Mr. Graves waved his hand vaguely, then turned his face towards him. He smiled barely noticeably:

I know you. And that's quite enough, yes.

Because of the street light, it was difficult to make out the colors of signs and buildings; because of fragrances, ladies' perfumes and colognes of all sorts, my head was spinning. Credence, stopping abruptly, asked, feeling that his voice was drowning in a hundred others:

Enough walking.

Mr. Graves heard and nodded towards an unremarkable narrow alley with ropes stretched low and laundry that smelled of the street, city rush, bustle.

Stepping onto the path in front of the Graves family home, Credence threw his head back. Now the dizziness was almost pleasant.

In New York you can find everything except this: because of the lanterns and bulbs in fashionable signs, because of the spotlights that illuminate the space for almost a mile around you, you cannot see how the month cuts the sky with a thin, buttery yellow crescent.

Vincent grumbled that the spells that protected him from the winds were unraveling without the attention of the owner, like threads in a cloth worn out by time. There were drafts throughout the house.

After the hospital, Credence looked as if at first he was expecting something from him, and when he didn’t get it, he refused to raise his eyes at all. Percival was also waiting - two, three, hundreds of questions. “What happens next?”, “When can I leave?”, “Why are you doing this for me?” You think about each one that it can’t get any worse, until you hear the next one. It is not clear how to answer them, but one thing is certain: not answering at all or lying is the same as betraying trust.

While Credence tried to stay out of his way, Percival coped as he was used to: putting on a mask when alone with others and with himself. I wrote Margaret a long letter with assurances that everything was fine, it was so bland that I knew right away that she wouldn’t believe it. He certainly wouldn’t have believed it if he were her, but Una had already jumped from her perch in the old owlery, spread her colorful wings and caught air flow.

For the first time, there was time both to sort out overdue papers and to draw up a plan for appointments for next year, and even in order to answer Theseus, swollen with pride, to thank him for a copy of the book about magical creatures that his brother had been poring over so much. The book went to a prominent place in the library, where Credence would certainly see it. Percival went to MACUSA prison - at an odd time on a weekend.

At first, Grindelwald seemed to be sleeping, but as soon as the iron bolt at the top shook, he immediately began to speak, rolling over to the other side.

You've changed somehow, Mr. Graves. Have you changed your tailor? Hairdresser? No, it seems that’s not it...

Let’s not waste minutes,” Percival for the first time allowed himself not to hide behind cold politeness: he interrupted Grindelwald and sat down on the dry straw mat that he brought with him. - A prisoner’s time may have no price, but mine is dear to me.

I see you are determined today. I wasn't expecting you. However, I never wait for anyone, so as not to be disappointed. Time flows differently here. You'll never guess what time or day it is.

Tell me something I don't know and they'll bring you a watch.

I’ve already told you a lot, but it’s not enough for you. I suppose Picquery is already breathing the sea air in some closed resort for failed officials while I'm locked up here.

Percival shuddered against his will: how disgusting the darkness was around. Grindelwald continued:

Even the blood here fades over time - it becomes liquid, like that weak water that you call soup for prisoners. And transparent, like real water.

If you don't like prisons, you shouldn't have done everything to end up in one. You could at least not get caught. Or, once you've been caught, don't be killed alive - you love theatrical gestures.

Grindelwald shrugged his shoulders with pleasure.

I do not regret anything. Of course, you can always bribe the guard and take poison, but a beautiful and meaningless death in dungeons is for the young. At our age, it's worth taking care to leave a legacy behind. Becoming a martyr without achieving real results is not my goal.

Aren't you in a hurry to be free?

So far I'm happy with everything. It's quiet and cool here, and it's great to think in solitude. Darkness and detachment are ideal conditions for tuning into the right mood and looking into the depths of the past. And even the future, if you're lucky. Besides, where else could you and I see each other so often? The head of the Auror himself comes to me, all I have to do is snap my fingers.

Not enough reasons for a rational person, as for me,” Percival noted.

On the contrary, the reasons are just right,” Grindelwald objected. - I love this game passionately, and you are a good opponent. Not the best I've known, but at least in the top three. It's worth trying to remember how to play it.

- “Steal from a thief, deceive a liar,” I would call it that. Perhaps you can choose a better name.

I didn’t know that you perceived our meetings this way.

How else should I perceive them? How are the interrogations? It's too boring. I like to think that one day you and I will both put aside our roles to speak frankly,” Grindelwald said. - So why not turn an unpleasant duty, which you just have to put up with, into entertainment for both you and me?

Grindelwald smiled - as if it was a friendly conversation, truly pleasant for both parties:

Both. I love pulling the tiger's whiskers.

Then it's time to stop this farce.

Percival rose sharply from his seat - his feet and legs instantly began to tingle from the rushing blood, he felt dizzy, and his chest felt tight. The cage was made of stone, which did not like living heat and movement. From every creature that fell into the trap, he tried to extract more strength: the more you rush around, the more you get stuck in this web. Grindelwald couldn't help but notice the momentary hesitation. He winked knowingly.

I wouldn’t like to keep you, but if you leave, you definitely won’t know anything. But for some reason you came here when I called you... What is this, sincere interest? Dedication? Previously, you could have refused, but not with this ancient warrior at the head of magical America. I warned. It would be better if you became the new president.

“I’m not a common fortune teller who has eaten too many hallucinogenic mushrooms,” Grindelwald bared his teeth, revealing yellowed, strong teeth.

Thinning, dry skin stretched tightly around the skull, and the bloodshot whites of the eye sockets glittered feverishly. Percival automatically felt for his wand and prepared to instantly take it out of his sleeve, although he was sure that Grindelwald would not be able to escape from his bonds. There are no unnecessary precautions.

If you don’t want to listen, there is no point in the deal. “You can tell your president that,” Grindelwald snapped and sweetly promised: “And when a new one comes to replace him, you will be given a warm bed next to mine.” Then we'll talk.

Percival exhaled slowly, silently counting the beats of his heart, pounding loudly in his throat and echoing in his ears. He said as conciliatoryly as possible:

I'm listening to. Keep your part of the deal, just like I did mine last time.

He shook off the straw that had stuck to his sleeves, showing with all his appearance that he would not go anywhere until he waited for an answer.

That’s where we had to start,” Grindelwald nodded. - However, there is nothing to listen to here. I have no more fairy tales for you, only advice: take a closer look at the newspapers. It will soon become clear who else wants the presidency for themselves.

They've been writing about this for three weeks now, nothing new.

Oh, you'll be surprised, I'm sure. It’s not difficult to guess who they are calling now. Of course, yesterday’s Judge Craig,” Grindelwald clicked his tongue unpleasantly. - Maybe, Prosecutor Berg.

He bowed his head in a mock gesture of respect.

Of course, you yourself, Mr. Chief Auror. Some of the most naive hope for the return of Pikveri, but this will not happen. So consider this: one heavy crown and only three heads - not enough candidates for the high throne.

Will anyone else show up?

You see how well we understand each other, I don’t even have to move my tongue. Someone else will definitely appear, Mr. Graves. And if you don’t pay attention to him, he will pay attention to you, that’s what he knows how to do. It’s not for nothing that the old scoundrel officially owns the Mercury newspaper and unofficially owns a damn dozen others.

