I Hope You Are Doing Well
...
"I will destroy you
in the most beautiful way possible
and when I leave you will
understand why storms are named after people."
...
"She's a taker. You need a giver."
Yes, but he took too.
And worse.
He's a stealer—a thief.
He stole a pair of earrings and a watch.
Oh, and a heart.
But he doesn't know that.
...
It's cold.
And she wants to be warm.
The yearning causes her to unearth the dusty old journal hidden beneath her floorboards like a secret.
It is a secret—hiding another.
She claws through the pages like a madwoman, (perhaps she is one at this point), searching. But what she's looking for slips out, flutters to the ground and finds her.
She picks up the photograph and turns it over to see the bright face of a boy, arguably a young man, smiling and laughing, not quite looking at her, floating out to her as a ghost from the past.
The sounds of celebration stir beneath her feet and grate against her nerves. In turn, she wrenches off the gold ring from her finger and throws it away in a fury. It echoes and rattles emptily along the cold marble floor of her home—house.
She hopes that he is happy because she is not—because he deserves to be and she does not.
In a pool of white fabric, she crumples to the ground and wishes she could run to him now.
A bitter smile pulls at her lips. She presses the faded film of memory close to her chest.
...
The first time they met, she ran into him, quite literally.
Even though it was her fault, she hissed and scowled and looked at him with disdain—just some knobby-kneed, stuttering Hufflepuff with arms and legs too long for his torso.
He helped her up and apologized and glanced at her quickly from under his fringe.
"I-I'm sorry, I'm running late for class," he said, with the best eye contact he could muster before turning them down and away to finish the rest of his inquiry, "You wouldn't know where the classroom for Care of Magical Creatures is, would you?"
She pressed her mouth into a hard line, communicating that it was below her station to talk to someone like him and turned away.
But not before motioning for him to follow her—a queenly, arrogant wave like the one she would give her house elves.
Why did she even bother in the first place?
Because she was going there too she reasoned with herself.
Because he was a sad puppy that other students liked to kick for sport, her mind whispered.
And she was cruel, but not that cruel.
Not yet.
But with a surname like Lestrange, cruelty was a second skin she had to wear, along with duty and honor. At least this was what she told herself when she laughed along with Abraxas Malfoy's jokes at dinner parties.
"What kind of mother names their child Newt? Unless she purposely wanted him to be tormented?" he snorted.
His (fair-weathered) friend jeered back, "His mother breeds hippogriffs for a living—what more can you expect from an uncouth, low-bred bi—"
"I think not!" she blurted out.
Immediately, the stares of a dozen of her peers bore onto her. The clattering of cutlery ceased.
"Pardon?" Abraxas asked coolly, unused to being challenged.
"I mean—isn't it obvious? It's because he looks like one," she corrected herself. The words had left her mouth feeling like poison. It was one thing to laugh, another to participate.
A nervous titter of laughter swept through the table and the stares melted away. The dull buzzing of conversation and clinking glassware continued.
"Right you are," Abraxas replied, his steel grey eyes glinting a cruelty that she realized was not worn. It was woven into his being.
...
The second time they met, he found her.
It was less of a collision—more of a light bump—a tap on the shoulder in the library.
He had stolen away to escape the taunting jeers of students. In the past week or so, the student body had taken to comparing him to looking like a newt with great gusto. It did not bother him much, really. People—humans—were mean, it was in their nature and he accepted it as such.
But as to anything, there were always exceptions.
Like that dark-haired, dark-eyed girl who showed him to the Care of Magical Creatures classroom—the same girl who now sat hunched over at one of the tables in the library, making the same noises a Niffler did when it was upset.
With one sweaty hand clamped around a pile of notes, he reached out the other, equally as sweaty, and tapped her on the shoulder.
Earlier, he had seen Abraxas steal her notes and promptly light them aflame. Now, her hands were covered in dark soot.
"What do you want?" she whirled around and snapped at him. She had been crying, her rage hid it well but not well enough to mask her red-rimmed eyes.
He didn't flinch in the slightest and offered the stack of parchment. "You can borrow my notes if you want."
Her eyes narrowed, as if looking for a trick. "What are you going to study from?"
"Oh, I-I already finished studying," he replied with a sheepish smile.
"Fine." She pinched the stack of papers between her fingers. "But don't let it get into your head that I owe you."
"I won't." He saw the slight bits of a relief curl up on her face and felt his own face mirroring it. However, they were interrupted.
