Archive of Our Own ^beta

                Newt has always understood animals better than people. He can’t see why that should be considered a bad thing.

                For a brief time, he thought it meant that people were jealous that he could see things that they couldn’t. He tried to help them, explain, but there was never any interest. There was only his father, busy and distracted. His brother, impatient and occasionally irritated.

                He is eleven when he makes his first friend. Twenty-six when he has his first kiss. And everything in between is nothing to take notice of.

---

                People find him annoying and he understands that plain enough. He understands it because they tell him to his face, which is helpful, because subtlety is not a strength, and hurtful because he has what his mother terms keen feelings.

                What an animal wants and needs is very self-evident to Newt. It is predictable. There is a pattern. Cause and effect. It is not like conversations, which are an exercise in encryption and an exhausting one, at that. People might be physiologically nothing more than animals, but they are crueller. A dragon will not smile one day, and then shun the next, without any evident reason. He always knows where he stands, with a dragon.

---

                Dear Miss Goldstein, he writes, and then discards the letter, for being too formal.

                It is his seventh draft. He has yet to get it right.

---

               Tina is an anomaly, as Leta was. He tries to quantify the data as he would any other problem, trying to clarify the situation in his head. One, Tina is his acknowledged friend. Two, she is interested in his work. Three, he will send her a copy of his book. Four, he tucked her hair behind her ear, and he shouldn’t have done that. Why did he do that?

---

                He turns Tina, the anomaly, over and over in his mind as the ship leaves New York. He is so distracted that he doesn’t realise that he’s reached his Apparition point until Pickett chirrups in his ear.

                Newt stuffs himself into a broom closet and twists, still turning Tina over in his mind. He is so distracted that he ends up in the middle of a duck pond in Devonshire, with two scandalised Muggle ladies goggling at him.

                “So sorry,” he apologises and twists again, this time to success, and the entranceway of the Leaky Cauldron.

                Tina. She smiled in a way that was different than how she smiled at Queenie or Jacob. He is not so obtuse as to be ignorant of the fact that the last time he felt this way, he was at Hogwarts.

___

                Dear Tina, he tries again, and this is surely too informal, is not?

---

                When he was travelling, he wrote as much as he could in his journals, spending each night categorising, sorting, and bringing order to something that rebelled against organisation. His notes and observations are rolls of parchment splattered with black ink, hopefully coherent.

                His publisher is under the impression that Newt’s book will help people protect themselves. He has never so much wanted to call a man stupid. But Augustus pays for his travelling expenses and Newt is certain, one way or another, that he can make Augustus see reason.

---

                In London, he drops off a piece of his manuscript and comes away with an Occamy egg from Knockturn Alley. He does all manner of errands before stopping at the Ministry, to the meeting that can’t be put off. He could avoid Theseus but Mother will fret and her worry still feels like an Ice Charm on the back of his neck.

                He makes his way easily enough to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, riding the lift all the way to the second level. Theseus’ office is in the back, close to Phryne Fisher’s, the current Head Auror.

                Newt raps on the door, and sticks his head around the corner. “Are you in, Theseus?”

                “Newton,” Theseus says, sounding pleased. “Glad to see you haven’t lost any limbs. Come in, come in.”

                Newt ambles over to a chair. Theseus is a more handsome copy of Newt, with longer, aristocratic cheekbones, and styled auburn hair. Where Newt is shy and retiring, Theseus is charismatic and witty. It is difficult to compete against Theseus, so Newt never tried.

                “Your travel in America appeared to be eventful.”

                 “Well, yes,” Newt says, rather vaguely, without making eye contact. Theseus, who knows him, gives a little sigh.

                “I heard about your trip from the Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

                Newt peers interestedly at Theseus’ desk. “You kept the phoenix feather I gave you.”

                “People seem to think it’s an item of some curiosity,” Theseus replies. “Would you please pay attention, Newt?”

                “Yes?” Newt says, but Theseus is still frowning, so he realises that something more might be necessary. “Sorry?”

                “You were nearly executed by the MACUSA. And then you saved them from an Obscurus.”

                “Yes?” Newt says, tentative at the risk of repeating himself.

                Theseus looks at him, and suddenly huffs a laugh. “Good trip, then? Got everything you hoped for?”

                Newt gives this the contemplation it deserves. And it is Tina’s face that rises up in his mind. “I met a woman. Well, two women, they were sisters. But I promised one a copy of my book.”

                “A woman?” Theseus says, and Newt doesn’t notice that it is the most surprised his brother has been so far. He gives a half-hearted leer that is lost on Newt, who is examining the phoenix feather.

                “They molt every lunar cycle,” Newt says, stroking the tips carefully. Theseus has kept it in good order. “I was given this particular specimen by a male bird in Minsk.”

