Work Text:
London, England
December 30, 1926
Dear Auror Goldstein,
Thank you for your letter and your inquires as to my safe return to England. Please reassure your sister Queenie of my (and my creatures) safe return (as well as entirely uneventful, though there was a minor incident with a sea serpent on the trip back--nothing to worry about, I assure you).
On that note, even though it might not please you, I am very happy to hear that our friend Jacob still retains some of his memories of our adventures together--and he has his bakery. I can think of no one worthier of a little good luck--the possible exception being yourself and your sister, of course.
Regards,
Newt Scamander
New York City, America
January 15, 1927
Dear Mr. Scamander,
My sister and I were very glad to hear of your safe return and look forward to the publishing of your book (Queenie says she has lots of ideas for a title, if you care to hear them, she’ll send you a whole letter’s worth of them). I cannot say I am entirely unworried about what you call “a minor incident” with a sea serpent--but since there hasn’t been any news of any shipwrecks or sudden disappearances on the Atlantic, I can take you at your word. Please do try to be careful, though.
It might sound strange to stay, but I am very pleased to see that Jacob does have still remember our time together last month. His pastry nifflers are by far one of the most popular treats in the neighborhood and Queenie brings them home every Sunday morning.
I like to think, Mr. Scamander, we make our own luck. Call it an Americanism.
Best,
Tina Goldstein
Paris, France
June 21, 1927
Dear Miss Goldstein,
When I said in a previous letter I wanted to show you Paris in the spring, the incident last week was not what I had in mind.
Though I am very glad I got to show parts of it to you anyways--impending doom does rather put a damper on things.
Dumbledore expressed great concern to me in his last letter that Grindelwald has escaped yet again. I know we did the best we could, but I cannot shake the feeling that my best, at the least, was not good enough. I know Aurors on both sides of the world are doing everything they can, and I wish to help, though my skills and area of expertise admittedly, are quite limited. My brother Theseus warns me seers and diviners are already making prophecies. I pray that nothing will come to pass--and yet can see no alternative. Already there is rumblings in our world and the Muggle--pardon me, No-Maj, of new ideas, new politics, new societies. On the surface, they seem idealistic and idyllic--but leave little room for reality.
I hope you and your sister are doing well.
Regards,
Newt Scamander
New York City, America
July 7, 1927
Dear Mr. Scamander,
Queenie is outraged that I was in Paris, and didn’t manage to do any shopping in the least while I was there and pays no mind to the fact that it’s not as if we could afford anything (or that we were running for our lives). She did calm down a little when I showed her the small book of recipes I bought for Jacob and the cloche I bought for her--though she scolded me for not getting anything for myself, as per usual, in her words. She and Jacob send kindest regard to you, of course.
As to your concerns for Grindelwald--
At this moment, there is nothing we can do about that, and please don’t mistake this for apathy. We have our spheres, you and I, and Grindelwald is the shark swimming outside of them (pardon the insult to sharks, I’m sure some of them must be very nice in comparison). Sometimes he may strike--and sometimes he may not. The best we can do is be prepared in the meantime. And as for your wanting to be “useful”... your skills and area of expertise saved all of New York, in case you’ve forgotten. And if those skills are not useful for war, well...I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. Quite the opposite, honestly. Let us worry about what is set before us now.
I send my love best wishes to your creatures and yourself, of course.
Your friend in New York,
Tina Goldstein
New Dehli, India
September 24, 1928
Dear Tina,
Work on the book is going well, thank you for asking. I do find myself suddenly understanding what they mean by “an Indian summer,” though many of my creatures are enjoying the heat and sunshine here more than myself. We have just finished cataloguing an entirely new species of water spirits here, similar to the Scottish kelpies. Enclosed are a few sketches--rudimentary, but efficient.
Philadelphia, America,
October 21, 1928
Dear Newt,
We are in Philadelphia for the yearly meeting of the wizarding senate--Madame Seraphina has asked me to be a member of her personal detail of Aurors. Your sketches are more than efficient--did you ever think of being an artist?
Cardiff, Wales
March 29, 1929
Dear Tina,
[at the ending of a letter] ...I dreamt of you the other night.
New York City, America
April 15, 1929
Dear Newt,
[the postscript of a letter] ...what did you dream?
Edinburgh, Scotland
August 15, 1929
Dear Tina,
[the following is a passage in the middle of a letter] You asked me what I dreamed. I have the same one so oftenly recurring I am beginning to think it is a sign. I dream of a cottage in Dorset, a forest, a hearth, a bed and you in all of these things.
New York City, America
September 1, 1929
Dear Newt,
[another excerpt from the middle of a letter] Sounds like a nice dream. Shall I tell you one of mine?
...I dream of all those things too.
London, England
October 31, 1929
Dearest Tina,
My book is finally being published. I have the first edition here before me and soon, it and myself, will be in your entirely welcome and capable hands. As soon as I get on the first boat to New York.
[This letter never received a reply, because presumably by then, Scamander had already reached New York.]
London, England
September 5, 1939
Dear Tina,
As you know by now, war has been declared between Germany and England, in both worlds, wizarding and Muggle. The Ministry of Magic has already asked if I could accept an assignment, though I cannot say where. There is rumor that Grindelwald, taking advantage of the turmoil, has used the opportunity to use several magical creatures against wizardkind and Muggle alike and that is not the least of his crimes. There is more to tell you--so much more--but I cannot find the time nor the space here. I will do my best to make sure my letters to you continue--to the best of my ability.
Yours, ever,
Newt
October 25, 1939
New York City, America
Dear Newt,
Please be careful no matter where they put you. Already there is talk of censoring mail.