Are you talking about Shaw? The sons are too young for fasting, and the old man is busy managing the Mercury. This is impossible.

They had met before, at a couple of extremely boring and pointless presidential receptions: the tightly built Henry Shaw, who was built like a retired boxer, always shook hands firmly and looked into the face, but never made direct eye contact. Picquerie couldn't stand him, but she had no choice. Money picked up the key to any door.

There's only one real show, Mr. Graves. The old man will divide the shares between his wife and sons, put the eldest in his chair, and appoint the younger as editor-in-chief. It remains to settle some minor formalities. If I were you, I wouldn't worry about Craig, but about him.

Percival chuckled.

And you know all this thanks to visions?

No matter how great the temptation is to continue to scare you with something that for some reason you don’t believe in, I won’t lie. “Grindelwald looked at him seriously: “Someone managed to whisper about this while I was negotiating a port key to your Lawgall.” The most beautiful places, I must say, but from the point of view of a city dweller, they are still wilds. Even with a map, it’s easy to get lost, and if you get lost in the wasteland of evil fairies, no amount of magic can save you.

He closed his eyes dreamily, and Percival suddenly clearly remembered what he thought when he saw him on the threshold next to Albus Dumbledore, watched as his wand rested on Credence’s chest, heard Margaret hold her breath. As a child, he promised to protect the whole world from imaginary bloodthirsty monsters, but instead brought a real enemy to own house, the devil who doesn't need an invitation to enter.

He said:

I advise you to get a good defender, Mr. Grindelwald, before it's too late. If you can find at least one person who will protect you.

Grindelwald cracked his knuckles and answered lightheartedly:

I think I know a magician who has taken on difficult cases in the recent past. And he even won.

If you are talking about Dumbledore, then his prosecutor Berg will call him a witness for the prosecution.

How's that? This means he will definitely be present. It's enough.

Grindelwald paused, then continued in the same tone:

How strange, don't you think? For the juiciest gossip, you come to a person who has no access to the outside world, doesn’t see anyone, doesn’t wait for anyone.

No stranger than everything that's been happening lately.

And that's true, Mr. Graves.

The curtains in the bedroom were heavy, made of thick fabric that did not wrinkle even if you squeeze it in your fist. Large birds flew along it towards the sun embroidered at the top - tucking in their long slender legs, arching their necks, with each beat of their wing leaving the ground further and further away from them. As soon as the curtains were tied with a wide ribbon during the day, the room not only became brighter and warmer, but Credence left only one drawn back, so that the twilight concealed his thoughts, hid his feelings, and changed his face.

The rain brought down the dust. The old almond tree, which had stood like a black angular statuette in the snow all winter, had not yet had time to put out its leaves, blossomed. Under the gusts of the spring wind, the first flower flew onto the barely visible grass in the shade, through the windows, and circled around the garden in white flakes. There, outside the window, there was spring - to see and feel it, you didn’t even need to step outside the threshold. Winter remained in the house. It took no effort to hear her heavy tread. Sometimes it seemed to Credence that it was a house doomed to live too long that was breathing.

On Friday Mr. Graves returned with a couple of letters - from Margaret, from Newt - gave them to Credence and, without saying anything, went up to his room. And he returned with a heavy hammer and several planed wooden stakes in his hand, without a jacket or vest, in a loose shirt, clean but old, with a wide open collar. Hair without wax fell into strands and covered the forehead.

Can you help? - asked Mr. Graves, hastened to explain: - Where overripe apples fell a couple of years ago, shoots have risen, but without support they will break, forecasts promise hurricane winds. Vincent could do this, but I still prefer to do some things myself. It is high time.

Credence blinked and said in surprise, not noticing the magic wand with him:

Will you do everything manually? Without magic?

My father tried to dig in the ground to please my mother, but over time he abandoned any attempts to become an exemplary owner,” Mr. Graves chuckled and put the hammer aside for a minute to roll up his sleeves. “I’m afraid I’m even less useful in this matter, but you’ll never know if you don’t try, right?”

Credence nodded, trying not to watch as Mr. Graves unwound a coil of rope - wide wrists often flashed, the twine slipped easily between his fingers.

Blue, bellied clouds with yellowish rags at the edges slowly trudged from the west, and the wind grew stronger. The almond tree, which had taken root far from its native land, kept losing its color.

The soil was soft, the stakes went in easily - for the last couple of weeks, even after the coldest nights, there was not a hint of a crust of ice. Mr. Graves wearily ran his black-stained back hand across his sweat-covered forehead and cursed quietly when he saw the smudged mark on his fingers. Credence held out his handkerchief.

Margaret would have given a lot to see me covered in mud, once again deciding to play gardener. - Mr. Graves looked seriously, but Credence heard a good-natured grin in his tone: - Thank you. In this matter, I will not surpass your skills even after a millennium.

This is how it is in the community: everyone who feeds from the land must first learn to feed this land. This is not what I wanted to do. I didn't dream about it, but I got used to it.

What did you dream about?

Only about what I could imagine and saw in front of me. I wanted to find my own piece of land, even if it was in a bad or mountainous area, and go there for good. Build even the tiniest shed in which you can hide from snow and rain...

And one day start a family?

Credence vaguely shrugged his shoulders so as not to say out loud what he was thinking: in the families he saw then, they read the Bible instead of any books, they fed sick children with prayers and hunger instead of bread. He did not wish such a fate on anyone.

Margaret laughed that she would marry me to her friend, but this was just a joke. - Mr. Graves shook his head: - As soon as people hear the name “Graves”, they immediately begin to see not me, but the position. MACUSA pays annual compensation to the widows and orphans of the Aurors who died in the line of duty, I put a personal stamp on the extension of the order. I used to think that I would die the same death, I remembered my mother’s face at my father’s funeral and did not want to cause someone the same pain.

Credence turned away, pretending to be busy checking to see if the stakes were holding firmly. I managed to bite my tongue before a new question burst out: was there a woman, was there... another person for whom it was worth trying?

Mr. Graves leaned over for the hammer and beckoned him back into the house.

Let's go before you get all wet. The rain only seems warm, it’s easier to catch a cold under it.

Credence stealthily picked up the dropped handkerchief and touched the soft fabric. He touched the handkerchief again before going to bed, trying to convince himself that he felt on the stained surface an echo of bodily warmth, a dull shadow of a living touch that did not exist and could not exist: fingers, neck, cheeks would be pricked by someone else’s stubble.

A hot shiver ran from the back of my head to my heels, reverberating sweetly in my blood.

Portraits of the younger Shaw were not published in newspapers, and the name “Langdon” did not appear on the lists of important guests invited to buffet tables. He looked neither like his brother nor his father: brown hair, deep-set grey-green eyes, a discreet suit and pleasant but inconspicuous features. An ideal appearance for a fussy staff reporter at the Mercury, who even in the best of times gets paid no more than a nickel per story, but not for a corporate heir. It’s easy to trust someone like that, tell about yourself, and after a week you won’t remember his face.