His papers fell onto the ground in a flurry and so did he. Something pushed him—or someone.
"Oi! Newt Salamander—you actually cozying up to Leta? By Merlin's body, I don't think there exist two other people in the world that could make a stranger couple." The familiar hard-edged voice of Abraxas Malfoy grated his ears as he sat back up.
Abraxas then strode around to sneer in her face, "Leta, really? I thought you had better taste than slimy, amphibious creeps. I've heard if you salt a salamander they'll dissolve, let's try it, shall we?"
She had been staring stonily ahead since he entered the library. "Go ahead—see if I care," she said flippantly and stalked out.
With her gone, Newt figured he himself made for boring company because Abraxas followed her out, leaving him alone to gather his scattered notes with a wounded ego and a sharp sting in his heart. She was just like everybody else. He shouldn't have expected more.
Reaching for another bit of his notes, he sighed tiredly. Nothing ever really went his way.
But maybe Merlin was in a particularly favorably mood that day because moments later, she strode back in.
And he couldn't help but smile and blubber, "You're back."
"So it seems," she drawled disinterestedly, "I still need your notes to study from."
"Oh right." His face fell. He didn't know what he was hoping for.
She grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and set him upright. "Why are you groveling on the floor? You're capable of using magic, aren't you? Or your brain?" She waved her wand over the floor of the library.
He stared dumbly as the pieces of parchment collected themselves. In her presence, magic, maybe, but the use of his brain was highly dubious. Evidenced as how he tried to fill the gap of awkward silence with awkward noise about the first thing that could come to mind.
"Salamander's actually don't dissolve when you put salt on them…"
"Fantastic…" she muttered under her breath.
"They're amphibious creatures so some breeds actually swim in bodies of saltwater…"
"Amazing…" she murmured.
"And my name's not actually Newt. It's short for Newton. Some students have been telling me I look like one…I guess I can kind of see the resemblance—"
"No," she stated.
"S-sorry?" he asked, startled by the forcefulness in her voice.
For the briefest moment, she hesitated but the desire for atonement pushed other words out of her mouth. "You don't look like one. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. "
(Not even me).
He scratched his head. Was that kindness? He would take it as kindness. "Erm—thanks. But it really doesn't bother me all that much."
"It should," she snapped.
"Erm—okay."
"Don't let the bastards grind you down," she said with such fortitude, he wondered if she had rehearsed it.
She didn't.
Not really.
It just so happened it was something she reminded of herself daily.
...
The third time they met, they didn't actually talk.
She had passed her exam with flying colors and leaned over to begrudgingly give her gratitude (he had taken to sitting next to her in this particular class).
But she leaned back in her seat when she glimpsed a big, fat Troll marked on his blank exam.
"Oh, I-I already finished studying…"
What a liar.
Her face scrunched up in confusion and a swelling appreciation of his chivalry…or stupidity.
It was rather difficult to tell.
But then he let his hand casually cover the offensive red mark on his exam and turned to her and beamed that crudely carefree crooked smile of his.
She decided he was stupid. Definitely stupid.
Truth be told, she was right. Teenaged boys caught in the throes of love possessed that tendency.
...
The fourth, fifth, sixth times they met bled together. It was their first foray into complete bastardry—the best foundation for friendship—and started with a hearty, well-fed Niffler ironically named Peaky and a pair of earrings.
Her earrings.
Her lungs and legs were on the verge of collapse when she finally seized it by the tail as it tried to duck into a broom closet. She pulled out her wand and jabbed the furry creature in the stomach, unsure of how to proceed.
"Wait—stop, don't hurt him," he huffed, emerging from the broom closet.
What the hell was he even doing in there?
Exasperated, she asked, "Him? This thing is yours?"
Of course it was, she need not even ask. He was that strange boy with a knack for tending after strange creatures.
He rocked back and forth for a moment before protesting lightly, "It's not a thing. His name is Peaky and he's a Niffler."
"I know what it is and I don't care about its name. It stole my earrings—" she seethed, "—and it bit me!"
"He was scared. They tend to do that—bite when threatened. It's a self-defense mechanism," he said with such resolute authority on the matter she didn't argue back.
It was the first time he actually looked her in the eyes. They were soft and warm, she noted. Unimportant details.