                “What was her name?”

                “It was a male bird,” Newt says, puzzled.

                “The girl, Newt.”

                “Oh.” He smiles slightly, and his eyes meet Theseus’ briefly before refocusing back on the feather. “Tina.”

---

                I am back in London now, he writes. I am planning to travel to Scotland next to speak to some demiguise breeders. They are working on developing cloaks which will shield the user in a very similar capacity to the demiguise’s natural capacity for invisibility.

                Newt’s quill pauses. He has quite a lot to say on the theoretical possibilities but he doesn’t know if Tina wants to know about it. I am sure it will be applicable to your line of work. How are you? Reinstated, I hope.

                He hands the letter to Theseus, who shakes his head and sprays biscuit crumbs all over the wet ink. “I’d get rid of all that demiguise nonsense.”

                “Tina likes demiguises.”

                “Are you trying to court this witch or drive her away?”

                Newt snatches the letter back and scribbles another parting sentence. Working hard on the book. Hope to send it off soon. Newt.

                He summons Theseus’ owl and ties the letter to the proffered leg, stroking the owl’s head slightly. The owl spreads her wings and vanishes through the open window in Theseus’ kitchen.

                “Of the two of us, who has the experience courting witches?” Theseus says.

                “I’m not courting her. She’s a friend.”

                “Like Leta Lestrange was a friend?” Theseus asks, gentler than usual.

                Newt takes out a fresh quill and roll of parchment. He tucks his head down. “I don’t want to talk about that, Theseus.”

                His brother takes another biscuit from the plate and bites into it with a snap. “You were ill-used by that girl.”

                “I’m really very tired. I think I’ll turn in,” says Newt hurriedly.

                In his haste, he knocks over a bottle of ink and has to Evanesco the stains from Theseus’ turquoise robes.

                Once ensconced in the safety of the suitcase, he feels his chest loosen and his breath comes easier. Lying in his cot, he allows himself to wonder if Tina will reply to him. If the letter will reach America in one day or two. Thoughts of what Tina might say crowd out any thoughts about Leta, and for the first time in a long time, there is no pain at all.

---

                He allows himself a good full day to spend in the suitcase, working on his research. Too much outside time makes his mind spin and clatter, and being here in his own natural habit relaxes him. Around five, there is a knock and Newt clambers to the ladder, googles perched on his head.

                “What?” he asks.

                “You’ve got to come out here to see it.”

                Newt glances longingly back at his simmering potion, but his instinctual curiosity drives him up. Theseus, grinning like a Kneazle, hands him a folded up piece of parchment.

                “The not-courting witch wrote back.”

                Oh. Oh. Newt tosses off his dragon hide gloves and scans the letter.

                Dear Newt, how nice to hear from you. Yes, a demiguises’ fur would make a wonderful invisibility cloak. I have been reinstated, and you will be happy to learn that we found the real Graves. He was imprisoned in his flat. Queenie says hello, and that she’s recently been to a wonderful bakery on 7^th Avenue. Have you anything to do with that? Safe travels. Tina.

                “I’ll tell Mum to start sending out invitations. You’ll make a beautiful blushing bride, Newton.”

                Newt flushes and tucks the letter safely into his jacket pocket.

---

                He comes from a line of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, with one lone Hufflepuff grandmother on his mother’s side. Theseus, the prefect, the war hero, with his top marks and good looks, had more in common with them that Newt ever did.

                That used to smart and it still does, especially when he is back in London and getting a drink in the Leaky Cauldron. Newt never drinks anything stronger than butterbeer, and Theseus always forgets this, and orders him a gillywater. Newt takes one sip of the briny drink, pungent with alcohol, and spats it back out.

                Theseus, happy with his Firewhiskey, doesn’t seem to notice. He reaches over and ruffles Newt’s hair. “My little brother.”

                Newt pulls away from Theseus’ hand. He hates being touched without warning. “Do you want this? I really don’t like it.”

                Theseus gives a sigh that Newt has categorised as Exasperated #4, related directly to something Newt had done. It is not as bad as Exasperated #10, in which Newt has mucked up terribly and Theseus can’t say all the mean things he’d like to because Newt is Especially Sensitive and A Big Girl’s Blouse.

                “I’ll order you a butterbeer,” Theseus says, rolling his eyes, and goes to the counter.

                The conversation around him is loud, and Newt keeps his eyes on the table, just in case he might see old classmates. Pickett gives a little chirrup and climbs out from behind his lapel.

                “I’m sorry you’re bored, but I must do this. I don’t see my brother very often.”

                Pickett chirrups again, disapprovingly.

