Work Text:
I remember tears streaming down your face
When I said "I'll never let you go"
When all those shadows almost killed your light
I remember you said
"Don't leave me here alone"
But all that's dead and gone and passed
Hold on to this lullaby
Even when the music's gone
- Safe & Sound by Taylor Swift
Prologue
Every day, you grow weaker. More and more of a shadow of your former self. You know you do; but it’s so goddamn gradual that you can’t pinpoint what part of your essence you lose every twenty-four hours.
Your vitality, your spark, your unconquerable energy, your realism, your absolute love of life.
Gone. Dying. Vanquished. Faded.
You’re reduced to a shadow, like the shadow of that craggy peak, like the weight of storm clouds.
*****
Past
Scotland’s different from Ireland. You missed the salty air. People around you “ooh”ed and “aah” ed at the huge lake, but the mere fact that you can see the perimeter meant it’s only a pond to you.
There were two boys in the boat with you; a gangly boy with scruffy curls who stared up at the castle apprehensively, and a pale, peaky boy with a floppy blonde perm. You ignored them. Then Blondie murmured:
“Isn’t it huge? Got any idea what house you’ll be in? I’ll be a Slytherin.”
The other boy glanced back at you, his eyes wide. You frowned between them.
“I don’t know,” the other boy said.
“How ‘bout you, sweetheart?” said Blondie. In normal circumstances you’d have slayed him with a look, but you wouldn’t now.
“I don’t know much about the houses.”
“...Oh, you’re a Muggleborn,” he said, and turned away with a sneer.
You frowned, feeling hurt but not sure why. After a moment you met the other boy’s eyes, and he looked…concerned? You broke his gaze and glared at the dark water, frowning.
“Muggle-born”. To be ostracised because of your parentage…but in a different way…You sighed.
*****
Prologue II
The inside of Newt’s suitcase is truly amazing. He makes you a replica of your home, a small and beautiful enclosure that has all the right smells, the right feels. If you didn’t love him before that, you do now.
“Thank you, Newt,” you say softly the first time you survey it. “Thank you, so much.”
He just smiles, that crooked shy grin that is so endearing, and you groan internally at the way it pulls on your heartstrings.
*****
Past
You stood together in the line of first-years. You came up to his shoulder, and you resisted the urge to take his hand…though whether to comfort him or yourself you aren’t sure.
“...Y/L/N, Y/N!” came your name. You jumped like you’d been stung. Beside you, the boy gave you a tiny, tiny smile.
Be brave, be brave, be brave…
Hufflepuff, Slytherin…the words mean nothing to you. In the end you became a Slytherin. Abraxas Malfoy, the third boy from the boat, sneered at you. Whispers started the moment you sat. And when Newt Scamander is sorted into Hufflepuff, you immediately wished you had been in that house too. That’s the first time you wish it. You remembered.
*****
As you exit the Ministry of Magic, your knees start to wobble. You stumble, catching yourself on the wall. Oh, please, please not now. So far, the effects of the curse have been fairly minor; light-headedness, shortness of breath…a few falls here and there, and it’s been nearly a year. You’d dared to be optimistic.
You couldn’t Apparate like this, though.
You forced yourself on a few steps into the sunlight, feeling your heart race for no reason. Then you stop, trying to collect yourself.
“...Are you, are you okay?” comes a gentle voice to your right.
It’s Newt Scamander, frowning at you in concern. His eyes are light-green in the sunlight, and he peers down at you with a hand outstretched towards your arm.
“Yes,” you reply instantly.
He just frowns.
“Do you need help?”
You swallow.
“Yes…maybe. I’m so sorry,” you add. You always want to please people you like. Acting like a damsel in distress wasn’t your idea of pleasing people.
He waves his hand. “Should I take you to St’ Mungos?”
That makes you laugh. “What can they do for me? No, if you could apparate me to Keighley, then I’ve got a Portkey to Ireland in an hour.”
When you take his arm, you’re surprised by the strength. When you arrive, he releases you, places his briefcase on the ground, and frowns again at you.
“What was wrong?”
Sinking onto the purple heather, you sigh. And you want to tell somebody. You have a while to spare before your Portkey. “Will you keep it to yourself?”