But as soon as he roused up confidence, it faded just as fast. And he was back to looking at a random spot on the floor, motioning to the Niffler that was still dangling upside down in her hand. "May I?" he asked gently.
She obliged, handing the thing over, but not before it blew a raspberry at her and took another snap at her fingers.
Within a few seconds, her earrings rained down, along with possibly all of the gold in Gringotts bank with a deafening clatter on the ground.
If that wasn't enough, the door to the broom closet opened and out rolled a dozen puffskeins to join in on the hubbub in the hallway.
She realized the Niffler didn't choose to duck under that particular broom closet for no reason.
Merlin's beard…he was stupid…and crazy.
"You've been hoarding animals in this closet."
Standing amongst the crowd of puffskeins and gold, he looked like a fairytale boy as he laughed nervously—the corners of his eyes crinkling. "There was no more room in the Hufflepuff dormitory…y-you won't tell anybody, will you?"
She wouldn't have. But he didn't know that.
And her calculating, vengeful self saw an opportunity and seized it.
"Does that Niffler—"
"Peaky," he corrected.
"Yes, Peaky—" She gave him a contemptuous glance. "Can he steal specific things?"
Her companion nodded slowly—he had let Peaky go on purpose; knowing he would go right for her earrings and lead her straight back to him.
"One favor then—and I won't tell a soul."
She then leaned in close and for the first time, he could see how dark her eyes really were.
Not simply in color but also in the depth of emotion they beheld.
He should've said no. He should've left.
But he had a shoddy sense of self-preservation.
And she had very pretty eyes.
"Okay."
...
A few days later, he caught her just as she was exiting the Slytherin Common Room.
He had just successfully pulled off his first daring daylight heist, but just barely.
She was alone, like usual—in one of her moods, eyes downcast, dreaming of being anywhere but there.
But her grey demeanor disappeared quickly when he flashed the golden pocket watch in front of her. Or maybe it disappeared when he flashed that crooked, giddy smile of his.
Maybe both.
Regardless, she was so ecstatic she forgot herself for a moment and kissed him on the cheek and even Peaky on the snout, who had peeked out from Newt's coat jacket, before skipping off twirling the pocket watch around in her hand.
Ask anybody else, it was a bad bargain for a priceless gold pocket watch but ask him and he would've risked life and limb to steal the rest of the world's pocket watches.
Peaky also agreed with the latter.
...
Elsewhere, Abraxas Malfoy spent the rest of his evening dismantling half of Hogwarts looking for a family heirloom.
Needless to say, it was a futile effort.
...
In another few days, they were in the same aforementioned broom closet, knees pressed close together.
"Why are we in here?" he asked. Not that he truly minded. There were worse things in the world than to be crammed so close against the girl you fancied that you could (hypothetically) observe that her hair smelled like jasmine and that her eyelashes were so long they brushed against her brow bone and not feel like a complete creep.
Hypothetically.
"Showing you what I traded that useless piece of trash for," she said, pulling out the giant leather box she had been sitting on.
He wrinkled his brow, confused. Also a tad bit irked that his olfactory faculties were invaded by a pungent musk, replacing that pleasant (hypothetical) jasmine. "Oh, a suitcase."
Her voice rose with a vicious severity. "Please, do you take me for an idiot?"
"N-no, never—" he said, hoping to appease. Her temper was fickle and unpredictable and he found himself more often than not her whipping boy but she wanted to stow away in this closet with him and he liked that—the feeling of being wanted.
"I drove a hard bargain for this." She rolled her eyes. "It's not just a suitcase."
It wasn't.
Because in moments, they were inside of it and she was pulling him through a rainforest and then trekking through the snow and then dancing through a desert.
The Amazon, the Arctic Circle, the Sahara, the African Savanna. They were all…
"—yours," she said, "and whatever beasts you have hiding in that closet."
"What?" he stammered.
She slapped his brusquely on the back. "Don't get maudlin," she warned him, her voice edged with familiar defensive arrogance, "I'm just tired of Peaky running loose and stealing my earrings. Every. Single. Time."
She then turned to gaze off in the hazy, sun-bathed savannah, the arrogance in her voice dipping just a tad. "Besides I don't need these half-arsed representations. I'm going to see the real places one day—as soon as I graduate."
A little creep of pain nudged its way into his heart as he came to a similar realization. One day, they were going to graduate and they were going to go their separate ways.
Rightly so, of course.
He had been entertaining the fanciful notions he had filled his head with for so long that he had forgotten they lived in different spheres of life.
