Chapter Text
The streets of Volterra were drenched in twilight gold, long shadows stretching like fingers across ancient stone. The festival crowds had dispersed, leaving behind the scent of roasted chestnuts and warm citrus wine. High above the piazza, within the shadowed halls of the Volturi palace, Marcus stood by the great stained-glass window, a carved relic of saints and monsters.
Aro was speaking again—something about a new lawbreaker, a vampire fledgling exposed in Belgium. Caius barked a reply. But Marcus… Marcus didn’t hear them.
Not when the air changed.
It was like the moment before lightning strikes: the pressure in the room bent inward, sound muffled by something unseen. He didn’t arrive with grandeur or fanfare. There was no magic storm or trembling earth. Just a gentle knock at the iron-bound door and a politely worded request to speak to the library’s keeper regarding rare records of European magical fauna.
His fingers twitched. For the first time in centuries, his dead heart gave a single, echoing beat.
Down below, past tapestries and columns, the man stepped into the receiving chamber. Not a vampire. A man, small-boned and narrow-shouldered, with a mop of caramel curls and freckles that dappled his pale cheeks like spilled sunlight. He walked with his chin tucked down, clutching a leather case close to his chest. There was a quiet lilt to his gait, something off-tempo, almost rhythmic. He didn’t make eye contact with the guards flanking the door.
The guards had scoffed. Then sniffed. Then frozen.
Because Newt reeked of ancient magic. Not in the way spellbooks did—but like wild storms bottled into glass. It clung to his coat, threaded his curls, and beat like a second heart in his chest. Newt fidgeted with the strap of his battered case on his way to the Volturi’s main chamber.
In Marcus’ eyes… he blazed like starlight.
“Who is that?” Marcus murmured, his voice so dry it scraped.
Aro and Caius turned. Their expressions sharpened.
“A British magizoologist,” Aro replied, already rifled through memories to find this man. “Newt Scamander. Companion of beasts. Protege of Albus Dumbledore. Obsessively kind.”
“Strange little man,” Caius sneered. “Why is he here?”
“I wonder, let us find out.” Aro said, eyes alight.
But Marcus was already gone.
-
Newt Scamander had never been good with palaces. Or aristocrats. Or vampires, for that matter.
But this… this wasn’t about common sense.
There had been whispers—murmurs of a private library in Volterra that kept extensive archives and documentation of magical creatures. And it had led him here.
The grandeur didn’t seem to faze him, nor did the trio of thrones at its far end. He only seemed mildly curious, as though taking in the carved frescoes and red drapery with a naturalist’s detached awe. The palace smelled like blood hidden beneath roses. The guards stared like gargoyles.
Newt swallowed and kept his gaze lowered.
“Excuse me,” he murmured. “I—I requested an audience.”
The silence that answered felt… heavy.
Then a door groaned open.
And he felt it.
Something—an energy, like gravity being rewritten—gripped him.
Newt stumbled, one foot dragging, his breath caught in his throat. He looked up before he could stop himself.
Their eyes locked.
The man was beautiful in a way that wasn’t human. Pale, carved features set in eternal grief. His black eyes were endless, unblinking, hollow with centuries—but suddenly lit with something raw and new.
Newt blinked.
Marcus didn’t.
The air grew thick. Newt’s fingers clenched around his case.
Marcus moved without command, without breath.
He crossed the throne room as if through water, the world narrowing to this one creature. This man who smelled of moss and ink, who could not look at him directly—but whose magic shimmered at the edges of sight. The bond sang in his bones, ancient and undeniable. Not a vampire, not prey, but his.
His mate.
And… he was human.
No—more. A wizard. An unassuming, heartbreakingly gentle wizard whose aura pulsed with a thousand silent beasts and a heart that refused to harden.
When Marcus stopped before him, the wizard flinched.
That is when Aro moved.
He glided down the stairs, predatory grace hidden beneath that silken, diplomatic smile.
“Welcome,” he said, voice like honey over blades. “It’s not often we receive guests without invitation.”
Newt tilted his head. He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, his eyes tracked the marble underfoot, the symmetry of the space, the hum of magic in the walls.
Then softly, “I was hoping for access to your archives. I’m researching a nearly-extinct magical subspecies of Mediterranean draconic hybrids.”
Caius narrowed his eyes. He didn’t trust soft-spoken wizards. He didn’t trust soft-spoken anyone.
