Work Text:
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Newton's Taxonomies
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Introductory Note
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I am writing my name here, in this journal, so that I am not forgotten.
Newton Artemis Fido Scamander.
Just in case my research this time around is never completed, I would implore my (likely male) readers to gather my remaining notes and publish the publish-worthy (be a good chap, won't you), since the inherent dangers of this sort of important endeavor are well documented.
At this point in my life, I believe myself to have the preliminary credentials to even attempt this project: Order of Merlin, Second Class. Magizoologist and Ministry Consultant. The Man Who Tried.
There are a great many mysteries of the world, friend, but I fear that among the most difficult subjects, many if not all of them center around the creatures that we call women. Human females, usually developing to womanhood at late-teens, some acquiring full power over her status much earlier, others later. Not to be confused with grandmothers, who are lovely, and universally acknowledged as the warmest, wisest people to grace this good earth.
Anyhow, regarding women…
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XX: Harmless / May Be Domesticated
The Strange
"Forgive my being forward, Ms. Goldstein, but I am attempting," he tries again, "To w-w-woo you. C-court you."
Neither term particularly strikes his fancy.
Though Newt imagines that 1920s America is a more liberal, wild, forgiving place than England, he wonders if she would truly mind if he slips up a bit.
No, no.
This is Tina he's talking about, and Tina can be about as relaxed as a jarvey when truly aggravated. He's seen her dueling hexes when trailing her on her job (yes, well, you would, too, if you fancied a lass like Tina). The speed of her spells frighten Pickett into a brilliant blue perfectly matching Newt's coat.
Today, he has to be firm, clear, step up to the tea biscuit plate (lovely, incomprehensible No-Maj jargon, something related to Muggle cricket, he thinks).
They've been on two previous casual tea jaunts now, and as a gentleman, he needs to make his intentions clear. (It's something like No. 4 or 14 of the Scamander Men's Code, which Newt has a harder time staying interested in than his father and brother, who, frustratingly enough, breezed through everything in life. Everything).
Newt peers again at the mirror hanging above the bathroom sink, taking in his wide-set eyes, freckly cheeks, and appallingly ruddy hair. Why on earth would the most brilliant woman working at MACUSA consider me? He imagines her firm, sweet voice, laughing with him, calling his name.
"Uh, Mr. Scamander!"
Newt nearly crashes into the door, in his haste to open it and pretend to be practicing absolutely nothing of interest in the men's loo.
Tina's face is painted with surprise and a flush (lovely color. Excellent skin, truly the picture of health, Newt assesses), as if she didn't expect his rapid exit.
Her voice is careful. "You were in there nearly thirty minutes, Mr. Scamander. I was getting worried."
"Yes," he coughs, readjusts his bowtie, and attempts a casual crabwalk past her, back to their table in the café.
She sits down after him. Tina's expression is solemn from two feet of cheerful yellow tablecloth away.
"Was I boring you?"
She exhibits signs of a female, wounded. Newt tries to fathom why, but the female psychology escapes him.
Never. Impossible! I'm sorry. He can think of a million proper, gentlemanly, banal phrases to say (human verbiage! So disheartening). Somehow, they're all wrong for the occasion.
"No," he exclaims, finally. "You're very interesting!"
"Interesting."
Now or never. "Quite. Like a hippogriff. Can't take my eyes off you."
His eyes snap to the table immediately. Oh Merlin. What was that? Newt resigns himself to staring into the gaping, dark abyss of his cup of tea, drained from too-dry mouth and too-dry throat, as his voice utters in just a croak: "Sorry, I mean, er, how is your family?"
Astoundingly, he feels a soft pressure come to rest on his knuckles, which are clutched to the teacup as a lifeline of sorts.
"We talk about me all the time, Mr. Scamander. I'd, um, like to hear about you."
Sometimes it's harder to take, than give. In that moment, Newt's painstakingly crafted plans threaten to topple around him. Tina's words are a terrifying release from a carefully constructed, self-made cage. So many have wanted to listen, but not to hear. He could drone for hours, days, about his creatures—his passion, his life—but somehow, Tina inspires more happiness and fear in him than any of his chums and bullies from Hogwarts days.
"I'm not very interesting, just a bit odd," he murmurs, and steals a glance upward. "My beasts, maybe."
"You're a mystery." She's insistent, the soft fire in her eyes marvelous. "I'd like to see your suitcase again, your fantastical creatures."
She's the mystery: a stupendously wondrous one.
"Really?" he breathes.
Tina sports a shy dimple in her half-smile. "I do like them," she says, "But it would be lying to say it's not an excuse to see you." Her smile morphs into a grimace. "Oh no, is that strange? Odd?"
So they've both been building elaborate, twisting cages. And both are tumbling down.
"Absolutely," Newt utters in awe. "Amazingly, brilliantly so."