She was the only daughter of a pureblood family.
He was the second son of…lower social standing.
It's not as if they could…
"Come with me," she said and seized the sleeve of his robe, throwing her head back and laughing—wild, loud, and wonderful.
Sunlight tumbled over her hair and spilled into her eyes and set her aflame.
By Merlin, had he ever seen something so beautiful before?
"Newt, you must. I would be so lonely without you," she said with an ambiguous edge of a tease to her voice that filled him up with violent hope.
He didn't know if she was joking. With every fiber of his being, he hoped she wasn't.
...
Times seven, eight, and nine gleaned three great insights to Leta's character:
One, she was a terrific coward.
Two, she was a terrific liar.
Three, she was an equally, if not more, terrible person.
"Okay Peaky—you can have my earrings if—" She dangled out the heavy emerald earrings in question in front of the Niffler. "—you can sneak into that room and steal everything you can get your hands on."
That room being Abraxas Malfoy's room.
Peaky and Leta might not have hit it off at first, but she began to take a great shine to the creature when she realized Peaky was quite talented in thievery and how much joy she took in Abraxas' red-faced fury whenever his belongings disappeared.
Likewise, the Niffler became quite fond of the girl when he realized she didn't possess nearly as many moral qualms to stealing as Newt did and would let him have free reign of the Slytherin dormitory, where most of the pureblooded students resided and by default the best treasures too.
Nevertheless, Peaky rocked to and fro similar to what Newt did when he was hesitating.
She pressed her mouth into a hard straight line and sighed, "Fine, I'll give you one for now."
She tossed him one of the emeralds.
Peaky caught his down payment midair and away he went.
Good business partners, they were.
Unfortunately for them, soon after, Newt came hammering at the Slytherin portrait, winded and hair askew (but it suited him well, she noted).
Vicious whispers abound when she went to greet him.
He began frantically, "Have you seen Peaky? I've been looking all over for him. He isn't usually gone for so long. I-I'm just worried that—"
"You worry too much," she cut him off quickly.
(She didn't tell him she knew where Peaky was and in actuality currently ransacking the Slytherin dungeons because they had a conversation, which exploded into an ugly debate about her questionable morals before. And she was not going to deal with that right now.)
But somehow, he could read it on her face, maybe that was what happened when you knew someone too well because he said, "You haven't let him in, have you? It just encourages him. We talked about this before…"
He tried to sound as un-accusatory as possible. She was easily provoked.
It was a good try.
Her dark eyes flared dangerously. "No, I haven't. You mistrust me," she said with a faint trace of hurt that she knew would send him to backtrack his own words.
"No, I don't. I'm sorry. I'm just—"
"I know. I know. Worried." She turned around casually, proudly, as if nothing were wrong. Her raven curls tumbled behind her like laughter.
The lovely scent of (hypothetical) jasmine hit him in the face.
"If it really kills you, I'll take a look around inside and let you know if I find him."
"I'll help too," he said and began climbing through the portrait hole.
"No!" she yelled and pushed him down. He fell onto the ground in a jumble of limbs.
"You're not allowed in here. It's tradition. Six centuries and no one else from the other houses have ever entered and it's not being broken tonight," she shouted down at him.
Bollocks. What a terrific lie.
But he didn't know that.
He just looked up at her with a look of hurt on his face. It hurt her too—not enough.
She slammed the portrait shut.
Time to find Peaky and tell him the jig was up.
She ducked back into the Slytherin Common Room just in time for Abraxas to storm past her, his enormous, cruel body shoving her off to the side, swearing loudly about finding a bloody rat in his room.
Just in time to see his brutal vise clamped around Peaky's tail—just in time to see him pull out his wand—just in time to possibly stop him from…
Well…
It doesn't really matter what, because she didn't stop him. Because she would be lying if she said she wasn't scared.
Because she was a coward.
There was a flash of red, a couple of words, and a single pronouncement that reached inside of her and made her blood run cold.
Does it need to be said that nobody ever saw Peaky again?
...
In the following days, Newt was inconsolable.
"I-I couldn't find him. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It's not your fault," he replied.
Bloody hell.
Could someone die of guilt? Because she felt like she could, right then and there.
"He must have run away," she said. It burned, but the lies poured out of her throat so easily.
