#grindelgravebone

Percival would rather not have the obscurial on their bathroom floor: it takes up a great deal of space and it drools if they don’t close its mouth. But there’s a reason they have it, and thus it remains, an inconvenient skin rug splayed across the tiles.

The obscurial is not human, not any more; it looks human because the Obscurus is clutching at its husk of a host like a shroud. Only the dead things - the hair and nails on it -  grow, and it’ll need shearing again before long. Otherwise it remains entirely as it is, a lanky body spreadeagled across the floor. It doesn’t need to eat or drink, so they haven’t bothered. It can’t exactly complain, after all.

All it can do, after Gellert’s permanent solution to its disobedience, is drool and weep. Percival is mildly interested to see what other reactions he can inspire from it. How well he can judge whether it is in pain or not. How else do they judge how much it feels, how much it is affected by their intervention?

Percival is a man who believes in metrics. He’s brought a notepad with him for the occasion.

The obscurial watches him as he stands over it and carves a piece of ginger with a knife. Percival can feel its gaze on him. Left in the pantry a few days in a glass box to ferment, the outside skin of the root has bloomed with mould.

He wonders, idly, if it has ever tasted ginger before. In his childhood, they drank ginger ale like it was water and enjoyed its bright fizz; two slices in hot water could stop nausea in its tracks before his mother resorted to a potion. They always glutted themselves on freshly baked gingerbread before it was cool. Does it know what ginger looks like, even? He imagines not. Perhaps that’s why it’s staring at him. That or the knife. He drops another peeling on its bare chest and continues his work.

It’s odd, to be observed so. Unsettling. Animals watch. Humans watch. This wretched thing is barely a creature - it is the shell a hermit crab has taken for its own. It’s a shame the Obscurus kept its eyes.

Percival briefly considers putting it on its front, for ease of access, to remove its gaze, but if it gets to stare at him he can enjoy the full spectacle too. He should be able to see all the results of his enquiry sooner rather than later.

Percival takes the ginger root, kneels, and pulls up the bottom of the thin, torn piece of sheet they’ve wrapped around it like a loin cloth (neither of them wanted to look at its genitals half the time as they sat on the john). Tugging up one thigh to expose it to the light, he knocks its flaccid penis out of the way with a flick of his knuckles.

It still has a tight, dark furl between its legs. Without fanfare, Percival pushes his handiwork inside it. Doesn’t ease the way. He inserts the plug, drops its leg and casts a hand cleaning spell for himself as he settles back on the lip of the tub to observe, notepad in hand. This might not work, after all. It might not feel it, the nerves might not run that deep. Percival is prepared for that disappointment.

As he sits back, the hair begins to stand up on its arms and legs. Its eyes widen, and its pupils dilate.

Percival can’t help but smirk.

A deep flush creeps across its cheeks, its chest. Before long fluids stream from it like gutters in a rain storm - saliva from the corner of its lips, tears, even a dribble of snot from the nose. Sweat beads copiously across its skin, trickles down the hollows between its ribs. It doesn’t know if it wants its eyes open or shut.

The experience will only gets worse for it. They’ve only just begun.

Percival notes each symptom down, watching it wear itself dry, until the tears stop and all that it can do is drip from the nose, a steady ooze of fluid across its jaw. It’s revolting. Gellert will think that line of running mucus beautiful. 

But they know now that it feels more than skin deep, and how it reacts to agony. They can see the effect of pain on it, and go looking for those reactions next time they interact with it. This was a useful experiment, and next time he will try something else.