He sits too. “Yes,” he says instantly, his eyes fixed on yours. “I promise.”
There’s something so childlike and sweet about him. You smile back.
“I’m cursed.”
I’m dying, is the bit you don’t add.
*****
Past
You’re…civil. Casual acquaintances. There’s no animosity. You helped him look after his creatures once or twice. He gifted you a Crup puppy.
He doesn’t even see you as a friend.
He’s almost your only friend.
Alone at Hogwarts, you drifted through your years until you’re seventeen, in your final year.
You knew you can’t handle anything anymore, not here, not in this wretched school where you were so lonely and you had a crush the size of the Great Lake. Not when your crush was going to be expelled.
As you sneaked through the corridors towards the dawn, towards freedom, you heard footsteps behind you, and when you turned, he was there, his robes crumpled, hair messy, frowning.
“Are…you leaving?” he asked uncertainly when he spotted you levitating a trunk and with broomstick tucked under your arm.
You nodded. “I’m running away.”
“But why?” he asked.
Because why not? Because you’re being expelled and I was crazy enough to crush on you? Because I was Sorted into the wrong house?
“Because I’m an Irish Slytherin Muggleborn oddity,” you spat, and he flinched.
“Sorry,” you sighed. “Yes, I’m running away.”
He smiled, a slow shy grin. “Have good adventures.”
“I will,” you promised. “But you must as well.”
When you shook on it, you’re surprised by the warmth of his hand.
You remembered it for a long time afterwards.
*****
“You tried to help a banshee?”
Of all your story, that’s the bit that resonates most in Newt’s head, because of course.
“Yes. I did help her,” you add, “just got a curse myself…so, it’s grand.”
You bite your lip at the escaped Irishism.
He just smiles.
You close your eyes and lean back. He’s too unbearably Newt-y like this.
“And now, when a mountain collapses, you will die.”
“Yep. And until then, when there’s bad weather or unsteady ground,” you wave a hand at yourself, “I’m affected.”
He looks at you for a little while.
“What are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“To prevent it.”
“Newt…I don’t think I can.”
“Have you tried?”
You lean back further on the grass. “No. Not really. Dumbledore doesn’t know anything…and I am so tired, I don’t want to research, I just…”
You open an eye to see him staring at you. He almost looks angry.
“You’re twenty-three and you want to die?”
“Well, they say my people are obsessed with death,” you quip.
He shakes his head. “I’ll help you.”
What?! You sit bolt upright. “No, I didn’t mean…I didn’t want pity, Newt, I-”
“I’ll help you,” he repeats.
You open your mouth to refuse again.
“Please,” he adds.
*****
It’s been a year. You don’t bounce, you don’t laugh, you cannot summon energy for anything.
You stand on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher and stare down without flinching.
Just jump.
Jump, jump, jump.
End it.
Newt can’t find a cure, but he won’t stop trying, and it’s brought back all your full force of unrequited-crushness. He doesn’t see you as a woman, but just as a cause, a project, a creature, but you have gone and fallen in love. You’ve been around the world together, looking for creatures and cures.
You’re homesick.
You aren’t really home.
If tremors, a side-affect of your curse, begin right now, you’ll fall anyway, then it wouldn’t really be suicide, would it?
You take a deep breath.
Do. It.
“Y/N.”
You nearly step forward out of shock, out of panic.
Newt swears - something he only did when he was very stressed - and grabs your arm. “No!” he hisses in your ear, and you gasp in surprise as he yanks you back, holding your arms tightly in his large hands. “No. We’ll find a cure. Don’t…don’t do it.”
It goes against all your internal dialogue.
But, when he says it in his gentle British accent, it seems to make sense.
“Were you going to jump?” he asked, releasing one arm to pick up his briefcase.
You shrug.
“We will find a cure. I will, I promise,” he murmurs, words almost lost on the wind.
And you hate yourself and love him all the more.
*****
You haven’t eaten for two days, barely drunk, and you’re exhausted and feverish, blowing hot and cold, worn out, and Newt just stares at you in mute panic as you sway back and forth on the edge of your bed.
“I wish I was dead,” you say after a while.
“Don’t.”