Shaw opened the door immediately after knocking, walked quickly into the office, not listening to Abernathy's loud objections and threats to call security, and stopped in the center, not reaching the desk. He introduced himself, but never extended his hand.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Shaw, but next time I strongly recommend that you first coordinate the meeting with the secretary,” Percival nodded to Abernathy, waited until he closed the door tightly, and did not get up. - Reception hours are from eleven to two. It's only eight in the morning. Did something so urgent bring you to me? If not, would you be so kind as to leave and not come in until eleven?

Three days ago someone broke into our house. Some papers were stolen from my father's safe.

Marvelous. I thought there was no one in the whole country who could keep secrets better than your family. This is the first time I've heard about this.

Shaw stretched his lips into a smile, casual and calm, as if he was deliberately measuring it to the hundredth of an inch - no more, no less. There was not an ounce of sincerity in her.

Right. Because no one said a word about it. The secretaries were fired, the house elves were punished, the father was still furious, but the contents of the safe were too ambiguous to go to MACUSA with.

And what was there?

Shaw lowered the dark folder that he had previously been holding in his hands and pushed it towards him along the smooth table.

Much. Take a look for yourself. This is only part of the stolen documentation. There are other folders left in stock - something about you, something about us.

I'm afraid this is not enough to warrant unceremoniously showing up in my office. Is there anything worthwhile? - asked Percival, preparing in advance for unpleasant discoveries.

An old tale about a missing child from a magical family. I hope now I'm of interest to you.

Percival ran his hand over the documents, not finding any charms, and began to leaf through: a marriage and birth certificate, typed reports about the tragedy in Louisiana, a certificate of two deaths in a fire, the testimony of an inconsolable father and husband. Conclusions from sorcerers, dates that said nothing, names, names...

Take a closer look, Mr. Graves,” Shaw came closer and tapped the page with his index finger. - Do you see the seal of Congress anywhere? She's gone. The archival originals were destroyed, these are the last copies.

Where..?

Papers are unreliable. Even imbued with spells, they burn easily, especially when they pay well for it.

A reliable and convenient way to forget.

Of course,” Shaw agreed. - But human memory lives longer, especially the memory of the one who wrote about it. The profession of a journalist dictates revealing the truth, not hiding it. The only people better than the old newspapermen in this matter are the city madmen, but no one, thank Merlin, listens to what they say.

How will I know that the papers are genuine? - asked Percival.

No way. You'll have to trust me. Just like I trusted you.

If it can be proven that your family is involved in hiding the secret, I might try my luck in court. Even with copies.

It's unlikely you'll speak.

Are you going to threaten me? Force you to take an unbreakable vow of silence?

There will be no need for threats,” Shaw answered confidently: “If you decide to turn to those who are higher in position than you, of course they will believe you.” Auror Graves is an honest man from an old family, if not with money, then certainly with connections. But the Shaw family has more. And who will support you now, in this confusion, without fearing for their own skin?

I would have driven him away, but my hands were burning pages that turned out to be impossible to find in any other way. Percival leaned back and looked into his eyes. Shaw was calm and continued slowly:

Old man Craig is not liked for his integrity, Berg is too vain, and you were considered a candidate only because you became a hero for an hour. It was the newspapers that created you. From an obscurus we made an unfortunate orphan, from a stubborn fool - his savior. Lovely story. But it can be turned inside out. My father has not yet become president, but he will certainly become one. It's not that hard to hook every official in Congress.

Percival immediately moved the folder away from him and closed it without finishing reading it.

It worked perfectly with Picquery, didn't it, Mr. Shaw? You withheld the information, then sold it or gave it away for free to Grindelwald. Would you like to repeat the same trick with me?

Staring at the copper astrolabes as if he had come just for the opportunity to admire them, Shaw thoughtfully remarked:

Everyone has skeletons in their closet.

Will you offer information in exchange for my support in the elections? - asked Percival. Shaw shrugged.

Father said you weren't for sale before. Are you ready to bargain now?

Percival suddenly remembered how a month ago he sat opposite Craig in the tobacco-smelling office that had recently belonged to Picquery, and he confidently insisted that he would offer a deal to even Mordred and Morgana if he had to.

I wasn’t ready before, but the last year has changed a lot,” he answered, not giving himself time to change his mind. - So what do you want in return?

If everything is as Shaw describes, as Grindelwald predicts mockingly, as if an old raven who has seen countless worlds of the dead and the living, little depends on his decision. But the folder with documents is real, it lies in front of him: reach out and take it, if you want, even right now. And waiting at home is Credence, who lately has been looking as if he knows everything, feels everything, and confirms without words: it’s very simple. Reach out and take it.

Shaw, without waiting for an invitation, sank into a chair and spoke with a tired expression on his face:

I've seen your file, Mr. Graves. Not what is considered official, or the second, closed one, from the archives of MACUSA employees. What was left in my father's office. It's enough for me. The father may firmly believe in the power of money and power, the brother is too accustomed to the fact that they do not resist him. Personally, I don't think you would allow someone to keep you on a chain as tame dog. And your boy will no longer allow you to wear a collar. I saw photographs of the place that used to be called Bethany, and I understand: you shouldn’t play with fire.

Get to the point.

My father and brother and I have a difficult relationship, but I don’t want them to be sent into oblivion. Grindelwald is an unreliable ally. One day there will come a day when luck will not be on our side. On a day like this I'll need a favor.

“You came to my office in person,” Percival noted. “Aren’t you afraid that someone will suspect you of collaborating with an Auror?”

Shaw chuckled.

Should you make a date in the dead of night in a dark forest? I doubt that in this case you would agree to listen to me. I'm never home at eight on Monday morning. If anyone suspects anything, it will be a couple of sleepy Aurors, and you will be able to rein them in.

We need evidence of your family's cooperation with Grindelwald and guarantees of the authenticity of the documents. As collateral.

I won't give you proof until the situation becomes hopeless.

So, friendly services are not my profile.

I don't need a friend's favor. The services of an enemy who knows how to keep his word will suffice. Make up your mind, Mr. Graves,” Shaw held out his palm: “I’ll give you the folder, you promise that in the future you won’t cut your teeth if the investigation concerns my family.” Let's shake hands. Or I'll take everything I brought with me.

Percival thought that he would not have time to return before the rain, but the storm did not begin, it was greedily accumulating strength. It hovered until nightfall. Lightning struck in complete darkness, illuminated the overgrown thickets of cherry bushes that had not been trimmed for a long time, and snatched the twisted trunk of an almond tree from the darkness. The thunder hurt my ears. The clouds scraped their bottom along the very roof, peeling off the roof, promising to crush the entire house under them.

Credence shuddered from the first blow, settled more comfortably in a chair closer to the fireplace, and pulled his legs under him. Turning his face to the fire - yellow, orange flashes licked his cheekbones, a blush went down his neck to his chest - as if he accidentally touched the amulet, he asked:

What kind of magic is this?

The invisible touch made my fingers tingle, as if the chain was in my own hand. My lower back was wet under my thin shirt, and the fabric on the back of the chair seemed unpleasantly scratchy. Percival leaned forward slightly. Answered:

Reliable protection charms. Not ideal, however. I cast the spell on the amulet when I was still an inexperienced boy.

An inexperienced boy who learned combat spells too early and only much later realized that it was easy to attack first. It is much more difficult to protect yourself and others.