...Was that ending comma intentional?
Yours, always,
Tina
November 1, 1939
London, England
Dearest Tina,
I spoke nothing less than the absolute truth.
Yours, forever,
Newt
New York City, America
April 5, 1940
Newt,
This is the fifth letter I have sent you and still no reply. Can you at least send a goddamn owl?
...Sorry. I don’t mean to shout. But--where are you?
New York City, America
September 15, 1941
Dear Mr. Scamander,
If you don’t answer my sister’s next letter (enclosed), there will be hell to pay.
Best,
Queenie Kalowski
New York City, America
June 3, 1942
Is this the end of it then?
[The following incident was described from several firsthand accounts and eyewitnesses.]
“You selfish, meddling bastard. ”
Theseus Scamander looks up from his desk to see his younger brother before him, hair practically standing on end, fists clenched at his side. He’d breathe fire, Theseus thinks, if he could.
Theseus lets his papers slide out of his hands, eyes his little brother warily. Newt possesses truly superhuman reserves of patience and even-temper, but when the occasion actually arises for Newt to lose his temper, he usually does it in some fairly spectacular way. Seeing Newt truly angry is an unnerving sight, reserved usually for some unfortunate creature abused or abandoned--or on behalf of a certain American Auror in New York.
“You’re going to have to be more specific, little brother,” he says as mildly as he can. “What exactly have I been a meddling bastard about?”
Newt practically bares his teeth, the closest thing Theseus has ever seen to a snarl on his brother’s mild face. “ My letters. ”
Ah. “Those letters,” Theseus says, realization dawning. Hell, hell, hell, bloody hell --no wonder Newt’s so incensed.
“You have them,” Newt says, almost vibrating with the intensity of his rage. “My letters from--from Tina. Give them back to me, now. ”
Theseus stares impassively at his younger brother, aware of how quiet the office has gotten--every being in the room must be staring at them. “I was doing it for your own good.”
“If I want to have a conversation with Father,” says Newt acidly, “I’ll go to Dorset. As it stands, I won’t tolerate it from you. ”
“We’re in the middle of a war,” Theseus points out and Newt’s lips peel back from his teeth again.
“I know ,” he spits out. “I’ve been fighting in it, same as you. And right now, the only thing keeping me from cursing you into the nearest wall is the thought it would make Tina--and Mother--unhappy. Now give them to me.”
“You couldn’t become distracted. She was becoming a distraction,” Theseus argues, even as he sees his little brother’s face go red, then white with rage. “Newt, be reasonable--”
“I do nothing but be reasonable!” Newt shouts--his quiet, withdrawn younger brother, who has always retreated into himself and his creatures when faced with difficulties. “I am reasonable when faced with death and horror and atrocities and bloodshed all day long and the only thing, the only thing I have--is her. She keeps me reasonable. She keeps me sane! And if it means I have one single avenue of forgetting this bloody stupid wretched war, then let me keep it! NOW GIVE ME MY LETTERS!”
Utter silence fills the room. Stone-faced, Theseus reaches into his desk drawers and silently hands Newt a thick bundle of letters, all with American stamps. Newt snatches them out of his brother’s hands and shoves them into the inner pocket of his ever-present blue overcoat--he refuses to wear a uniform even now. He turns and leaves without another word, back straight, shoulders back, the most upright Theseus has ever seen him. The slamming of a door makes the walls tremble slightly.
Theseus lets his head fall into his hands, just for a moment, as the office slowly comes back to life again, muttering quietly.
[excerpt from a letter, sent August 15, 1943]
...So you see, that was I hadn’t responded to any of your letters. My brother saw fit to act on my behalf, though it was most unwelcome and unasked for.
I know it’s been almost three years since I last responded to your letters. I hope--I pray you will forgive me and understand it was never my intent to hurt or mislead you.
If...if you don’t wish to hear from me any more, or reply back, if I have left it too long and your feelings for me are no longer the same, I understand.
It will ruin me, but I will understand.
Please reply, I beg you.
Yours, forever, endlessly, hopelessly,
Newt
[It is worth noting that shortly after this letter was received by its intended recipient, a Howler appeared on the desk of Colonel Theseus Scamander, and upon opening, promptly proceeded to send several heartfelt and utterly sincere Polish, Yiddish and Brooklynite curses towards him and cast several unkind aspersions on his parentage, competency, and potency. MACUSA denied any knowledge of such a letter making it’s way through the censorship board.]
London, England
May 8, 1945
Dearest Tina,
They’re calling it V-Day over here, for Germany’s surrender, both Muggle and wizarding sides. There are people dancing and waving flags in the streets, crying, laughing, kissing, wizards and Muggles alike and no one call tell the difference. I was amongst them myself for a time, and rather felt I was in the middle of a happy hurricane.
Though we call it Victory Day, the war is not yet truly over, there is the mending and the cleaning up to do--and that, I suspect, will take years, if not lifetimes. But I look forward to it, even now, listening to the joyful, mad celebration outside, because it means we will have a future to look to, and places to mend and new discoveries to make, in all the unexplored places of the world that are still here.
I would enjoy the celebrations a thousand times more if you were here with me.
Yours, ever and always,
Newt
New York City, America
June 1, 1945
My Newt,
Queenie, Jacob and I are getting on the first plane (yes plane, MACUSA is paying for it, Graves insisted) to London, where hopefully, you and I can...talk and...other things.
I can’t write anymore because my hands are shaking too much and we still have to pack.
Your Tina
[It is also worth noting that the marriage of Newton Scamander and Porpentina Goldstein took place exactly twenty days after the last letter (from 1939 to 1945) between them was sent.]