“I do!” you snap suddenly. “I do, Newt! And everything you’re doing for me makes it worse! I’m such a horrible selfish person. I spent my school career being spiteful and jealous and lonely. I’m a fucking Mudblood.” You ignore his intake of breath. “I’m cursed, I’m so tired, I could die at any moment - I wish I was dead. I wish I’d jumped. At least I’d be in the sea.”
You bury your burning head in your hands and breathe in and out rapidly.
It takes a moment, a rustle of coat-tails, and then you feel hands on your forearms.
“Y/N.”
“Newt…”
“Talk to me,” he urges. You look up. He’s kneeling on the floor, staring at you, into your eyes, his eyes wide and worried, brown-blue in this dim lighting. “Tell me…I mean, if you want to, you could tell me…about your life…before?”
You blink.
“Only if…you want,” he stammers, still kneeling, but he takes his hands back.
You sigh and sit back against your pillow. “Okay. Yes, yes I will.” You pat the side of the bed next to you. “Come sit. You’re gonna get the full unedited version of my childhood, and it will take a while.”
He sits, and you stare into the distance, and you talk for hours, your voice lilting up, down, catching on syllables. You tell him of a world of clouds, of dreams, of blazing sun and darting rain, of storms, of books, of pets, of people, of trees, of home. Of a girl you once were. It makes you remember - past, present, future. Fate, destiny.
You suppose, as the silence slowly enfolds you, that that was what he intended.
*****
“I’ve made you a habitat in my suitcase,” he tells you shyly a few days later.(You're in Canada, helping a Thunderbird.)
“Oh,” you say. “Oh! Can I see it?”
(When was the last time you felt excited like this? Warm and blazing? When he smiles, when he gestures for you to follow him, when you sees your little slice of home, when you fling yourself into his arms and he awkwardly pats the back of your head…you know, you might never feel like this again.)
The next night, you tell him.
“Newt. I think we should stop looking for a cure.”
He stares at you.
“We can’t find one. It’s been a year and a half, and I feel awful that I’ve wasted your time like this. You could be the greatest Magizoologist on Earth…you are, but you should be working towards being recognised for it…not helping me.”
He opens his mouth, frowning.
You barrel on.
“I love you for what you’ve done, Newt…you’re a good person. You have a wonderful soul. But I want to die now. I can’t carry on like this. I don’t have any hope. I’m just going to wait and see when I die.”
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.
You drop your own voice. “Yes.”
*****
That night, you’re almost asleep (you’re in a hotel room with twin beds and you relish the idea of hearing him breath in and out, so steady, so healthy), when he stands, only in a shirt and trousers and socks, to frown at you. Light seeps from his wand-end.
“I don’t want you to die,” he murmurs.
He sounds confused, and hurt.
You’re even more exhausted than normal. You know your voice is almost indecipherable as you mumble against your pillow, “I’m sorry.” Then, as you hear his breath hitch, just slightly, “C’mere.”
He steps closer, until he’s standing by your bed. You grab his hand and tug, scowling sleepily, “C’mere,” you repeat crossly. The slight movement causes you to whimper, your arm muscles wasted from a spasm earlier in the day. He kneels, and then whispers, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you grumble.
He slides under the cover, not touching, but so very, very close. Then he Noxed his wand. You hear the clatter of it on the bedside table, and then his hand settles on yours, lying tucked on the pillow by your head. (You can smell Mooncalf feed on his fingertips. You resist the urge to press your lips to his palm.)
“Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” he replies.
*****
When you wake, you know you’re happier than you’ve been in a very long while. His arms are tight around your waist, and his face is pressed into the back of your shoulder. He’s a nester, you realise with mild amusement. His lanky frame is curled around you, and you’re buried in a cosy mound of duvet and warmth. His hair tickles your neck, and one hand is splayed on your waist, rising and falling with each of your breaths.
You know how much you love this wonderful, adorable, awkward man. The bittersweet pain is like a lance through your heart. For once the sting isn’t caused by your curse.
He shifts slightly, tucking into you tighter. You tip your head to the side and see his eyes open sleepily.
For a moment he looks happy, then panicked, and then his face slowly settles into one of resolve.
“Good morning,” you say, voice raspy.