For the best, she told herself wearily. She was protecting him. He would dissolve—disintegrate—if he knew the truth. More than that, he would—
"Peaky wouldn't have done that," he said glumly, eyes red and puffy.
"You don't know that." She sat down next to him. Well…not really next to him, the familiar beat up leather suitcase was cradled between them.
"Where do you think he would even go?" He leaned his head against the edge of the suitcase (in her direction).
"Gringotts," she said flatly.
He forced a non-convincing laugh so full of sadness it was devastating.
With a push, she removed the suitcase that was dividing them. He fell right into her shoulder. She lightly grazed his hand with hers.
And they sat there in silence for the rest of the afternoon.
I'm so sorry.
...
The same words were said repeated the next time she and Newt visited the inside of the suitcase. While he busied himself with feeding the Erumpents, she buried the emerald earring she still had on hand into the space where Peaky liked to hoard his spoils of war.
She never wore earrings again.
...
After that, the count becomes rather fuzzy.
Was one supposed to count when the other's name arose in conversation without the other one there?
Like when people would say to him:
"Newt—it's none of my business but you've been keeping company with that Lestrange girl quite a bit. She's bad news you hear? Along with the rest of her family, especially her father. He's knee-deep in the Dark Arts—"
"You're right…it really is none of your business…" he would murmur back in his head while the memory of her laughter quelled all of his doubts that there perhaps was something off.
...
Or when Leta's insensible mother was worked up in one of her tirades?
"Do you know your daughter has been gallivanting around school with the Scamander boy? His father was a Muggle. It is unbecoming. We have a name to uphold."
Times like these, Leta wanted to smash her silverware right across the room. She only resisted because her mother misunderstood Newt…like how the rest of the world misunderstood her father.
Neither of them was as terrible as people believed them to be.
At least from her perspective.
"Darling, please don't fuss at the dinner table. It upsets my stomach," Leta's father replied, trying to subdue his wife's unrest.
Thankfully, Leta's father had enough sensibility to make up for his wife's lack of (at least when it came to matters of his daughter, his sense when it came to his professional pursuits was, in truth, unsavory).
"This is your doing. You coddle her."
"I am her father. Such is my duty. What are you even suggesting?"
"You need to find her an engagement. The Greengrass and Parkinson girls are engaged and you don't see them flitting around like fools."
"Nonsense, dear wife it hasn't stopped you from flitting around like one," he counterpunched, giving his daughter a wink from across the table.
And that was the end of that conversation. Edwardian era patriarchy at its finest.
Leta smiled, at least had her father rallying her side. She wouldn't know what to do without him.
...
Or the time she Flooed over to his house for the briefest of moments during to give him a teapot?
"Oh—it's lovely, really. But I don't drink tea," he said, taking the gift from her but not taking his eyes from her. He didn't mean to stare but not even a fine layer of soot could hide how brilliant she was.
"You dolt," she said, giving him the usual serving of invectives (which he had learned were essentially her terms of endearment for him), "It's not just a teapot."
Of course not. He had learned that too. Nothing was ever what it seemed when it came to Leta.
He laughed. "Is it also bigger on the inside?"
She snorted, "If you can manage to shove yourself inside of it, please do let me know."
"So, I guess not…" He nudged at the lid, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Don't—" She slammed her hand on top of his.
A jolt of electricity surged right through the tips of his fingers and almost stopped his heart.
Almost.
Perhaps she felt it too because she her mouth hung agape for the longest time before finishing her sentence. "—open it out here."
At that, his eyes widened. All concerns of his near brush with heart failure were suddenly forgotten. "There's an Occamy inside."
She smiled coyly, neither confirming nor denying it, and pulled her traveling cloak back over.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"Won't you stay? I would've liked to show you the hippogriffs. There was just a new litter last night. There's four of them and they don't have names yet. I was thinking you could help me…"
His words bled hope. And it took everything in her not to indulge it.
She shook her head. Her dark hair shuddered around her. "I can't. If my mother notices I'm missing, she's going to kill me."
"Oh, okay, please don't get killed," he said sincerely.
...
Or the time he ended up unconscious in the hospital wing after being knocked off his broom during a Quidditch match?
They didn't utter a word to each other but she sat next to him for hours while he was out cold, so shouldn't it count for something?
It was also during this time she found her gaze wandering, tracing over his supine form and drinking in his face. She didn't mean to, but there wasn't much to do when you sat alone in the hospital wing.