How do they work?

The amulet senses the owner's affections. In Margaret he recognized his own blood and therefore could convey her anxiety to me.

So it's useless in the future? This won't work with you, with me?

Credence stood up and looked carefully, as if the answer could decide his fate. It was as if he himself had decided, once he had taken the first step, to never step back.

Good,” Credence suddenly quickly knelt down in front of him, muttered quickly and inaudibly, clutching the armrest: “This is right, this is good.”

The hand reached out on its own - to touch the caller, one’s own, to pull the heated chain away from the body, to rub the sweat-covered skin. Press the protective amulet a little. Stroke the Adam's apple, the curve of the neck, the collarbone with your fingertips, without bending the wide collar, without crossing this last border - without daring to do this, not yet.

Credence closed his eyes. He carelessly swayed forward on his knees, as if he was about to fall, but at the last moment he changed his mind. He pulled him towards him, pressed his forehead to his forehead, rubbed his cheek against his cheek - dry hot skin over the stubble - and shuddered, getting burned, but did not move away. It fused even stronger. He shook his head and slid his fingers along the edge of his collar, his chin, his temple. Finally he exhaled: exhaustedly, slowly, as if even breathing was not easy for him now.

I wish I could catch this exhalation, draw it in, lock it, keep it in my chest - Percival managed to think. And then I forgot to think about everything: the corner of my mouth was briefly touched by someone else’s lips, tightly closed, rough. Awkward, with a thin thread of a whitish scar crossing out the upper one, with a slightly swollen curve of the lower one.

Credence?

He groaned dully, stepped back and opened his eyes. With a heavy gaze, in the dim depths of which the reflections of the fire were still not extinguished, he looked around the living room and jerked to his feet. Without turning around once, he flew up the stairs, throwing in the tattered words at the end:

Good night, Mr. Graves.

The footsteps upstairs quickly died away. Percival clenched his hand into a fist, pressed it forcefully into his thigh, and without a wand forced the window open. The thunderstorm passed, the cold of the night poured into the open doors, but the air, saturated with tension, still crackled and did not allow one to take a normal breath.

He took out the folder he had bargained with Shaw and called for a wide, low glass of firewhisky. He began to read, stopping every now and then, running his palm over each page - not to make sure that he really held in his hands everything that he had been looking for for so long, not to erase from the paper the past, which it is better not to know, it is better to simply forget.

In the morning you will have to get yourself in order, take a disgusting hangover potion, and go upstairs. Call Credence. Looking into his eyes, not thinking about how much easier it would be to just hand over the folder, speak. Or never mention it, burn the documents, pretend that what was lost cannot be returned - it will be easier. And more dishonestly: Credence deserved the truth.

One glass is not enough. If Vincent finds another empty bottle, he won’t say a word himself, but will certainly whisper a secret to his aunt’s portrait, but it will certainly begin to crack until his head swells. The firewhisky made sweat flow and his vision blurred, but Percival poured more into the glass. Everything else - in the morning. The morning is still far away.

The bushes were broken by a hurricane, the whole yard was covered with wet branches - as if there had been a flood here in the evening, and with the onset of night all the water went into the ground, leaving only darkened stone walls that did not have time to dry, and flat puddles that looked like old silver mirrors.

Should I stop? - asked Mr. Graves.

Credence looked away from the window, sat up straight, and put his hands on his knees.

No Please. I'm listening to.

Gustav Giri, a magician, was born in one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven in magical America. First marriage to an unnamed American woman, no children. The wife died, left the family home in Louisiana and small funds. The second marriage is for the sake of heirs, with a girl of Spanish origin from an impoverished family.

Mr. Graves spoke, peering at the papers he held in his hands, quickly leafing through them as he walked. He called other people's names - so as not to utter other words: “your father”, “your mother”. Previously, Credence imagined how just the sound of their names would make him feel better, a piece of his soul would return to its place, closing the gap that was painfully responsive to any touch.

The second wife is Mercedes, her ability to bear a child was confirmed by the invited witch doctor. Whether she was forced to marry or agreed voluntarily is unknown, but from the moment the union was concluded, Gustav Giri wrote a check for a large sum every six months for her family.

Credence listened attentively, repeated to himself, trying to smell and taste: “Gustav Geary”, “Mercedes”. It didn't get any easier. The names of the parents did not move the stone slab that separated the memory of early childhood, not an inch. They remained dead. The story of one’s own life, dimmed by the passing years, remained yet another story about shadows, ghosts, and the dead.

The marriage was registered on August 8, 1904; eight and a half months later, Mercedes gave birth to her first child, who died a week later due to an accident. A year later she gave birth to a healthy son. At the same time, the illness began to manifest itself - the house-elfs noticed that Mercedes stood silently over the crib at night, did not let the child go from her, muttering something about a family curse sent by an envious brucha.

Mr. Graves stopped, cleared his throat, and looked up from the paper.

Are you sure you're ready to hear this right now?

Credence nodded, hid his hands behind his back, and grabbed his left wrist with his right fingers until it hurt. He bit the inside of his cheek. Mr. Graves frowned and continued reading, now without pausing:

To avoid a repetition of the tragedy, the child was taken from his mother, locked with a couple of house-elf nurses in the old wing, doped with sleep grass or laudanum: they were cheaper than a potion. The boy was physically healthy, but spoke little, did not make contact with his father and did not show magical abilities up to four years.

Credence could barely make out the words and forgot to breathe.

Mercedes could not bear the separation from her son, and every day she plunged deeper into madness, until one day she started a fire. The Louisiana home of Geary's first wife burned to the ground. Gustav Geary believed that his son had inherited his mother’s illness, and, not wanting to continue to consider him his own, paid a couple of officials to have the boy sent to an orphanage for No-Majs. The fake death certificate listed him as the second victim of the fire.

Credence forced out a hoarse voice:

Gustav Giri sold off his remaining property in America and moved to France, where he married for the third time. There is no information about him after the end of the Great War. - Mr. Graves finished: - Maybe he died during the fighting of the No-Majs, or maybe he survived - it’s impossible to say for sure.

This is all?

Soft nod:

Everything we could find.

My head was spinning, I could hear my heart beating deafeningly loudly in my chest.

Ma was right: bad seed, bad family. Nine months in the womb of a woman who had gone crazy, four years in the house of a man who did not want to accept him as he was born. Credence had his mother's hair, her eyes, her dreams about a house with dark mirrors in the middle of the swamps. Her madness is just another gift passed down by inheritance.

Old scars suddenly appeared on the palms of the hands - pale, almost imperceptible stripes swelled again dark red, then opened. Blood flowed. The glass of the lamp on the table crackled, ready to burst, and the fire flared in the fireplace. The floor no longer felt solid. Credence felt fear awakening inside: cracks were about to creep under his feet, trembling would roll down the walls, smoke would pour out of his throat...

Mr. Graves took a step towards him, but Credence shook his head, clenched his fingers tightly, pressing his nails into the wounds, reveling in the way that with each flash of pain, for a short moment, other sensations passed and only a ringing emptiness remained. He said through his teeth:

I used to think that all you have to do is really want it, and the magic will return. Now I don't know who I am. What if I have a curse? What if I bring trouble to everyone around me? Modesty and Chastity, Ma and Mrs. Simmons, to you... If I drove my real mother to madness and killed the second one, the one who took me? - Credence grimaced, but finished: - There was never a place for me there, among ordinary people, but there is no place here either.

