~ Control ~ {Credence Barebone}

~ Trouble ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter Four~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During the tour, I noticed another section of the case, almost completely closed off aside from a sliver where the tent opened.

I looked back at Mr. Scamander. He had a creature on his back, but when I looked at it, it disappeared. I think Mr. Scamander said something about the animal, but I couldn't remember its name off the top of my head. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to me.

"Newt," I called out, getting his attention, "do you mind if—would it be okay if I wandered around for a little bit?"

He nodded. "Yeah, that's okay. Just be careful."

I headed towards the tent, and when I opened it...

An obscurus.

I suddenly found myself struggling to breath. I squeezed my chest in a futile attempt to get my heart to slow down.

Why? Why does he have this?

"Credence?"

I shuttered, my entire body shaking.

"Credence," he tried again, "Credence, be careful around that."

"W—why?"

"What?"

"Why do you have this?" My voice was barely audible. I reached out—

"No!" He yelled, running to my side. He seemed to calm quickly, lightly placing a few fingers on my shoulder. I shuttered again, and he removed them. "Credence, I'm sorry, but you must not touch that."

"Why do you have this?" I repeated.

"That child I told you about," his voice was a breathy whisper, "this was her obscurus."

"What?"

"I met a girl just like you. She was...captured...tortured because of her magic,"

I let my hand fall to my side.

"What—what happened to her?" I asked once I had gotten a hold of my voice.

Silence.

"I tried to save her, but..." he took a deep breath, "I managed to detain it," he continued, "It's harmless when it's in there, but you can't touch it."

"Why did she—" I couldn't even say the word.

Death. It was such an awful word. The ending of a life. Heaven or Hell. Fading into nothingness as people slowly start to forget you ever existed.

I hated the concept more than I hated the word itself, to be completely honest.

"Most obscurials don't live past the age of ten." He said, somberly, after a moment. "But, how old are you, Credence?"

Don't live past the age of ten? Why not? Why was I one of them who survived past that age?

I wanted him to tell me everything he knows about this obscurus thing. I wanted him to tell me how he knows so much about it.