“You came to us,” he growled, descending with the feral tension of an unsprung trap. “To our fortress. Alone. Without protection. Without even making eye contact.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Newt whispered, fingers fidgeting with a fraying strap. “I didn’t mean to intrude,”
A pause.
Aro blinked. Caius leaned forward.
Newt wasn’t being insolent—only truthful. He hadn’t looked directly at them, though his magic brushed theirs like a curious whisper. It was as if his soul was peeking around corners even when his eyes did not.
And that soul—oh, that soul.
Marcus was fidgety, something in him unraveling. He stared at Newt like a starving man seeing light after a thousand years in darkness. His breath hitched, his silence thick with raw longing.
“You came to the right place,” Marcus said.
His voice was low. Resonant.
Aro’s nostrils flared and the room tilted.
The bond hit them like fire.
Mate.
Three snarling instincts screaming that the quiet, peculiar wizard standing before them—fidgeting with a ribbon on his coat and murmuring something to the creature inside his case—was theirs.
“Fascinating,” Aro whispered.
Newt flinched at the word. Not from fear—but from overstimulation. He felt it now: a low pressure crawling under his skin. Their stares were too sharp, the chamber too quiet, the pull too loud. The scent of power, desire, and ancient hunger wrapped around him.
He held tighter to his case. His knees nearly buckled.
Marcus took a single step, and Newt felt his magic respond. Not in fear. In recognition.
“You feel it,” Marcus said hoarsely.
Newt nodded, keeping his gaze to Marcus’s chest, then collarbone, but never higher.
“I don’t understand it,” he added.
Caius bared his fangs. “You wouldn’t.”
“Stop posturing,” Aro said sharply. “He’s overwhelmed. Look at him.”
Newt was swaying slightly, and not from weakness. His magic was flaring instinctively, tendrils curling protectively around him, scenting them, testing them. He might not speak much, but his magic had always been his language. It responded not to what was said—but what was felt.
And it was trembling with impossible attraction.
“I didn’t come here for this, I—I don’t even like thrones, really,” Newt mumbled. “Bit too… sharp,”
A laugh echoed. Aro’s.
“Oh, brothers. He’s delightful.”
His voice was quiet, strained, uncertain. “I came for dragons. Not…” His eyes flicked up—briefly—just once, to Marcus, then Aro, then Caius. “Not mates.”
Aro stepped closer, close enough to breathe in his scent. It made his head spin. “And yet fate seems to disagree.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Newt said, still not looking directly at them.
“Then believe in chemistry,” Caius said. “Because mine is screaming for you.”
Newt flinched. Not in fear—but from volume. He took a step back.
“I…I don’t like pressure. If this is real,” Newt said, voice beginning to tremble, “then you’ll have to… wait.”
Marcus looked pained. His hands curled at his sides. “We’ve waited millennia. We can wait a little more.”
That surprised Newt enough that he looked at him again—just briefly.
And that was all it took.
The bond surged like a crackling storm, and the Volturi chamber filled with the scent of blooming desire, ancient magic, and something tender. Something new.
Aro inhaled sharply. Caius growled. Marcus’s knees buckled.
Newt trembled. “What was that?”
“Recognition,” Aro breathed. “Soul-deep.”
“You are… uniquely complex,” Marcus added gently. “But you are ours.”
“No,” Newt said, backing toward the exit. “No. I don’t belong to anyone. Not unless I choose to.”
That stopped all three Kings in their tracks.
A flicker of old power surrounded Newt now. One that made even the Volturi hesitate. Because this wasn’t some innocent fool. This was Newt Scamander. Whisperer of ancient beasts. Dumbledore’s protégée. The most powerful wizard in his field.
And possibly something more.
“Then choose us,” Aro whispered.
Marcus reached out.
His hand rose slowly, trembling as it neared Newt’s curls. He didn’t touch—just hovered, mere inches from skin.
Newt’s breath hitched.
The bond was screaming. Hot and intimate and ancient. It wanted union. It wanted completion.
Newt, however, took a small step back.
“I don’t do well with touch,” he murmured, apologetic but firm. “Not at first.”
Marcus’s hand dropped immediately.
“You will never be touched without permission,” he said.
The words landed like a vow.
Newt blinked again. And for the briefest moment—a flicker—his sea-glass eyes met Marcus’s.
The impact nearly dropped the vampire to his knees.
Newt didn’t answer. But he didn’t flee, either.