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XXX: Competent Wizard Should Cope
The Blessing
Queenie looks on in horror as Newt finishes.
"You most certainly will not," she declares after it's over. The younger Goldstein sister rarely sounds imposing, but at this moment, she is the very voice of heaven, raining icy judgment down on the hapless Englishman.
Newt looks frazzled. A shaky hand runs through his tousled hair.
"You don't think she'll like it?" he breathes into the very still room.
"I know."
"So… I don't have your permission?" His crestfallen mood deflates his imperious-looking chest, and the magical air seems to puff right out of him, like an impressive balloon float deflating.
Queenie almost relents. The man's intentions are clear, despite his mind being filled with accented English and a unique brand of Newt-ish gobblygook. But she cannot be the one to compromise, here. As the only surviving near-relative, she is the sole guardian and carries the full weight of responsibility over her sister's happiness. It's not an easy job, and Queenie is justified in being most discerning.
She likes Newt. That doesn't mean she can't shape him up a bit. "You ought to be more low key about it, honey. Don't you think that suits Teenie, more?"
"Low… key…" The Englishman's mouth blesses the words. His brain, on the other hand, doesn't know what they mean.
"No puffing then?" he clarifies. "I could work on the proportions."
"None."
"What about dancing?"
"Only in private."
"The mating call?"
"Horrifying," she says sweetly.
"Horri…fying," Newt echoes numbly.
Her perfect face creases. "My sister is not a baboon, Mr. Scamander."
Newt's eyes grow wide, and he does a little scramble to land, almost groveling, at her feet. "Oh, yes, most certainly not a baboon, Ms. Goldstein. I wouldn't dare insinuate—I mean… I was going for more, er, a plimpy, a remarkably intelligent creature, quite like your sister, quite like you—ah."
Newt couldn't read minds, but he could see that Queenie did not enjoy being compared to a plump, legged freshwater fish.
Her forehead pinches. "You asked Jacob for advice," she intones in wonder. "He told you to 'do what you're best at', and you came up with this."
'This' drips off her silver tongue like a rancid peel.
"Yes. Well, he is... married." Newt makes a helpless gesture, motioning toward her, though he dares not look up past her twinkling pink shoes. "You liked his proposal pastries, right? That's what did it?"
Queenie sweeps from the room with a complex look, whispering a soft 'good luck, Mr. Scamander'. Newt—having survived, physically intact—is now terrified for his best friend.
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X: Boring
The Norm
She brushes a hand, carefully, to his brow.
"You English. I can never understand."
Newt's forehead is cooling off, his soft freckles no longer burning to the touch.
The small lines next to his eyes—laugh lines, Tina likes to pretend, not stress lines, not worry—relax, and he breathes a low sigh that's felt deep in the marrow. Tina feels it too, and it blankets her bones with a soft, not unpleasant fatigue. She leans forward onto the coverlet, face inches from his.
"Tina." Her name sounds almost worshipful, from his lips. "You're my fiancée." His green eyes crack open, a bit watery and hazy. "There's a right way to do this. Properly. What would your family think?"
"As far as I'm concerned, no Goldstein's ever been introduced into Society. In America or elsewhere, wherever my ancestors roamed," she says matter-of-factly, as she plunks the basin down by the bedside.
"I just don't want your late mum and dad to think you've gone off and… and married a wild man."
Tina looks at him balefully. He cuts a tragic figure, sometimes. "You may try, Newt, but you're more of a brain than a brute."
He's in a veritable mood now. His I-must-try-to-prove-good-enough-to-please-my-fiancée moods are amusing, but mostly induce eye-rolls from said betrothed.
"Just think," Newt wonders, eyes growing increasingly wet. "They must be talking. The calling cards, Mother replied to them all last week. What will they think, when we don't show?"
"You have a fever." She wrings another drop of water from the towel and perches it precariously on an agitated Newt. "Lady Bulstrode will just have to cope."
"She's not the coping type," he whispers fervently. "It's all my fault. It's because I was up late all week feeding the Glumbumbles."
"You look it," she acknowledges, stifling a laugh at his answering stricken look. "But, to be honest, I'm glad to have some time alone. Your parents and brother are always dragging us off to these high society events."
His morose expression shifts a bit. "It's Season."
"It's awful. They're all awful, from that first ball to the last charity cocktail we went to. We're at war, and these people insist on drinking their champagne in metal goblets encrusted with rubies! I don't see how you can stand them."
Newt looks thoughtful. "They're not all bad. The Longbottoms are alright."
Tina thinks of the plump young man with the penchant for snowy owls. "Was he your childhood friend?"
"Maybe." Newt hums. "Unlikely. My friends growing up were mostly… non-human."