Mr. Graves answered firmly, without moving from his place:

After Bethany you were examined in the hospital, they checked everything they could. If you had alien dark magic on you, it would have been discovered a few months ago. As for the rest, magicians are not so different from No-Majs. We also get sick and go crazy. It’s just more convenient for some healers to explain their powerlessness with dark magic.

This is true?

True, if you believe me.

Mr. Graves pulled out his wand - Credence, without having time to think about anything, instinctively stepped back. He whispered something and ran his hand lightly and quickly: one, two, three. The skin was suddenly cut by long stripes running across the palm, crossing out the line of fate. The cuts came out so thin that the blood did not appear immediately, but then quickly ran in thin streams down the arm, along the snow-white sleeve, instantly soaking the fabric.

Mr. Graves examined his hand, as if he did not notice how the drops stained his clothes and the floor, and raised it to the light:

Do you see? My blood is the same as yours.

Someone else’s palm touched his palm, some cuts covered others. A sharp pain seeped from the temples and forehead down the throat into the insides, burned the thighs, legs, feet with fire and just as suddenly disappeared.

Credence closed his eyes and blindly walked towards where the hand holding his wrist, warm and wet with blood, pulled him.

Six years ago, shortly before Pikveri became president, his father’s retiring friend, Ulysses Johannes, invited him to England with him - to change his place of work and simply move closer to his remaining family. Percival initially refused. I doubted that becoming the chief of security at Gringotts was all that honorable or interesting, for that matter: every day in the dungeons, among the arrogantly looking goblins who had served in the bank for generations, it would not take long to die of boredom. Yesterday's prosecutor Johannes, collecting his briefcase for the last time, laughed good-naturedly, squinting his eyes half-blindly:

That's the whole point of this, son. I’d rather drink Irish firewhisky out of boredom in the mists of Albion than here - out of the realization of how much I didn’t manage to do. Believe me, if you don't leave now, the right time will never come. Shouldn't you know?

Percival saw Johannes off and promised to come in a week, or at most in two, just to finish things off. I even bought a roomy suitcase and made a list of what to take with me. And the longer the list became, the less Percival thought about moving.

Johannes wrote, but did not ask for a decision, and Percival did not know how to refuse. Then they elected Pikveri and it seemed - this is it. The moment after which everything will go differently, not the same as before. If not better, then certainly a little easier, without having to prove every time that he is not too young for his position, not too soft, but not too cold and distant.

For six years, almost nothing has changed in the prosecutor's office - the same elaborate furniture inherited from Johannes's fifth-last predecessor, hidden under rough covers, the same low-hanging chandeliers with lampshades made of cloudy green crystal. Only the owner is new, in a brand new suit, in boots polished by the elves who served in the courthouse until they were so clean that their socks reflected the folds of Berg’s frill collar and sideburns, behind which his face was almost invisible.

Percival was led inside by a young witch, looking at Berg with undisguised adoration, coquettishly straightening her skirt, without losing her delight even when he threw, without noticing her:

You can go now, Dolores, coffee is in an hour as usual.

Percival shifted from foot to foot and suddenly felt that he had an absurdly strong desire to clasp his hands behind his back - not his own, someone else's, a stolen gesture. A gesture from Credence, who kissed him the day before yesterday, and yesterday slashed his palms, without even understanding how he did it.

How is your protégé? In good health, I hope? Not going to kill anyone yet? - Berg began, smiling unpleasantly.

“You have no reason to love me,” interrupted Percival, not finding the patience for endless pauses and shuffling for the sake of etiquette. - But after I finish, you will have no reason not to believe me.

He pulled out papers from his briefcase.

What is this? - Berg asked almost disgustedly. Percival, gritting his teeth tighter, forced himself to remember why it was worth enduring.

A folder with papers that miraculously fell underground almost twenty years ago. I could have gone with her to Craig, to the Chief Secretary of the Confederacy, or to Congress, but I came to you, Mr. Berg. I think that's worth something. Please keep this a secret. There is reason to assert that Henry Shaw Sr., who recently announced his candidacy for the presidency, is collaborating with Grindelwald - voluntarily selling or giving away information for free about those he wants to eliminate from his path. Give me time and I'll get the evidence.

“Not a single decent magician would immediately apparate into a house, his own or someone else’s, much less move using apparation inside the house,” his father often repeated, measuring him and Margaret with a stern look. “You yourself often change this rule,” his mother scolded him with a smile. I remembered this, and with age it became second nature: if you are a friend to the owners, knock on the door first. It's the same with your home. Ten steps from the gate along the paved path, another ten to the steps. Enough time to take a breath, to leave everything outside that is better not to let in after you.

Credence was already waiting on the porch, with bandaged palms mindlessly stroking the wing of the stone griffin, which was squinting from the caress. Percival knew for sure that he would see him before he stepped onto the path. He imagined cold cheeks, pale lips, eyes dry to the point of redness in the shadow of hair falling on his forehead. I thought: well, here it is, what Grindelwald was talking about with an evil grin. Something you don’t notice for the time being, and then it’s too late to turn away or run away.

Have you given everything to the prosecutor?

Until the last sheet.

Okay,” Credence nodded and turned around. Percival held him by the sleeve to end it. No more waiting, guessing on the tea leaves and always making mistakes, and no longer making Credence himself wait. But instead of what I was thinking about, I asked something else, the right one:

I didn't tell you right away. Did you want to know your name? The one your parents gave you?

Credence shook his head, stubbornness flashing in his eyes.

I already have mine. I don’t need others, strangers. “He shrugged his shoulder, licked his dry lips, carefully testing the noticeable crack next to the scar with his tongue. “I always thought that my family was taken away from me.” But now I don’t know. Crazy mother, indifferent father - would I be better off with them than with Ma?

Maybe everything was wrong...

Don’t,” a hand suddenly touched my chest and froze just above my solar plexus. - You did what you promised, as best you could. And enough is enough for both of us.

The fingers trembled barely noticeably. Percival squeezed them, covering them with his hand for a moment, and then let them go completely:

Let's go inside. We need to see how the wounds heal.

In the warmth, Credence shrugged his shoulders, shook the evening dew from his hair and jacket, and hesitated:

I don't want you to see the scars.

I have already seen them in Bethany and after.

This is different.

Credence turned in profile, warming his cold hands - the bandages were rubbing against each other, against the damaged skin that was not healed by healing spells. Yesterday it was only by a miracle that we managed to stop the bleeding. The wounds were painful to look at.

They can be removed with magic,” Percival said.

Hide? - Credence asked.

No, erase it completely,” he answered.

I don’t want to forget,” he shook his head.

They will not be forgotten. Scars are never forgotten. But looking in the mirror will become a little easier.

Do you remember yours?

Every.

Why then did you get rid of them?

Percival twisted out of his coat, tangling in his sleeves, threw off his jacket, unbuttoned and folded up the stale cuffs.

Some made my face too noticeable. This is incompatible with working in the Auror.