He doesn’t move, his chin digging into your shoulderblade as he replies. “Morning.”
“It’s already seven,” you tell him, tipping your head around to read the clock on the far wall.
He still hasn’t moved at all, his body moulded against yours, warmth emanating everywhere.
“I don’t want you to die,” he says.
You blink. “Um. Breakfast first, maybe?”
His mouth curves, and you drag your eyes away. “No…I mean, yes, maybe, just…look,” he begins, and rolls onto his back. Addressing the ceiling, he says stiltedly, “Perhaps…I don’t want you to…die alone. So maybe if you want…you could keep travelling with me…but if you don’t want me to, I won’t look for a cure.”
“Oh…Newt…” you ignore how much you like the idea of this suggestion. “Newt, don’t you see, I’d still be a burden. I’m only going to get worse. You’d have to help me sometimes. It’s not fair.”
“And if I want to?” he asks, his voice stubborn.
You sigh. “I wish I’d been a Hufflepuff.”
It’s his turn to blink. He meets your gaze. “Do you often want that?”
“If I could change anything…” Your voice trails away.
There’s a silence. He stays in bed alongside you. And you know, you know, you couldn’t walk away.
“All right. But if you get sick of me…you will tell me,” you say in your best hospital matron voice.
He smiles at you, slowly, shyly, his eyes sparkling. “I promise.”
And with that he’s out of bed and bounding to his briefcase.
*****
Past
You used to sit at the end of Slytherin table, alone, near the Hufflepuff one.
One day he was sitting near you, head down, eating. You were halfway through your meal when you realised that the Wannabe-Grindelwalders, Abraxas and his gang, had come and were sitting all around you.
“So, Mudblood,” Abraxas began.
Newt’s head snapped up and he stared at you. You looked away, angry and hurt and so alienated.
You got up, and ran for it.
You ran to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and sunk against a tree, panting, tears running down your cheeks.
This is all so unfair.
You swallowed back a sob, just as you heard crunching footsteps. Your hand went to your wand, but when you looked up, it was just Newt.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at you. If he knew you were crying he made no acknowledgement of it. He sunk down by you, leaning against the tree, his shoulder just barely brushing yours, and stared away, up at the castle.
When the bell tolled, you scrambled up first and offered your hand. You walked in silence back to the castle, in silence up the steps, in silence through the Entrance Hall. When your paths split, you spun to face him.
“Thank you,” you breathed.
He jerked his head, gave a tiny tiny smile, and you hurried away before he could see the unshed tears glittering still in you eyes.
Even back then, he cared.
*****
Six more months pass. Two years. You’re twenty-five years old. You’re still alive. (There was a time when, if you knew you’d be amazed to make it past twenty-five, you’d wonder what had gone wrong.)
You let yourself love Newt with everything you have left. You love his swaying, dreaming walk. Love his quiet voice, soft concern, his changeable eyes with their expressive emotions, his flop of messy hair, his quirky grin. His roaring laugh, when you really make him find something funny - all of him is quiet and sensitive, so to make him laugh like this, it makes you glow inside. You live to see the wonder on his face as he spots a new creature, to cook the cuisine of your youth that he takes to immediately, to read books aloud in the evenings in his briefcase (far out in the wilderness, someplace in the world, but heavily warded, and somewhat safe), to play chess (and try not to blush at his triumphant grin as he checkmates you yet again, peering up through those strands of hair at you), to do friendly duels (that you usually win), to feel his strong arms around your in your now-more-frequent hugs. To watch him open up to you, slowly, surely.
And sometimes when the curse is at its worst, you hate it, that you now want to live when you’ve given up looking for the cure.
“I don’t know if I’m likeable,” you say once, sipping a hot chocolate, curled in an armchair inside his little shed.
He peers across at you from where he’s stirring a cauldron, his hair and eyes bronze in this light.
“You, likeable?” he says.
“Yes, me,” you laugh.
“I like you. The creatures love you,” he says, like this means everything.
“I know, but,” you begin.
A resolved look crosses his face. (Inadvertently you remember how his nose felt against your chin and hide a blush in your mug.)