She came to realize, he was arguably handsome but undeniably gentle, both in motion and in stillness. And his hands were soft and warm just like…
Just like his eyes.
And she was his only visitor aside from…
"It's a shame he's still alive. I should've shoved him a little harder." A familiar cruel form stood in the doorway.
She clenched her fists until the skin pulled across her knuckles were white. Something stronger had swallowed her fear. Yet, she did nothing, said nothing.
Abraxas was just all words.
Or so she thought.
And she was smarter than that, smarter than to tempt the devil.
Or so she also thought.
"I know that it was his rat in my room filching my belongings. Bloody hell, is he so poor he has to take to stealing other people's valuables? That pocket watch is worth more than his life," he taunted, "—not that it means much."
Compelled by something powerful, she stood up and hissed at him, "If it's worth more than his then it must be worth more than yours as well."
It takes a moment before the weight of those words snap a thread of hideous rage in the devil, painting itself clearly on his barbaric face as he marched across the room and seized her rudely by the arm. "I could ruin his life."
She seethed, unknowing of how she was gambling with someone else's life, "I'd like to see you try."
There was an incredible hatred for how she wouldn't back down.
"I'm going to tell my father about this."
She could play that game too. "Then I will tell mine."
His hand strangled her arm. She didn't try to pull away—she didn't care, broken bones were easy to fix, broken pride on the other hand…
However, to her surprise, his grip loosened and he was leaving.
Triumph flooded over her system like a wave.
Just to salt the wound, she yelled after him, "And he wasn't a rat. He was a Niffler and his name was Peaky."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something fly towards her, striking her in the side of the face, releasing a trail of scarlet before rolling off onto the floor.
An emerald earring.
...
Or what of the letters they sent each other?
Dear Leta,
I hope your summer is well. While you are off in London, I have set forth this vacation to figure out what I to do with my life after I graduate. I am currently entertaining the idea of a post at the Ministry of Magic. My brother works in the Auror's office, but I am not nearly as talented. I was thinking more of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
My mum has other ideas though, she would like for me to take over the hippogriff business. She says it would be perfect because I like taking care of creatures and my brother already has a job.
Sincerely,
Newt
Dear Newt,
I daresay you are much more eloquent on paper than in person. Maybe we should have all of our conversations in paper and ink.
Why are you entertaining other ideas? You are coming with me and we are going to see the world. There will be absolutely no further debate.
Your mother sounds sensible. But tell her to hold her hippogriffs for a few years, or at least long enough for us to visit Egypt.
Yours truly,
Leta
Dear Leta,
If it means you will talk to me more often, then I would gladly converse in paper and ink only.
I did not know if you were being serious about me coming along with you. And even if we are going to travel the world, I still need something to do. You have your photography. I cannot stand idly by and twiddle my fingers.
Yours truly,
Newt
Dear Newt,
I apologize for taking so long to reply. There has been a lot of commotion in London—it seems that not even us wizards are immune to the effects of the Muggle war.
You could stand idly by and twiddle your fingers. No one is going to stop you. I will even take your photograph to commemorate the event.
Also did you just try your hand at flirting with me? I need a few moments to recover my wits.
Yours truly,
Leta
Dear Leta,
I do not mean to doubt your good judgment or sound daft, but what does it even mean to flirt?
Yours truly,
Newt
Dear Newt,
Please don't ever change.
Love,
Leta
(He tucked this letter safely away next to her photograph—the first and only she signed with her love.)
Or what of one-sided conversations?
Dear Leta,
I have been reading the papers and the Muggles are really having at it with the war. It seems that the whole world is involved in the fighting—even my brother has left for London. He says the Muggles have invented machinery that makes the night sky rain down with stars that rattle the city and turn the darkness into daylight.
I hope you are safe.
Love,
Newt
Dear Leta,
I heard about your father. I am really sorry. I remember you telling me that you were close. Perhaps it is not my place to say this, but if you need someone to talk to, I am right here.
I hope you are doing well.
Love,
Newt
Dear Leta,
Remember how I told you my goal for this summer was to think of something to do after I graduate? I believe I would like to write a book—a handbook, more like, of creatures all around the world, how to take care of them, and to educate the general public of them. And I would need a photographer, for the creatures of course.
I have already begun scribbling down my ideas in a journal of mine. I will show you the next time I see you.
My brother thinks this is a silly endeavor. What do you think?
I hope you hear from you soon.