Tell me,” Credence asked, raising a painfully honest look.

There was one along the spine - a mark from a whip, which one warlock used to whip stolen children, from whom she was going to raise obedient slaves. There was a crescent moon from the ricocheting spell of another Auror, below the heart - that was the only thing that saved him. There was a tiny nodule above the right temple, dividing the brow ridge almost in half, the most recent one.

From Grindelwald.

Credence didn’t ask - he asserted, gathering his lowered palm into a fist.

From him, yes.

Here? - cool fingers touched his temple, drew a zigzag upward, to the hairline, then slid along the bridge of his nose, blindly stroking his cheekbone.

Here,” Percival answered hoarsely.

So, it was necessary to erase it,” Credence said harshly, grabbed Percival’s hand and placed it on top of his own: “Let no one know.”

Their fingers interlocked with those of others, rough ones. The bandage scratched my palm.

Before it’s too late... - Percival began and didn’t finish. I knew, I felt that now it was too late and there was no other way. If not for his own sake, then for Credence’s sake, he forced himself to shut up.

Credence grabbed his wrist and pulled. He ran Percival's fingers, so obedient as if they were under an irresistible spell, along his cheek. He exhaled noisily, suddenly fixed his gaze somewhere between the collarbones, and said in a slurred tongue, slowly choosing the words:

If you ask now what it is, I won’t answer, because I don’t know, I don’t know... I don’t understand how to say. And how to ask you for something more without stealing again, leaving nothing in return.

Percival twitched drunkenly and took a deep breath. He said in his ear, basking in Credence’s proximity and warming him with his own:

Then don't answer.

The neck under his collar was wet, salty, spicy, but without any sharp notes of fear. Only a light perspiration, from which the skin smells a little differently than usual - deeper, stronger, so that you could bury your face in it and breathe.

It became hot - like in a steam room, only much better. It was possible not to say anything, not to explain. Bite your earlobe, listening to the convulsive exhalation. Slide along the pulsating point under the jaw, marveling at how strong and attractive someone else's desire to live can be - with it you can endure anything, you can endure anything. You will learn to accept everything with joy, and not divide it into “you can” and “you can’t.”

What happens if something happens to me while you're not around? What if the amulet works?

The question took me by surprise. Percival pulled away and hit the wall painfully with his elbow. He felt Credence grab his forearm - not just to hold him in place, not to hold himself.

Don't know. “It will probably hurt me,” he answered, confused.

As much as me?

Percival shook his head, looking into his feverishly shining eyes.

Don't know. Maybe.

It's bad, it's hard. I don’t want this,” Credence sharply jerked the chain so that the finely made links clanged. The castle trembled, but withstood. There was a mark on my neck, like a burn.

“Listen, look at me,” Percival spoke quickly, and thought to himself: it was hard to convince you, moving your feet through the greasy ashes, to rise from the Bethan soil. It's hard to put your body on your back in the hospital on the night of Grindelwald's attack. It's hard to watch you go crazy without coming to your senses. It’s easy to endure the same thing yourself.

He pushed Credence towards the chair, sat him down, sank down between his spread knees, and sat down on his heels. I made myself comfortable, not even remembering that my back was making itself felt after an unsuccessful mission a couple of months ago. He pulled Credence to him again, for the last time: he mentally promised that he would not do it again, so that it would not occur to him that he was being treated like a doll.

The echo of someone else's warm breath reached him. Credence pressed his forehead to his forehead, leaning forward uncomfortably, and, as if reading his thoughts, kissed him. Uncertain, but different than the first time, not at all reminiscent of the flawless statue that was turned into a person, but forbidden to touch others.

Percival responded by placing his hand on the back of his head, which slid to the base of his neck. The recently shaved hairs felt pleasant. A dark strand of hair stuck to her wet temple; it no longer smelled like lavender. The most exquisite shampoo could not stand any comparison with this: the aroma of clean, damp hair.

Credence snuggled even closer. Caressing him frantically, hecticly, he touched his chin with his lips. Hot water immediately splashed into my chest and rolled viscously to my stomach, to my thighs, to my lower back muscles, which were trembling from tension.

Percival licked his dry lips and groaned, either mentally or out loud: he no longer heard himself, did not see himself, did not understand where the border between himself and the other was. Silently asking for permission, he unbuttoned the buttons on Credence’s shirt one by one, with difficulty pulling the tails out from under the belt. He leaned back and closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t stand another second with his eyes open. The chest moved quickly up and down, the ribs were pulled together by a thin network of old scars.

Apologizing for them, Percival pressed his palm a little harder above his navel, resting his forehead on his stomach, trying to breathe more evenly. My heart skipped a beat. Sweat ran down my back.

Credence laced his fingers into his hair, squeezed and froze, moving his hips, biting his lower lip. Percival took him by the chin and forced him to look:

Whatever you want, do it. Can. Not just now - always.

The rough hand returned to its place, the short nails easily scratched the skin, and let the strands pass between the fingers. Percival caught them and gently took his index finger and thumb into his mouth. He stroked the thin skin between with his tongue, not letting go of Credence's gaze. Then he kissed his wrist - once, twice along the protruding bone, along the white bandage. He unwound the tape, almost not noticing the smell of the tincture with which it was soaked.

The palm under her, soft, with dark pink stripes that barely stretched along the edges of the wounds, looked vulnerable. Carefully, so as not to hurt or unnerve him, he tasted the skin of the undamaged area. The pungent aftertaste of the alcohol on which the elixir was prepared. The smell of the hospital, the healers' robes, the bottles in Madame Erbe's office. The smell of illness, but not of weakness, but of courage, reminding: Credence, even without magic, endures what others cannot. It is worth trying, to fight with the world and with yourself.

Ignoring the aching knees from the motionless position, Percival folded himself almost in half, rubbed his cheek against the thick fabric of his trousers on the inside of his thighs, heard a ragged exhale, a quiet: “More,” and looked up. As if colors had splashed: on the cheeks, on the neck, on the chest. And the eyes are completely white, covered with turbidity and fog from the river. It should have become scary, but it didn’t, only the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, a hot shiver ran through my muscles, as if from the presence of an animal.

Please. “That’s not enough,” Creedence said. - Anything else.

A tongue ran across the darkened mouth. Credence swallowed - his throat vibrated, his lips could not hold back a painful moan.

The buttons on the trousers did not budge. All you had to do was whisper, and everyone would have scattered in an instant, but not now, not this time. The muscles in my lower abdomen became painfully hard. Percival himself was already doused, scalded with boiling water and, finding no way out, forced to clench his teeth more tightly.

He pressed with his palm, squeezing it like that, over the fabric. Not intending to tease further, I wanted to bend down and pull down the underwear that smelled of an intoxicating bodily odor, but did not have time. Credence arched on his elbows, on his shoulder blades, resting the back of his head on the back of the chair. A weak flame rose and flooded the entire fireplace, heating the grate red-hot. The miniature vases standing on the shelf danced, the window glass rattled, and the tongs clanged to stir the fire. The trembling went beyond the body, linked them with Credence together - that force, which the instinct warned about, gently pushed into the chest, ran a sweet current melting the skin and bones across the face and chest, legs, arms.

