He's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming because he's been here before, more times than he can count. This knowledge doesn't make the weight of the dream any lighter to bear, and it doesn't make waking any easier—because this is not a dream but a nightmare, one that's visited him time and time again, and he knows there's no escaping it until it releases him from its thrall.

In his cottage in Dorset, in his too-wide bed, Newt Scamander whines in the back of his throat as his eyes begin to flicker rapidly behind closed lids.

Tatters of smoke stream across his vision, some leaking through his faltering Bubble Head charm as he runs, runs, runs. There are muggle men in there somewhere, men who are his responsibility, and at this moment he is failing them. So he runs, as hard as his legs will pump, until he finds the trench through the choking gas by the simple expedition of falling into it.

On the table next to his bed lies a single piece of parchment, covered in neat, looping penmanship. A letter from his Tina, the only one to make it through in the six weeks she's been gone. He keeps it by his pillow to read every night, a paltry talisman against the dream that's been recurring with increasing frequency since he had to relearn how to sleep alone.

Besides the precious letter, a small nest emits a mournful chirp as a leafy head pokes out to check on its sleeping Tree. Pickett's Tree is doing the sleep-thing again, when he moans and tosses as though he's in a gale, though Pickett can't feel any wind. He watches through woody brown eyes as his Tree kicks off the large and strangely floppy leaf he wears while sleeping before wrapping his branches protectively around himself.

Newt shivers as he moans, and moans, and moans, and Pickett is powerless to help him.

He lands badly, turning his ankle beneath him as he sprawls against a man who is very obviously dead, gas-burnt eyes staring sightlessly into the white sky. He chokes out a cry and scrambles backward, snarling a curse as he stands and heads toward the nearest bend in the trench. Newt murmurs the charm to shore up his protective bubble as he slogs through the mud and blood in a search for life that is beginning to beat a steady refrain in his skull: hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.

The nest is a new thing, and Pickett doesn't like it much. However, after his Tree had sleep-thrashed hard enough to send him flying into a wall a few weeks back, his Tree had insisted on it. So Pickett watches carefully for the first sign of his Tree waking up, moving to stand next to the cherished letter from his Tree's Companion as he waits, and fingers his drooping leaves sadly.

There are more men around the bend, and the gas is thicker here. His charm isn't refreshing like it should as he limps through a particularly dense patch of it. A feeling like rusty metal teeth sinks into his eyes, throat, and lungs and he bends double to cough, not allowing his feet to stop moving but slowing down, slowing down. He trips over a body wearing Tina's face and barely notices, focus narrowing to the most basic of biological imperatives until he casts around blindly for the crude ladder that would get him out of this pit of death.

He doesn't find one, and his essential failure tastes like hot metal in his mouth, smells like pineapple and pepper.

He digs badly trembling fingers into an earthen wall as he struggles to breathe deeply enough to call for help. He doesn't like doing it, but she can handle the fog of gas better than he can, and he cannot seem to find the energy to Disapparate out of here or even cast a basic air-cleansing charm.

"Snowflake..."

A breathy croak, no good. He struggles up to tiptoes in an attempt to get above the gas, draws the deepest breath the fish hooks in his lungs allow, and tries again.

"Snowflake!"

Better, but not great. He closes his eyes and wraps his fingers around his wand, grimly pushing past the panic-animal now clawing and yammering around his brain, and tries one last time.

"SNOWFLAKE!"

A bellow this time, accompanied by a warbling whistle, and it'll have to be good enough. He slumps against the crumbling side of his temporary prison while doing his best to breathe in shallow pants as he awaits either a lingering death—or salvation.

The latches on the case click from the other side of the door, and Pickett turns to watch the door ease open of its own accord. The Dougal hoots a greeting as it crosses the room, climbing up onto a bedpost to watch the Tree when he goes eerily still. Pickett is heartened by this—he's witnessed it before, usually right before his Tree trembles or shouts himself awake.

From above, an earth-shaking cry. Newt coughs weakly while turning blindly toward it, jarring his bad ankle and choking out a gasp. Another cry, one he knows, and he crows his delight just as licks of blue flame show at the edge of his vision. A great gust of wind blows his hair back, his charm failing with an unceremonious pop, and the haze of choking gas recedes into ragged tatters, which dissipates into nothing as he watches.

"Snowflake, over here."

He's trying, he really is, but all that makes it past his split and frothy lips is a series of squeaky mouse-sounds. He straightens and waves his arms, hoping his olive-gray uniform shows against the earth around him, as Snowflake bellows questioningly—from further away, now.

Newt struggles upright and forces himself to move in the direction she'd cried from, heedless of the skulls, ankles, and wrists he trods upon, struggling around the first bend, then the second, splashed with mud and blood, half-delirious with fear and panic, but at least no longer choking on streamers of gas. The strength of her wings had beaten it all away.

Then, ghastly and unexpected, causing his head to snap up and every ache to lose significance—

—the unmistakable cough of heavy artillery fire, followed by a dragon screaming in pain, near enough to rattle his teeth in his jaw.

Pickett and Dougal move closer as one unit, both watching the Tree/Newt with weary eyes, both ready to pounce on the Tree/him at the first sign of panic. It's like this, sometimes: he comes awake either with a scream, which is bad, or weeping, which is somehow worse.

They wait.

"Snowflake!"

(Like the Muggle men, he couldn't get to her in time, and that failure tastes like mud.)

Newt moves shakily about his small kitchen, his muscles and bones creaking like those of a 200-year-old man as he prepares tea, the darkness still hard against the windows when he takes his first, trembling sips. Pickett chirps from his place in his hair, and Newt attempts a smile while rolling his eyes upwards.