“But? You are strong and wonderful and pretty. You have a beautiful voice, and you are loyal and kind, but cunning and brave and compassionate. You’re the best travel partner I could ever have asked for. You’re the best person I know, the strongest woman - or man - I’ve ever met.”
You rise, staring at him, your eyes blurry.
He puts aside his stirring rod to face you.
His jaw is grim.
“And I don’t want you to die.”
It’s inevitable, you later think, that all at once you sway like a tree in a hurricane force wind, and he has to catch you, lower you back into the chair, that he has to murmur reassurances as you sob in pain, as all your muscles cramp. You know a gale must be taking place above that mountain peak, water softening the ground, wind causing rocks to fall.
One more of this. One more and you know, you will have to die.
*****
A few days later, you say, “Newt.”
He stops feeding Occamies to look at you. You wave for him to carry on, it’s easier to say this if he isn’t looking at you, so he shrugs, carries on.
“You’re the best man I’ve ever met,” you say, voice low. “You’re a gentleman, you’re kind and considerate and brave and strong, and caring, so unbelievably caring. You’ll never know how much I value you and everything you’ve done. I’m…I’m sorry, that you’ll miss me, that you don’t want me to die,” your voice hitches and he spins to face you, looking alarmed. You stare at your boots and continue. “Please, please, believe me. You, Newt Scamander…you’re the best friend I could have ever asked for, the best companion, the best nurse. Never let anyone tell you you’re anything different. Thank you for looking for the cure,” you carry on, “for not wanting me to die…for creating the habitat for me…I’m sorry,” you add, knowing you couldn’t continue.
“Don’t be sorry,” he hisses, and his voice is low. “I’m not the one dying, you are…Merlin, I wish…” He just stares at you. You smile through your tears at him.
You wanted to kiss him. Just once.
You would never.
He isn’t that kind of person.
And he doesn’t like you like that.
And this is enough for you.
Just.
*****
It’s a dark flowing river, that you stand in front of. It reminds you of the mythical Styx. (It doesn’t remind you of any beautiful rivers that you can think of from home.) You don’t know where in the world you are, what river this is, what you’re even here for - you’re with Newt. That’s all that matters, all you can comprehend these days.
You’re overcome by a nostalgic urge, as you clasp your hands behind you, to go home before you die, to take Newt with you, to show him everywhere.
But before you can ponder that idea, you gasp, starting to sway and tremble wildly. You slip on the muddy bank, and how ironic is it that you’ll make it look like a suicide when it wasn’t…?
And then two strong arms wound around your waist from behind, pulling you back, pulling you upright, and you feel Newt tuck his coat as far around you as he can, so you’re almost two halves of the same person.
Your legs seize and you gasp again, but he holds you, pulling you away from the river.
“Breathe,” he tells you, as your breathing shallows out; “breathe…”
The attack isn’t bad and passes quickly. You shiver in the breeze afterwards, your nerve endings frozen, and then you just feel so weak. You sag against Newt, staring listlessly at the black river with burning eyes.
Newt holds you from behind, a comforting gesture that’s full of affection, and the idea that this closed-off, awkward man can feel relaxed enough around you to even show affection is all it takes. Your breathing hitches again. You hear Newt begin to ask if the attack is returning, but then you start to sob, and he murmurs, “Oh” against your earlobe. His breath tickles and absurdly, makes you want to smile - that’s how hysterical you are.
Newt unwinds his scarf - removing an arm from your waist to do so, then tucks it around your neck instead. It’s warm and smells of him. It’s the house colours that you should wear, wish you had worn. Then he hugs you again, and tucks his chin down on your shoulder, stubbled cheek brushing yours. Your hands go to his, where they rest on your midriff, and squeezes. You let yourself silently cry for a little while, then just sinks against him, and feel guilty.
“I’m a horrible burden,” you croak after a few minutes. “I shouldn’t put all this emotional debt on you.”
“You’re not a burden,” he replies quietly. “I want to be here for you.”
“I wish I’d been a Hufflepuff…” You close your sore eyes. “We’ve have been best friends, I think.”
“Yes,” he breathes, and he sounds uncertain. You wince internally. Then you hesitate, opening your eyes as he puffs another breath against your neck. “Actually,” he whispers, and there is nobody else on the planet who can hear this confession asides you, “I think I would have just fallen in love with you sooner.”
