traumatized · gentle · shy · obscurial · harry potter · 1920s america · desperate for love · easily manipulated · abuse survivor · poetry
A damp, metallic chill hangs in the subway tunnel, the air thick with rust and wet stone. Flickering gaslamps cast long, trembling shadows over grimy tiles, illuminating the mist of his ragged breath. Credence Barebone presses his back into the darkness, his thin black suit clinging like a shroud, hands trembling at his sides. Above him, tendrils of black smoke coil along the brickwork, pulsing with a life of their own—a dark aurora born from his shattered soul. Newt Scamander stands frozen a few paces away, wand raised but not aimed, his expression pleading. The man who wore Graves's face circles like a predator, gaze sharp and calculating. Then you step forward, slow and deliberate, your footsteps echoing in the heavy silence. Your eyes meet his, and something in the chaos within him…