"I'm okay," he croaks, even though they both know it's a lie. Pickett blows a disbelieving raspberry and Newt smiles—grimaces—at his teacup. "I am," he says again, and his voice is slightly steadier as the primal sway of the dream slowly, slowly diminishes by dint of good tea and good company.

His hands are almost steady by the time he pours himself another cup, not concerned with attempting to go back to sleep because he knows from hard-won experience that it would be an impossible venture. He's awake now, for better or for worse, so he figures he may as well make the best of it.

The dream may have lessened its hold on him years ago, but it still has some power...and he knows why it's back.

Tina.

He misses her. It's something he can admit to himself freely, but it always hurts the most here, in the early-morning dark, when his nerves are frayed and his emotions are simmering just beneath the surface. She had sat across from him, in this very seat, and drunk tea from the cup with the small chip in the handle. She had eaten his food and shared her smile freely after those rocky first days. She had shared other things too: her thoughts and hopes and dreams; her sense of adventure and humor...

Her body, wrapped sensually around his, hot and tight and urging him ever closer to the verge.

He had held her in this cottage, told her he loved her in this cottage, made love to her in this cottage. She had welcomed it all, repeated it back, initiated it on occasion. She had imprinted on his skin, heart, mind, soul, and left him with the lingering traces of herself in his bed.

And in the six weeks since she'd been gone, he's received one letter. One.

He tells himself every day that he is not upset by this.

(He has never been very good at self-deception.)

Dear Newt,

Let me say first that I am sorry I haven't written sooner. To say that things have been crazy here would be a New York-level understatement, but it's the truth: things have been crazy here. Nobody quite knows what to do, and if I had known the war would be so fundamentally disorganized, I probably would have done my best to stay home.

Newt snorts at this part, as he always does while sinking onto the mattress to read. He has the letter memorized but there's still comfort in holding the heavy parchment in his hands and imagining where she had touched it. He can picture her slender fingers and expressive eyes this way, lined and tired but also set and determined. A small smile wrinkles the corner of his mouth.

Director Graves arrived yesterday to distribute orders. I'm afraid I can't give you specifics, but I've been chosen for something that, should it succeed, may change the entire course of this war. Things aren't going as well as we would have hoped here, Newt, and I may not be home to you as quickly as we would both like—but I'll see my task through to the end, because that is what I do.

He brings the parchment to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. He imagines he can smell her on it, and he takes the time to savor the scent before going on.

I've given some thought to what you asked before I left. How would you feel if I suggested a summer wedding? Nothing fancy, just our immediate families and closest friends (do you have many friends? I'm sorry, I never thought to ask before now. I suppose I always assumed...anyways, that's not important) and Pickett, of course. Perhaps he can keep the rings safe from Niffler theft?

I was thinking the beach, that pebbly one we walked in Devon. At noon, maybe, or even dusk. I think it would be beautiful, and I know it would make me the happiest woman on earth, to become Mrs. Newton Scamander in the same spot my husband asked me to become his wife.

Please say you'll at least think about it, Newt.

I can't say much else because it'll just get edited out anyway, so I'll close this letter. I've never been any good at saying goodbye, so...I love you. I miss you. I can't wait to see you again. Please spare a thought for me whenever possible, and for the men and woman here with me. We are fighting as best we can, and each of us are determined to go home.

For me, that home is you.

Love, always,

Tina

Newt closes his eyes while recalling the salt-tang of the English summer coast, the way the sun had shone on her dark hair. He remembers her red lips curving into a smile, and how his hand had shaken as he pushed the ring onto her finger, her mouth forming the words yes, yes, yes! over and over.

(He remembers those same red lips put to good use later, wrapped around him as she flicks, licks and sucks him into a frenzy before laying back to allow him to bury his secrets within her body.)

His eyes burn with broken sleep all day.

Dougal and Pickett remain close to his side, as they are wont to do whenever he's woken by a bad dream—an occurrence happening more and more frequently. He survives on tea and biscuits, foregoing solid food in favor of throwing himself into work; he's pleased to realize that the third edition of his book is nearing completion. A few more pages of edits and it'll be ready to send off to his publisher, and he can relax. As much as his mind will allow, anyway.

He's just settling into a quiet supper of tea and hunter's sausage when his hearth flares green. He wipes his fingers before going to answer the call, a fissure of fear cleaving his heart at the unexpected interruption. Pickett chirps questioningly and Newt reaches out to stroke him absently, mind racing through the possibilities.

"Newt?"

The tension in Newt's frame winds another notch.

"Newton Scamander, are you around?"

He can think of very few reasons for Theseus to be calling on him at supper time, and none of them are good.

Newt crosses the remaining space at something that is far too undignified to be called a run and falls to his knees with a crack he barely notices, carelessly tossing a handful of Floo powder into the grate.

"Theseus?" he calls, ignorant to the thrum of nerves in his voice when his brother's grim face appears.

Theseus says his name in a voice absent of warmth, and Newt's heart begins to pound. "Can I come through?"

Newt doesn't say anything, just scrambles to his feet. A loud whoosh ejects his brother a few seconds later, unfolding to his full height as he brushes the soot off his dark suit, glancing around nervously. Newt recognizes the evasive tactic for what it is, and his heart stops pounding to give a terrific lurch before lodging in his throat.

"It's Tina, isn't it?" He croaks, the world around him snapping into sudden, sharp focus when his brother looks at him with eyes identical to his own. Theseus doesn't nod or shake his head. He doesn't blink or avert his face. He does swallow thickly, and Newt chokes.

"I think," Theseus says softly, "that you're going to want to sit down for this." His eyes and tone are a gentle contrast to his War Hero reputation, and he holds up a single hand as if gentling a rabid beast when he moves closer to Newt. "I'm so sorry, little brother."

(Later, Theseus Scamander would tell Percival Graves that he now knew the precise sound a human heart made when it broke.)