                “No, he is nice to me. That’s just the way he is.” Newt touches the tip of Pickett’s antennae. “This is how it’s always been, between us.”

                “What is that?” Theseus sets the tankard down with a clunk.

                “Bowtruckle.”

                Pickett shakes one tiny fist in Theseus’ direction.

                “Stop, Pickett,” Newt says, and removes the bowtruckle, still murmuring insults, into his pocket.

                Theseus looks amused. “You’re accessorising with them, now?”

                “Pickett has a bit of a complex,” Newt says, rather than he doesn’t like the way you treat me. Sometimes I don't like the way you treat me.

---

                Up until New York, the most beautiful thing that Newt has seen is the phoenix that died in Minsk: a roaring fireball of flame, terrible and wonderful at the same time. The phoenix had gifted him the feather moments before he went up.

The feather on Theseus’ desk is still carefully preserved, and just as beautiful the first time Newt saw it, glimmering with strands of gold and red, curiously hard to the touch, like armour. Glittering and hard, just like Theseus.

---

                Newt is capable in so many ways that his brother is not: wildly read, wildly travelled, capable of blending his Magical Creature study with Healing. His mind is curious and vivacious.

                Yet, when he is in Theseus’ presence, he feels like the same shy seven-year old, unable to make conversation or eye contact. Awkward. Theseus treats him with a benign patronisation: oh, Newt, well, he’s a little different.

                Theseus has a gala, some high society event that he drags Newt along to. He bullies Newt into formal robes, with a high collar, and they arrive at a glittering opulent ballroom that is crowded with Ministry officials and rich Purebloods. House elves draped in cream linen tablecloths move about with delicate trays of wine. Newt sticks by Theseus’ side both because he’s expected to, and because he knows no one else at the event.

                “Mr. Scamander,” comes a voice, and Newt doesn’t turn because that’s for his brother, clearly. But then someone taps him on his shoulder and he nearly swallows his tongue in surprise.

                “Tina. And Mr. Graves. It’s nice to see you again, that is, to meet you, and—” He stops, blushing. “You’re in London.”

               “The Gala for International Magical Cooperation,” says Tina, pointing to the sign that Newt ignored as they walked in. “We’re part of the American delegation.”

               Graves gives him a gruff, surly nod, and Newt notes that he is no less terrifying than when a Dark Wizard is wearing his face.

               “Newt, who are your friends?” Theseus asks, and Newt has never been more irritated to see his brother.

               “Mr. Percival Graves. And, er, Miss Porpentina Goldstein. My brother, Theseus.”

               “Tina,” she corrects.

               Theseus bows, all courtly old-fashioned manners, and she blushes a little when he kisses her hand.

               “Newt has told me all about you,” he says, and Tina gives him a smile.

               “Tina, we must speak to Auror Fisher,” Graves interrupts, clearing his throat.

                Tina’s face shifts into something more professional. “Of course. Excuse us, Newt. Mr. Scamander.”

                Theseus watches them thread their way through the crowd. “Pretty girl.”

                 Newt doesn’t like the way Theseus says this, the way his eyes rove down Tina’s departing shapely silhouette. He knows this look, has seen Theseus turn it on witches from Scotland to Sussex. It is a hungry devouring look, and as in most mating rituals, the larger male always wins.

              “That’s the Tina you were writing? The friend?” He smiles slightly, as if Newt’s energies were wasted on Tina.

              “Yes.”

              “Good thing you didn’t take my advice.” Theseus chuckles. “Think I might invite her for a drink, what do you say? A little British hospitality.”

               Newt watches Theseus approach confidently, to the tight trio of his boss, Graves, and Tina. He is good, Theseus is, at drawing Tina aside, at making his offer in a charming way. Tina laughs, lightly and musically, and nods. In acquiescence, Newt supposes. Theseus comes back, smugness radiating from his skin.

               “She said yes. They’ll be here for a fortnight, and her evenings are quite free,” Theseus reports. “You don’t mind, do you, Newt? She is just a friend?”

               “I’m…not coming along?” Newt hazards.

               There is a momentary look of pity in Theseus’ eyes. “I’m planning on doing a little more than welcoming her to London,” he says, gently.

               Oh. He’s talking about sex. With Tina. Theseus, on top of Tina, in various erotic positions that Newt has only read about in dodgy books imported from India. Newt looks down at his untouched elf wine and blushes enough for both of them.

                 Theseus gives him a clumsy, friendly pat on the back. “Good man. I knew you’d understand.”

---

                On the night that Theseus goes out with Tina, Newt locks the suitcase from the inside and doesn’t come out.