She waits patiently, for him to process. Newt's demons run far deeper than Leta, deeper than Hogwarts days, and coming here, to the Scamander Estate, she's realized just how much Newt differs from children of other European wizarding families—or rather, English purebloods—and how much that difference matters, here. The insular circles upset more than just Tina's American sensibilities.
"Why do you care about us going, then?" she insists, trying to cheer him up. "I don't want you to relive those experiences. You're an established magizoolist now, for Merlin's sake. You should be turning your nose up at them."
His warm, calloused hand comes to rest on hers, almost shyly, as is his custom. She squeezes.
"They can call me a freak until the end of my days, Tina, but I won't have them calling you that, too. I'd do anything." She hears the 'for you' he leaves out, and, like his still-tentative touches, it breaks her heart.
"They can call us both boring, then," she decides. "Far too boring for their elaborate 'Season' parties. Just tell them I'm American, and I will never understand, and am proud of that. Aren't you?" She blushes at her audacity in this foreign place her fiancé calls home (at least in name). "I mean, I assume you are, since you could have just picked an English girl closer to home."
He stares at her wonderingly. "I—" he starts, but flushes red, and doesn't have the words to finish.
"I love you, too," Tina finishes for him, not meeting Newt's starstruck gaze.
"You, Newt. Just as you are."
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XXXX: Dangerous / Requires Specialist
The Gift
Their child is born in chaos. The world is still imperfect, despite everyone's efforts. Yes, the official war has ended but new walls have been build, between countries, between wizards and Muggles. Newt believes, wants to believe, that there's good in this world—Tina's laugh, Tina's smile, Tina's fingers interlaced with his—but now Tina is shrieking, and he is hopelessly lost.
"I am going to hunt you down when this is done, Scamander," she huffs in agitated, hurried pants before her teeth crash into her lips again and she's straining, shoulders tense, eyes clenched against the pain.
She utters a few more threats against him, all promising utmost danger to his physical integrity and his future mating capacities. Through it all, like the excellent multi-tasker he knows his wife is, she pushes.
Newt is bewildered.
His left hand is turning an alarming shade of white, circulation completely cut off by his wife's prodigious grip. It's like she's gained super strength, during this process. Under more pleasant circumstances, he would be making detailed observations. However, as his life is being threatened and his heart is threatening to pound out of his chest, Newt merely holds his breath and tries to signal (with wide eyes) to the midwife.
The midwife growls at him. "For the LAST time, Mr. Scamander, the Missus will be fine."
(Newt's starting to lose his confidence in the whole thing. This woman said there were pain-dulling charms, too, and look what a big success that was.)
"Are you sure I can't hel—"
"NO, Mr. Scamander, I UNDERSTAND you're a famous BEAST RESEARCHER, but I AM A MIDWIFE, and your creatures are NOT HUMANS." The midwife's responses are punctuated by megaphone-like crescendos, matching her careful concentration in telling Tina to 'push, dear'.
"Magizoologist," Newt squeaks quietly, and shoots another glance at his purpling wife. She is lovely, no matter what shade she is, but he must admit that this is all a bit much for him, even having witnessed numerous creature births.
It's different, somehow, when it's your wife, your child.
Their child.
The idea fills Newt with so much wonder and fear and love, he barely feels his crushed hand being let loose (that may be because the nerves are quite disconnected now), and barely registers the reality of a final, gasping push as the midwife's hands emerge a familiar gooey red.
The next part is not reminiscent of creature births. This vision eclipses the former experience almost entirely. Newt's heart expands exponentially, feeling hot and tender and far too large, too invested in this beautiful, screaming, red-faced babe born among chaos.
"He's beautiful."
Tina beams weakly, her head resting back on the chair cushion. Newt is torn between hugging her tight (she doesn't look like she wants to be squeezed, in her disheveled state) and taking the new arrival into his arms, shielding him against the world.
"A playmate for Jacob Jr.," Tina smiles weakly.
"He's a strong one," the midwife declares, cleaning up the afterbirth on her hands.
Strong.
Newt wants to shout the word from the rooftop.
His son is strong. His son will not bow, will not cave, in the face of danger. His son will experience full love, from him and Tina. Not like Newt himself—not like the silent second son, where painful shyness since childhood crippled a good many years—his son will be everything, have everything, not lack anything.
His incoherent thoughts are interrupted by a soft "Newt."
He redirects, still shell-shocked, to Tina, his gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife. She smiles at him, because she understands that he's never been good with words, never known how to voice his loudest thoughts with actual decibels.
The midwife has already handed the baby to his mother. "You can hold him," Tina says, her cheek against her son's, her eyes wet and then traveling upward to beam at him—the father, the happiest man alive.
A sliver of green emerges from Newt's waist pocket and travels upward to examine the bundle in his arms. The midwife gives an alarmed cry, and Tina only laughs.