He simply sat down on the cool stone floor, opened his case, and vanished inside with a flick of his wand.
The Kings stood frozen.
“Well,” Caius growled. “That’s new.”
Aro laughed. “It seems our mate has retreated. Into his case.”
“I suppose,” Marcus said softly, “we’ll be courting him from the inside out.”
A long pause.
-
Inside Newt Scamander’s magical suitcase, Newt paced.
He knew.
He wasn’t stupid. That look Marcus had given him… the way the other two kings had looked at him…
He’d heard of vampire bonds before. Soulmates. Rare. Dangerous. Forever.
It couldn’t be him. Not awkward, scribbly Newt with his half-mumbled words and eccentricities. He wasn’t built for seduction or politics. He was built for quiet.
And yet…
You will never be touched without permission.
Then choose us.
Then believe in chemistry, because mine is screaming for you.
Nobody had ever said that to him. Not that plainly. Not that reverently. Not that desperately.
He sat down, hands in his lap. The warmth in his chest hadn’t left.
Beside the moonlit pool that trickled from his artificial waterfall, his creatures kept their distance—sensing his stress, his trembling pulse, the quiet war raging under his skin. Pickett clung to his collar, chirping, trying to soothe him.
“Not now,” Newt whispered, barely above the wind.
He had not meant to run. But the way they had looked at him. The force of it. The sudden, inexplicable certainty that he belonged to all three of them.
Three ancient predators.
He rubbed at his arms, though there were no marks—no bites, no bruises. Only… resonance.
Then he felt it. Not footsteps. Not sound. Just a shift in the air, like gravity had changed.
He turned.
And there stood Marcus—a silhouette of silk and sin against the softer textures of Newt’s world.
The vampire king looked so very wrong and yet breathtakingly right amidst the greenery, the starlight catching on his paper-thin skin, his crimson eyes darkened with restrained hunger.
“I was careful not to touch the wrong things,” Marcus said softly, glancing around. “This place is… remarkable.”
Newt stood, tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
“I—I didn’t invite you in.”
“But your heart did,” Marcus murmured. “Even as your body fled.”
Newt backed away, not from fear—but because the nearness, the gaze—it was too much.
“Don’t come closer,” he said, voice cracking. “Please.”
Marcus obeyed. His hands stayed at his sides. “I meant what I said earlier. I will not touch you. Not until you ask me to.”
The silence stretched.
Then Newt whispered, “Why me?”
Marcus’ eyes glimmered, ancient and soft. “Because your soul called ours before we even knew what we were missing. We are bound, Newt Scamander. You… complete something in us we long forgot was incomplete.”
“I don’t make eye contact,” Newt blurted, as if it mattered more than any magic in the world.
“Yet you met mine twice today,” Marcus replied gently. “I find your gaze when it glances my way far more precious for its rarity.”
Newt’s throat tightened. “I’m not like other people. I can’t… love the way you all do.”
“You don’t have to love like us. Only like yourself.” Marcus took a slow breath, scenting the magical air. “We can learn your rhythms. Your comforts. But you must let us in.”
Newt faltered. “I don’t even know how.”
Marcus stepped aside, revealing behind him a glimmer of a beast—one of Newt’s own, a mooncalf that had crept near to watch. “Then show us your world,” Marcus said. “We will learn it from the ground up.”
The moonlight curved around them.
And slowly, Newt reached for a wooden perch where a Fwooper was nesting.
“I suppose… we could start with feeding time.”
Marcus nodded and moved to stand beside him— close enough to touch. For once, Newt didn’t recoil.
He turned, leading him into the soft, surreal depths of his world.
And though Marcus did not yet touch him, he smiled. Newt felt the bond tighten—threads of fate stitched tighter than ever before.
-
Meanwhile, in the vaulted sanctuary below, Caius stood before the high mirror of the old kings, shirtless. The bond had awakened something feral inside him. A hunger not for blood, but for closeness. For warmth. For the soft noises Newt made when anxious. For the brush of curls against his palm. For the flutter of a shy gaze lifting to meet his.
Aro appeared beside him, uninvited as always.
“You’ll scare him,” Aro said. “He’s fragile.”
“He’s resilient.”
“He flinched.”
A pause.
Then, gently, “What will you do?”
Caius closed his eyes.
“Wait,” Aro said. “I will wait… until he asks me to touch him.”
And when that day came?
They would worship him.