Tears start dripping down your cheeks as you turn and press your lips to the corner of his mouth, he tastes of mint, and you loop your arms around his neck, rests your foreheads together, but don’t kiss him.
“I,” you say furiously, “am a horrible person. Newt, you can’t love me, I’m going to die. Please…”
You don’t know who you’re begging, or for what.
*****
Three months later, you don’t know where you stand, and you’ve lost almost all your (not unimpressive) magic, and you have no energy, no personality left. The only thing you live for now are Newt’s hugs. He sleeps with you every night. It began because the attacks were so terrible, and so frequent, and when you did sleep you woke from nightmares - a single nightmare that played out every time you fell into a doze. You always woke, now, with Newt curled around you, face pressed against your shoulder or neck, arms tight, like he was trying to shield you from everything.
You kiss the corner of each other’s mouths. By unspoken agreement, no more than that.
You are dying. He will live. And yet…
You spend all your time in the suitcase, reading, or just thinking.
(You travel from place to place. You don’t know where or why anymore. You can’t keep up. He knows this now. He knows the truth, however much he doesn’t want to.)
One night, you wake sobbing, and Newt is holding you, murmuring words, trying to soothe, but sounding alarmed.
Once you compose yourself, you say, “Newt.”
“Hmm…?”
“I have a nightmare.”
“I know,” he says softly into the darkness.
“In fourth year, Abraxas and his gang cornered me.”
You feel him stiffen.
“They scarred me, hexed me, jinxed me…came near to torturing me. I was the Slytherin Mudblood, a freak of nature…they never considered that I could be a Slytherin, but not pureblooded. I spoke differently, behaved differently; I was a Mudblood…” You savagely relish how he flinches each time you say the word. “And, I bled. A lot. I didn’t go to anyone. I didn’t want to. The scars on my back and arms, you asked me what they were once…they’re not from falling from a tree at home. They’re from them. And now I’m weak, I dream about them again, again and again. But…sometimes, it’s you they torture.”
You can feel his breathing against your forehead quicken. “I’m so sorry,” he says at last.
“Don’t…”
He presses a kiss to beneath your left eye. “I love you,” he says.
More tears escape. “I love you.”
*****
“I miss how I used to be,” you tell him, a week later. “How I used to be so full of life. I’m so dull now.”
(Your voice even lacks the energy, the pithiness it would normally have.)
He just stares at you. “I miss you too…” He says eventually. “But you are still you.”
“Ladies and gentlemen…a philosophical quote from Newton Scamander!” You wave your arms with a flourish.
Then drop them, wincing.
There is so much warmth and fondness in those eyes, directed solely at you, that it actually hurts.
And this time there’s no sweetness, just bitterness.
*****
“We’re home,” he says, some time - days, weeks, months? - later.
“Home?” Your mind is dull today, and you just stare across the shed at him.
Newt chews his lip like he does when he’s worried. “Yes. Your home.”
“I am home,” you frown. “Aren’t I?”
He crosses to you, bends, and wraps his arms around you. “Your home,” he mumbles. “Oh Merlin, I hope you want to be here. Now…may I lift you?”
You blink. “Um. Why?”
“To carry you outside.”
(They both know, you cannot stand, let alone manage stairs.)
You wind your arms and legs around him, hugging him, buries your face against his crumpled shirt, and then whines the moment the light hits your eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
A few seconds later you try again, and immediately, your heart starts to thunder.
The landscape is so unbearably similar, it’s your soul, imprinted on the beautiful contours around her. Your home…you’re home.
You turn (where once you would’ve spun) to face him. He is watching you intently.
“You…brought me…home,” you breath. The fresh air, it invigorates you, and just for a moment you know you can run, all day; watch the sun rise and fall, like you used to; know you can cast spells and dance in flickering camp-firelight, you know it-
And then the moment passes and you feel weaker than ever and sag.
And Newt watches you and sees it all and knows.
And he just stares at you.
And as your eyes meet, you watch in horror as a tear slips free from his beautiful blue-green-grey-brown eyes.
“Newt…”
He closes his eyes.