When his vision cleared, Percival carefully released his hands from the invisible grip and slowly pulled away.

“I couldn’t stop,” Credence said, more confused than guilty.

And it is not necessary. You won’t have to do this to yourself again,” it turned out harsher than it should have been, but Percival swallowed dryly and finished: “No ropes, shackles, rods or belts.” Next time you can tear this house down to the foundation if you wish, and then we will rebuild it again. Vincent won't like it, of course. But you'll have to be patient.

Credence smiled, narrowing his completely black eyes - his thirst was quenched. Percival ran his palm over himself and pressed it over the wet spot that had appeared:

It was good,” and he laughed when he saw how he flushed, pulled him towards him by the neck, and lightly touched the corner of his mouth with his lips.

At night I dreamed of the dry river Barada, crossing Damascus like a scar, spilling onto the dead earth from the edge of fertile meadows, slightly bent, crooked - like a bloodthirsty Turkish scimitar, like a bright and sharp moon in the sky, like a dull peace sickle forgotten in wars. Like the horn of a dead monster that draws life from people for its only owner. I dreamed that the agreement with Shaw was signed in blood, that Grindelwald knew what Percival was thinking, saw with his eyes, heard with his ears. He says, drinking all the air from his lungs, and Credence looks at the real him, but does not recognize him. He obediently takes someone else's hand and places it on his heart, not noticing how the protective amulet turns black.

Percival jumped up, drenched in cold sweat, and, almost without opening his lips, not trusting himself in case he wanted to whisper, but instead screamed, he called quietly:

Credence?

A warm palm stroked, brushing away anxiety and fatigue from the forehead:

“Sleep,” the echo of someone else’s thought flashed and again went into the deep water of slumber.

Credence had not yet called him by name out loud, he only tried it in his head: “Percival,” a name so old that with it the weight of other people’s exploits and times fell on the shoulders of the newly christened baby. Credence didn’t name it, and he didn’t ask. At night, he lightly touched his lips with his lips, wished for peaceful dreams and went to his room. Credence repeated thoughtfully: “Good dreams,” and sat down to wait for the house to quiet down, leafing through the pages of a herbology textbook.

After midnight, even the clocks fell silent, silently measuring time until the morning. He went to check the locks and bolts - he remembered about shields, and the light sleep of house elves, and about the ancient magic of the family that did not allow strangers inside, but he could not relearn. Then he slipped up the stairs, stepping over the creaking steps and shushing the chatty portraits. He went into the master bedroom and blew out the candle. He lay down next to Percival on an overly large bed under a canopy, with clothes on, on top of the blanket, throwing his shoes somewhere under the bed, and closed his eyes.

In my dreams I saw different, alien things: ghosts with blurred faces, breathing living human warmth, and real warm-blooded people, from whom a cemetery cold wafted. Unfamiliar places, unfamiliar letters, unfamiliar names - people, cities, rivers, ancient gods. I woke up a little earlier with a stripe of pale light creeping across my face from the window, I felt arms on me: one under my head, and the other hugging me across my chest.

Mr. Graves - Percival - got up later and, stretching his numb hands, apologized briefly, for unknown reasons: “I’m sorry.” Credence always answered, “Nothing,” and always smiled. It turned out to be easy to speak only if you wanted, and to remain silent without feeling the oppressive silence.

On the third day Percival said:

Now you can. There is permission. You are free to go wherever you decide.

He looked briefly, casually, over his head. Credence nodded.

It's clear.

Have you already decided what you will do first?

Bethany. I need to go there. Look, feel... Let go.

Now.

Bethany was now completely dead, like a gaping hole in the forest: a dot on the map, burned black by a match. The banks of the river were dry, covered with cracked silt. Not even the skeletons of the houses remained; everything was removed and cleaned up so that only trees gnawed by the flames remained. Credence didn’t ask, and Percival didn’t say, but it was not difficult to guess: the city and its inhabitants disappeared not only from maps and documents, but also from the memory of neighbors, distant relatives, the parishioners of the pastor who fled to New Haven, who founded a new paradise there, without him .

Percival did not follow him and remained far behind.

By sunset, Credence wandered along unfamiliar paths, along a road that had lost its former boundaries and was overgrown with fresh grass. Percival ran his tenacious gaze over his face and over his slightly trembling hands. He waited for a nod and only then spoke:

It's not far from the Five Mile Lighthouse. I haven’t been there myself, but Tina said it’s beautiful there, it’s good.

“Okay,” Credence echoed, rubbed his palms, warmed them with his breath over the bandages, then made up his mind: he came close and put his hands on the wide lapels of his coat. - From here - anywhere.

On the pier jutting out into the sea, it turned out that the moon had already risen. The rays from the lighthouse were extinguished by the inky water; in the rolling of the waves, the light melted, sinking to the bottom along with the dim reflections of the stars that occasionally appeared from the fog.

When I was about to die, this was my last wish.

See a lighthouse?

Credence paused, then sucked in the raw air, as much as he could into his lungs at once. He said, “You,” and was surprised to feel that he had spoken the truth.

At this point in the very center of the imaginary map of safe places, the names were forever changing - people who appeared and disappeared from his life who did not need him, God and saints in whom he had lost faith. Only the axis around which everything revolved did not change: a silent man in an empty, outdated house, a warm presence nearby, his dark gaze, his outstretched open palm.

Credence shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. There was one last thing left, something that I didn’t want to mention, but had to say:

Well, now that's it for sure. Credence hid it until the last, not wanting it to look like black ingratitude, as if he was going to disappear without saying goodbye, but in the end that’s what happened. As if he was lurking to seize an opportune moment and leave for good.

Percival coughed into his fist and watched as the edge of the pinkish-orange light sank into the water.

Will you spend the night there too?

Credence nodded.

Three nights in the hospital.

But other?

And four are here,” he paused, not knowing how to finish and whether it was worth finishing at all: “Four is at home.” With you.

Credence was not there on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday - no one was late for lunch or dinner, no one stirred the fire, did not burn candles in the library, falling asleep from fatigue right there at the table. No one waited in the old chair and swore in a low voice with the aunt’s portrait, defending his, Percival’s, dream. No one reprimanded Vincent: “Let him rest, there is no need to wake him up, on his day off he needs peace, not breakfast, which is enough for ten people.”

It was as if Percival had finally opened his eyes and realized: Credence had been occupying time and space inside his home, his picture of the world, his mind for a very long time. Hearts. Previously, he was always there, but now he left: Saturday, Monday, Wednesday in complete silence. Freedom that no one asked for.

Till tomorrow?

Till tomorrow. Good night.

He pulled his gloves onto his healed palms, took his coat from the hook and left - still on foot. He didn’t want to learn apparation yet, but he never refused the rest - he said that he was doing this so as not to lose control during the next outbreak.

It sometimes seemed to Percival that, like a broken record, he was repeating the same thing, addressing himself rather than Credence:

The magic will return one day, you'll see, the main thing is to remember this.

Credence didn’t show whether he was tired of it or not, he smiled tiredly:

Do you remember? I told. This doesn't bother me, it worries you.

