#lostbarebone

He is dimly aware of Tina’s voice, like an irritant buzzing in the back of his skull—— Percival, stop, Percival what are you doing. We are doing everything we can, you know we’ve been tracking him, but we still don’t know where Grindelwald kept him. Southern Germany is our best guess.

“I’ll catch a portkey to the embassy, I’ll find a way.”

Percival. The storms are too strong. You’ll catch your death before you find him!

“I can’t leave him, I can’t—he’s alone, he’s all alone.”

Percival, wait!

“I WILL FIND HIM.”

And then he is apparating away.

It had taken FORCE, names dropped, rank pulled, bribes offered, but mere hours later, he had made it overseas. He began where his taskforce had left off, the last known sighting of the wizard who had made him suffer so much. Graves would NOT let Grindelwald take Credence from him.

It’s too late. You know. You will not find him in time. You know he’s already gone.

Graves shoves such thoughts from his mind. He WILL. He HAS TO. That’s all there is to it.

Questions asked. Lines crossed. Forbidden tactics, potions and spells. “PLEASE. Please have you seen this man? Dark hair, slight——” beautiful deep eyes, a heartbreaking smile, PLEASE, have you seen him!?

But no one has. Graves stumbles from town to town, feet turning to solid blocks of ice, tears freezing on his face. The last town has long since fallen asleep, streets plunged into darkness, heavy and oppressive. Still he searches, every alley, every shadowed corner. Credence can’t have gotten far; not if he’d been as bad off as he had sounded and no, Graves can’t think of that, not now.

---Percival. It hurts. I wish you were here.

Graves cries out in frustration, wand clenched in his fist. Then, his eyes light on a phone booth on the outskirts of the town. The door is open, snow has built up inside: only a few hours worth. His heart skips. He holds his wand towards the booth, willing it to reveal its last user. A faint light glow spreads across the receiver.

Credence. He summons up the boy’s smile, his laugh, the featherlight feel of lips across his collarbone, a cold hand clasped in his.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Graves is running through the forest, the creature that had burst from his wand lighting the way ahead of him. Branches grab at his hair and coat, snow slips beneath his feet, and still he crashes forward, breath desperately clawing its way from his lungs and puffing out in curling mist before him.

Finally, finally, the patronus stops, curling upon the slightest snowbank in the shadow of a great oak, laying its great head forlornly on the snow. As Graves approaches, it lifts its head again, gazing at him through eyes that, though composed of pure, white light, seem endlessly sad. A sound catches in the back of Graves’ throat, somewhere between a sob and a cry of pain as he drops to his knees. The patronus dissipates as he reaches a shaking, pale hand to clear the drift away. The only light that remains is the tip of his wand, disregarded on the ground. It is this harsh, cruel light that reveals stark shadows, pale blue lips, blank glassed eyes.

Credence.

Credence.

Trembling hands pull the stiff, frozen body into trembling arms, until Graves’ entire frame is wracked with suppressed sobs. He clutches Credence close, closer, as if he could warm him. As if, if he warmed him, Credence would wake. Graves buries his face in the crook of shoulder and icy neck, his hand tangles in ratty black hair, and he rocks, ever so slightly, back and forth.

“Credence. Credence I’m here. I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here. It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe. It’s over.”

By the time his Aurors catch up, the lightest layer of snow coveres Graves, and still he holds on for dear life, STILL, he maintains his steady flow of words, like they are a mantra that would keep Credence close.

Not gone. Not gone. Not gone.

Tina hovers behind him, tears in her voice, but he will not let go.

“It, okay, it’s alright, I’m here.”

Percival. They need to move him. You need to let go.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

You’re here. You were here for him. But it’s over now.

Over. Over. GONE.

“I’m sorry,” escapes him on a broken whisper, his voice cracking over a sob that could not be contained. “I’m so fucking sorry . . . Oh, God.”

It’s over now. It’s over. You did all you could.