#modestybabebone

        “Now, now, that’s ridiculous of course I care!” Hermione frowned, grabbing the girl’s hands and inspecting the bruises all over them. “No one’s--no one’s done anything?” She frowned, looking at the little girl. She held out a card which she had charmed to look like an identification, “My name is Hermione Granger, I’m a social worker. My job is making sure children are taken care of in these kinds of places.” 

Harry Potter Sentence Starters || Still Accepting || Sorry this took me half way to forever

Credence watches Modesty, as she yells, from the corner of his eyes. He hovers nervously, uselessly. He wants to comfort her, to protect her - but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t have the strength. His favourite sister, so distraught - and he, so inadequate. He knows he should have favourites between the two - but Chastity is as cruel as their mother, if not as violent - apt to expose any misdemeanour conducted by her siblings as quick as breathing… Which is why he’s glad she’s not here. And he knows Mary-Lou favours her above both of them.

So someone had to favour Modesty, even if it’s only him, unworthy and incapable as he is.

When she’s done, he shuffles closer - and sits so he’s closer to her level. “Modesty.” He barely whispers it, as quiet as she was loud. He slips his hand, skin broken, scarred and stinging into hers. He lets his eyes study her as he tries to think of something to do, something to say to comfort her. A hug might help but Credence doesn’t know to offer one yet… He thinks… He thinks of his friend. Of his secret. And tentatively he lifts his other hand and strokes her hair with gently with the back of his hand.

He should tell her it will be okay. He should tell her it will get better. But he doesn’t have the vocabulary - or more accurately, the faith. So instead he says - “You don’t want Ma to hear you talking that way.” But from him, it’s not meant as a threat, or to silence her. His tone, inaccurate and imperfect as it is, offers shaky comfort.

“Would you… Would you like me to pray with you?” He asks… He would like to think Ma would like that, but he’s long since shrugged off childish notions of pleasing her - now he just tries not to make her mad. But… Praying has helped him. Maybe it will help her.

Remus raised an eyebrow in a rather good impression of the same expression professor McGonagall was known for. He couldn’t help but feel anything BUT threatened by the other’s words, even though he was certain that was the intention.