“I brought you here because…because you’re dying,” he breathes.
You sway, and automatically he holds you up.
“I’m, I’m so sorry,” you squeak, overwhelmed. “I shouldn’t…I should never have let you help me, apparate me to Yorkshire, I was so selfish…”
His eyes fly open. “No, no I don’t regret it, not now, never…” He stares down at you, holding you to his chest, mouth quivering. “I don’t want you to die.”
*****
That night, you’re awoken by him clinging to you, like if he holds tight enough you’ll never escape to the life beyond. His lips move against your forehead.
“I won’t let you die, I won’t, I won’t,” he says frantically, repeatedly.
You reach up and feebly comb his hair with your fingers. “I love you,” you whisper. “I’m not choosing to die. I don’t want to, now.”
He puffs the duvet behind your back, tucking you in securely. “I like your home…” He pauses bashfully, “It’s you all over. It felt so familiar, like you as a landscape.”
“It was cathartic to come back, and the best thing ever…except, for you.” Your voice is weak with emotion and suppressed pain.
“Magic can’t hold the mountain together?” he asks slowly.
“You know it can’t,” you reply, gently, entangling their legs.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m so sorry,” you say.
If you could drown in guilt you’ve would’ve, right there and then.
*****
“Write a book,” you tell him.
You’re still here, and you think you’ll be here till you die.
It’s morbid.
It’s close.
You’re scared.
And he’s heartbroken.
“About your creatures,” you enunciate, feebly.
He frowns and looks down at a sketch of a phoenix on his desk. “Maybe.”
And then he springs to his feet and runs from the room.
You stare at the doorway, frowning, then shrug, and tries to flex your fingers.
(They don’t obey.)
*****
Three days later he’s running again, this time into the room, gasping for breath, waving a phial in front of you, of crystal clear liquid.
“Drink, drink, drink,” he pants.
“What is it?” you slur, tucking your blue quilt around your knees firmer. That night you fainted from your worst attack ever, and when you regained consciousness, Newt was beside himself, thinking you were dead. You push aside Jane Eyre. (It was the first book you read aloud to him.)
“Phoenix tears!” He stares down at you, and you realise he’s trembling. “I asked Dumbledore. They’re Fawkes’s. Drink, Y/N…please.”
He uncaps it, holds it out.
You hesitate. Then shrug. Try to take it, but can’t lift your hand, and groan.
He puts it to your lips without hesitation, holding your face steady. You close your eyes and swallow the thick pearly mixture.
When you open your eyes he is kneeling, staring at you, wide-eyed, flushed, and with his own tears running down his cheeks.
“Oh Newt,” you whisper, swallowing hard. “I don’t deserve you.”
*****
It takes twenty-four hours. A good long sleep. He combs your hair with his fingertips as you drift off, and when you awake, you feel…
Good.
Grand.
Home.
Warm.
Loved.
Energetic.
You’ll bake, and dance, and read, and run, and write, and sing, and show Newt your world today, you think. You’ll bathe and swim and jump and spin for joy.
Your muscles, fully healed, twitch with anticipation. Your stomach flutters with butterflies.
You open your eyes and sees that your head is in Newt’s lap, he’s sitting upright against the headboard, watching you with fear and hope in his beautiful eyes.
This beautiful man. He is yours.
“Morning,” you says voice thick with sleep but still strong. And as joy crosses his face, you sit up in one quick motion, and press your lips fully against his.
*****
Two days later, as you hum a song and stir a food mixture for the Mooncalves, you feel Newt behind you. He wraps his arms around you, and presses against you, hiding his face against your shoulder.
“You,” he says softly, voice vibrating, “you are never allowed to die. Not before me.”
“With you,” you suggest blithely, craning around to kiss his forehead. You feel him gulp and swallow, and pat his curls.
“I love you,” he says at last, lifting his face.
Pain still lingers, raw and desperate, but there’s hope and love and joy and unvanquished warmth, and so very little of that awkward uncertainty…not when he’s with you, with the creatures, in the briefcase, in your home.
You beam at him, jigging up and down on the spot with irrepressible energy and watch his face break into a crooked grin. You bask in it, like it’s the sun.
“I love you.”