---

                The mating habits of the Theseus, genus, Scamander, species, are quite like clockwork. Theseus’ wit and confidence are much like the musk that Erumpents produce when they are in heat. Newt has watched his brother charm one witch after another: Artemis McGonagall in sixth year, Augusta Woosley in his Auror programme.

                Theseus comes home glowing, long after Newt expects him home. He knocks on the suitcase and Newt emerges cautiously to find Theseus humming an old Victoria Spivey song and making a pot of tea. But Theseus is in a strangely cheerful mood for someone who just had a nightcap.

               “Cuppa?” Theseus offers, wand already summoning two cups from the cupboard.

                Newt scrutinizes his face, his neck. Not, Newt reminds himself, that it should matter, because he is Tina’s friend. He is relieved to find not a hair out of place, nor a lipstick trace.

                “She’s marvellous,” Theseus says. “I see why you like her, I really do.”

                “You had a nice time, then.”

                “Meeting her again, tomorrow night,” Theseus says, and whistles an airy bar of I Wanna Be Loved By You.

                “I’m happy for you,” Newt says, because he cares for his brother and for Tina and they both deserve nice things. Both deserve each other.

                “Where are you going? What about your tea?”

                “I’m rather tired,” Newt says, and climbs back into the suitcase.

---

                The most beautiful thing he had seen was a phoenix being reborn…until he saw Tina.

---

                If he had to write a treatise on the mating habits of the Newton Scamander, it would be short and to the point.

                Inept and ill-suited for interacting with its kind, this species is incapable of furthering its genetic line and will most likely never breed. Illustrating this conclusion are two solitary data points: an ill-timed kiss with one Leta Lestrange, and an abortive sexual encounter with a woman in Amsterdam, during which the subject was reprehensively late in realising that she was a prostitute.

---

                Newt absents himself from the flat the next day, and spends an absorbing afternoon in Flourish and Blotts. Some of the current literature is quite good, and he secrets himself in an upper alcove, pacing steadily through his stack. When the bell rings for closing, he makes his way downstairs to pay, only to find a familiar dark head among the customers.

                “Tina,” he says.

                He is gratified to see that she looks positively delighted to see him.

                “Newt.” She reaches out and Newt thinks she is going to shake his hand, but instead she starts to hug him. He tenses instinctively but manages to reciprocate halfway through. She smells like the sampaguita flowers he remembered from Manila, which opened only at night: a heady, intoxicating jasmine scent.

                “Stocking up?” she asks, pointing to stack that he charmed to hover behind him.

                “More research,” he says, and looks over her two books. To his surprise, she has Venomous Creatures and their Venom, and Harry Carter’s Wild Creatures, both of which he knows quite intimately.

                “I realised that I have a gap in my education. Never took Care of Magical Creatures,” she says. “It’s not really required for Aurors.”

                “Tell me how you like them. Venomous Creatures is quite dry but the illustrations are good. And don’t trust what Carter has to say about werewolves, because he’s rather prejudiced. He gets kickbacks from the Anti-Werewolf League.”

                “Okay,” Tina says, and looks down at the covers.

                “Good to see you,” he starts to say, just as she blurts, “Do you want to get dinner?”

---

                Newt knows of nowhere nice enough to eat, but Tina assures him that she doesn’t mind. He takes her to Chinese Tuxedo, a chop suey place in the Muggle world. The food is nearly as good as the dishes he’s had in the Szchuan province and they both have trouble picking up the fat, slippery noodles with their chopsticks.

                He’s just finished telling her about Frank’s rescue from Cairo, when Tina sets aside her cup of tea and looks at him seriously.

                “Are you close with your brother?”

                The question pops the happy swelling in Newt’s chest. He ducks his head, allowing his fringe to hide his eyes better. “Sort of. I suppose.”

                “We went out for a drink, the other night.”

                “I know.”

                Tina leans closer. “Do you mind if I tell you something?”

                Newt looks down. And minds.

                “I’m not really interested in him,” Tina says. “He’s nice and all, but I hope he hasn’t any ideas about courting me, because I wouldn’t consider myself available.”

                “Oh.” Although it is physiologically impossible, Newt feels his heart plummet out of his body and onto the floor. “You’ve a fellow.”

                “Well, I’m really waiting for one,” she says, and he looks up, confused. “Do you mind terribly if I’m forward with you?”

                “No?”

                She puts her hand on top of his hand. All of his blood rushes to his head.

                “I’d really like it if you’d court me, Newt.”

                “Oh,” Newt says again, and he has the strangest feeling that he is grinning like a madman, completely and utterly gone. “I’d like that too.”

---

                At the wedding, three-quarters of Theseus’ best man toast is dedicated to humiliating stories about Newt.

                That’s all right, though. He can manage everything with Tina by his side.