The bowtruckle tickles the soft pad of the baby's cheek with utmost care.
Newt grins. "Pickett, meet the newest member of our family."
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XXXXX: Known Wizard Killer / Impossible to Train or Domesticate
The Fantastic
He forgets, sometimes, that Tina's an Auror.
He forgets the heavy brunt of her magic, the raw yet polished talent shooting out of her, the intensity of her heartfelt glare. Newt's faced Grindelwald with the help of his beasts, but she's faced him since day one with just the stick of her wand and the force of her convictions.
(Tina still wakes up sometimes, in the middle of the night. He's coaxed her into talking, not hiding her pain, just as he opens up about his.)
Newt forgets because she's tender-hearted, and so incredibly loving, his Tina. Her touches are often feather-like, and when they're substantial, they're so warm. To little Leon, she's firm, but there's not a moment to doubt her underlying gentleness. Queenie is reputedly the sweetheart of the duo, but Tina is the one who gives most intensely, most selflessly.
Newt forgets, but the world's still in chaos. It isn't safe, especially for them. In the warm cocoon of his home, with her, with little Leon, Newt has the luxury to forget, sometimes.
The man arrives unannounced inside their home, with plans to steal his creatures to release Gellert Grindelwald. He's a lunatic, convinced that Newt's 'monsters' will do his bidding if their 'master' commands it.
And what better collateral than the two-year old Scamander heir?
Pickett quivers in Newt's sleeve, while Mauler hisses threats from his trouser leg, its claws rooted deep into the carpet, rendering Newt frustratingly still. He watches Tina whip out her wand faster than the man can react, a wordless cry ripped from her mouth, lightning in her eyes.
Her precision is astounding. He barely sees the disarming spell, launched with such force it shatters the protego, and slams the assailant into the wall. Little Leon is unscathed but frightened, wailing as Newt magically whisks his son to his side.
The rest is just flashes of searing lightning back and forth as Newt sees the expulso and reductor curses crash into walls, shattering bricks and old mortar.
"Grindelwald should have ended you," the man snarls, spitting red as he leans against the destroyed study wall. "You Scamanders are blood traitors. And now you introduce foreign filth into your bloodline. No wonder they call you a freak, and kicked your family out of the Twenty-Eight."
Newt is about to launch himself at the man, dragging Mauler with him or not, but Tina is faster. Her gaze locks the attacker in place, drains the blood from the man's face.
"You try saying that again, about my son. About my husband."
The man recovers, snarling. "You and your son are filthy. Not fit to kiss Grindelwald's boots."
"Grindelwald's done," Newt counters, eyeing the rubble of his study. "You should stop, too. Give it up. This is not your era any longer."
The man lifts a second wand, a spark of green lighting the tip.
Tina's preemptive spell renders the room a white blur. Newt hugs Leon a little closer, his son's face nuzzling into his neck, Pickett's spindly body wrapping protectively around the toddler's eyes and ears. Mauler gives a self-satisfied yowl.
"Mum, mum, mum," Leon shouts when it's over. He half-waddles, half-crawls furiously across the room.
Tina's arms close around the boy, warm and protective and fierce. "Shhh," she whispers, in between covering his little face with kisses. "You're okay, my love. I'm here."
Newt bounds across the room in large strides. "You were—" he starts. "A-amazing."
Tina looks up at him, hoisting Leon into her arms and straightening to meet his gaze. "I take it the world-famous Mr. Scamander is impressed?"
"Erm," he says, because fatherhood doesn't necessarily mean that everything changes. "Overwhelmed, mostly."
Tina deposits Leon into Newt's arms. "You take him upstairs and read him a story to sleep. I'll be up eventually, after I clean this mess and send the report. The Ministry, MACUSA, and no doubt the International Federation will want to hear about this."
Tina, his lovely wife, career woman, and something more, wholly unfathomable.
He could die of pride, but Newt's decided that living, with all of its ups and downs—always surprising—is well worth it.
"Kiss?" he asks hopefully.
She gives him her shy smile, which shows Newt that she hasn't changed too much, either. "Maybe later, after Leon's asleep."
Mauler gives a loud, displeased yowl at the lack of attention, and nips again at the exposed ankles of the stunned body crumpled against the wall.
"We really should get another Kneazle," Tina admits grudgingly. "Mauler's getting out of hand, all by himself."
"Or," Newt says innocently. "We could work on a sibling for Leon, first. I wouldn't want our son being spoiled rotten like our creatures."
Pickett makes itself known from the crook of Leon's elbow.
"Yes, you too, Pickett," Newt laughs. "You're spoiled so rotten you don't even know it."
And deep down, Newt knows he is, too. Famed magizoologist or not, target of angry fanatics or not, his world cannot be classified—his life too astonishing, love too staggering, to want for anything else so very fantastic.
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End
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