And only once did he confess, barely catching his breath, his wet head falling on his chest, knocking out the breath with a sharp movement and his closeness, his directness:

You can be happy without magic. I used to be afraid that I would find out the truth about myself if I looked in the mirror.

And now?

Now I know that the truth is not in the reflection, but here.

He extended his hand, and Percival obediently closed his eyes, feeling warm fingers on his eyelids. Then, in the morning, I hardly got up from the empty bed. I washed my face and got dressed, noticing: here’s Credence’s jacket, but here’s a comb—that means it’s not my imagination. So he hasn't gone crazy yet.

Craig was more occupied with the elections than with making sure his orders were carried out accurately. There was no news from Pikveri, but she was registered regularly in the MACUSA registration desk. Berg kept demanding evidence of Shaw's collaboration with Grindelwald, and when he received it from an unexpected place, he didn't even bother to look grateful.

Hopefully one day of light outside the cage was worth it. Why did you hand over the old man to me?

Grindelwald first hissed when the beam touched the skin that had thinned to a transparent film, then he closed his eyes. Rattling with chains and moving his legs with difficulty, he stood in a sunny spot.

The answer is simple: I like you better, Mr. Graves.

Try again, with feeling. Maybe then I will believe that you are speaking sincerely, and not in order to get something out of me for yourself.

Grindelwald shrugged.

I don't force anyone. Shaw came himself. I graciously accepted his gift as a sign of sympathy, but did not promise anything in return. I'm not the kind of person who makes deals with everyone who offers. Take that as a compliment, Mr. Graves.

He continued in a serious tone, without grimacing:

I'm not a seer, I admit it. But I sincerely believe that war with the Muggles cannot be avoided, and therefore it is in the interests of the magical world to unite. I know, if I offer you something more interesting than our consultations, you will immediately break the deal. If you refuse now, you will refuse in a year or two. But in five, ten - who knows what will happen in this world, in which there are no gods left to guide and give justice to everyone? Think about what I'm proposing: Let's tear the world to pieces and rebuild it. No more ropes. No shackles. No rods or belts.

Percival shook his head and said nothing, turning away so as not to see the expression of his haggard, but still self-confident face. He left Grindelwald in the care of McKinley and a dozen other Aurors in the prison yard, and instead of finishing his remaining hours at Woolworths, he gave up on everything and returned home earlier than expected. There, all evening he wandered from room to room, unable to find something to do: the newspapers were read, the lines of the book left for later dazzled his eyes. Vincent grumbled that the owner had no business getting in the way of the servants, but Credence still wasn’t there.

Credence showed up late, after midnight. He approached and, without uttering a word, slowly, as if he was still afraid that he would be pushed away, pressed his lips to his lips, touched his face with his hands that smelled of ink and potions:

He pulled it towards himself, behind him, now hastily, tangling in his sleeves, exhaling hotly through his mouth and completely out of breath by the time they finally climbed up the stairs.

Do whatever you want,” he hastily, swallowing often, repeated verbatim, by heart: “Not just now.” Always.

Percival did not let him go for a long time, and when he finally looked around, he saw a door hanging on the top hinge, fragments of a lamp, and a striped curtain half torn from the window. The pre-dawn twilight, dark gray, like a bird's wing, hid in the gaps, hiding from the coming sun. Credence breathed quietly, deeply, without letting go of the amulet. Fell asleep.

Percival ran his fingertips over his shoulder. And only then did I remember, with a shudder, how two weeks ago I myself uttered the phrase I heard today from Grindelwald. No ropes, shackles, rods or belts.

When Newt first meets Tina, she reminds him of one of his favorite animals—extraordinary and never seen before.
She has an open look, like a portal to another dimension, where all her innermost dreams remain. He notices his distorted reflection in her.

Newt is observant, and he sees how a strong girl grasps her independence with all her might. She wears baggy gray clothes, minimal makeup and neat Oxford shoes so that she can conveniently dash along the corridors of the congress. She is still unable to catch up with the broad-shouldered workers, whose one step is comparable to Tina’s three. Newt finds it funny to watch her efforts.
She created herself - from little Tina in a light dress she turned into the unshakable Miss Goldstein in a strict uniform. She tried to be no different from other Aurors. Same responsibility, same power, same skills. But she will never become a steel weapon of the law.

Tina is brave and has a heart too big. The girl “I will save everyone at the cost of my life” is ready to do anything for the sake of others, but with enviable persistence she does not pay attention to her own cracks. Newt is sure that she has seen more than him, despite all the travels he has been through. It's too early behind her adulthood without parents who didn’t teach much there; with a younger sister who needs to be protected from the whole world. He is laughing. Who will save her?

Queenie spins around the small apartment they rent from an elderly witch, humming a children's song to herself. Newt can't help but smile and thinks that the magical blonde doesn't have a drop of her older sister in her. They are different, like all his animals - each is charming in its own way. Tina does not wear light clothes, does not like to cook, and does not read the thoughts of others. She had probably never felt the kind of looks that men directed at the younger Goldstein. But she has a lot in her memory entertaining stories, which she tells with particular enthusiasm and love for overly hot cocoa, which she kindly offers to him. On a narrow windowsill, next to an almost withered flower, Newt notices a book of non-majs, worn from frequent reading, with a soft pink cover and a title that he instantly forgets. It seems there was something about the heart.
Is it true that Tina only knows about love from novels? At this question, Newt blushes and is glad that the only legiliment in the stuffy room is not occupied with him.

Tina pretends to be a superhero, the savior of the whole world and does not know how to forgive herself for the mistakes that rain down on her. Despite all her feigned courage, no one recognizes Miss Goldstein as a serious and powerful sorceress. In a dark basement among a pile of papers, she sighs noisily and looks for a way to the top, to recognition and new exploits, writing out another permit for a magic wand. She does not crave medals, titles or a portrait among heroes. Tina wants people to stop looking at her as an inept girl. She does not notice that the wizard from Britain has not looked at her with a grin for a long time.

Newt sees New York burning and worries only about the only girl in the entire metropolis who was able to bring him to the death penalty. He wants to grab Tina and ask her to stop. Even though the whole world will be consumed by chaos and destruction, he will hide in his suitcase along with his rare exhibit.
Tina smiles and takes Newt's hand. His freckles don't fit into Goldstein's orderly world. He is too awkward, incomprehensible and atypical for her. My head is spinning with thoughts about saving, if not the world, then at least the unfortunate boy. There is no room in my head for romantic stories. There is only room in her soul for the idea of ​​a savior.
Newt is indifferent to the fate of America; he has enough problems in Britain. He looks at what is happening around him and takes a step only because she needs help. Stupid Tina Goldstein doesn't see how the young magizoologist is looking at her.

When they say goodbye on the pier, she looks at him with sadness and gratitude for his help and for showing her a new world of its fantastic creatures. She doesn't say that she doesn't want to let him go. She is silent about the fact that she admires his animals, but let him look for them in North America. He congratulates her on her reinstatement as an Auror. He is silent about the fact that he wants to take her with him to Britain. He does not say that he is ready to help her with a place in the Ministry of Magic.
Newt promises to send her a copy of his book. Tina hopes to receive it in person.

Newt looks at her from under his blond curls and smiles. Yes, she is fantastic, and he doesn’t know where else they live.