Love,
Newt
Dear Leta,
I have not heard from you in a while. School is starting soon—our last year.
I hope to see you soon.
Love,
Newt
Or what of this?
Dear Newt,
Please do not write to me any more. It is for the best.
Sincerely,
Leta
...
What happened?
He asked that too.
He asked that the next time he saw her—the last time he saw her.
...
They weren't meant to meet. If they didn't, things might have been different.
She didn't ever want to see him again. She made that explicitly clear when she would avoid him in the hallways and in-between class—in the way she would turn her nose up and away when he tried to talk to her.
After a while, he got the message. He understood when he wasn't wanted and it wasn't in his nature to fight back. But that didn't mean it hurt any less.
Or that it was any less lonely.
So it was with a bittersweet taste in his mouth when he saw her that night in the astronomy tower, the sight of her reopening the wound in him that he thought was healing, but stitching it back up all the same.
She was just as he remembered. At least at first glance.
But on closer inspection, something was off. She was duller—sadder—"
No, broken.
She was swaddled in a traveling cloak and her hand gripped a broom.
"Where are you going?" he asked, setting down (her) his suitcase, which he had taken to carrying with him everywhere. It was like a reminder of her—a part of her to accompany him in her absence.
"Doesn't matter. It's none of your concern," she grounded out of her mouth. The appearance of her (former) best friend was unexpected and called forth a tangled web of unbearable emotions.
Best leave before they successfully suffocated her.
However, he had a different idea. For the first time in his life, he didn't let her have her way.
"Stop. I'm not letting you leave…not at least until you tell me what happened…"
"Get out of my way before I hurt you," she said, pulling out her wand, her voice dripping with venom—not a threat, a promise.
What was it that he said so very long ago? "They tend to do that—bite when threatened. It's a self-defense mechanism."
That applied appropriately right now.
She felt the walls closing around her and wanted to escape.
That was all.
"Leta—please—weren't we supposed to go together?" he asks, timidly, slightly fearful. She was volatile and he wasn't sure what would push her which way.
"No—there is no us—there is no we," she said, her voice shook but she lowered her wand.
"Whatever it is—please—tell me. I can help. I'll understand. I could—"
This sent her careening over the edge and everything she had bottled up until that point spilled out:
"Help? You're useless. You can't help—not unless you could bring my father back from the dead—not unless you could stop him. And you can't understand—how could you understand? Your brother killed my father and you just stand there as some oblivious, stupid boy?"
The words came out and slapped him on the face, punched him in the gut.
She had finally, finally taken her turn at that sad puppy everybody else kicked for sport.
"I-I'm sorry. I-I really didn't know. I didn't know…"
"No—you don't know. Not even the half of it. Not what it means—"
—that her father was her shield. That without him, she was nothing but a bargaining chip for her mother, pawned off to the highest bidder—to a bastard—a blond bastard.
And was going to run away before he could…
"Oi! What are you two doing? It's past curfew," Abraxas Malfoy's voice crawled to them lazily, wallowing in the glee of meting out punishment. A shiny badge glinted from his robes designating his authority.
Full of fury, she trained her wand on him, ready to tear him limb to limb if needed. She was ready…to hell with everything else.
But someone disarmed her—Newt disarmed her.
He silently apologized, but she was angry and therefore dangerous and was likely going to do something she was going to regret.
She glared at him, eyes full hatred—he was supposed to be on her side. If he wanted to have helped he wouldn't have stopped her. He essentially betrayed her.
At the end of her rope, she bit down on her lip and did something she would come to regret.
She grabbed the suitcase next to him—
"What are you doing?" he asked in a half-strangled cry.
Good question.
She didn't know. She didn't care. Not in that moment.
"I'm going to kill a bastard."
"Don't get in my way," she roared and clicked open the latches and threw it against the opposite wall.
Chaos erupted in the form of an erumpent, a hippogriff, an occamy, and a blast-ended skrewt from the suitcase, springing out in a spray of feathers and scales and great glorious noise.
The hippogriff made a beeline for Abraxas.
Shaking with a sadistic sick kind of glee, Leta pushed her hair out of the way to get a better look and ran at the hippogriff, urging it on.
Newt froze. He didn't know what to do. The nauseating beauty of nerves circled around him and cemented his feet right to the ground.
Then he heard a laugh—a twisted cacophony of pain and glee that grabbed at him and pulled out from his stasis and tossed his attention to her.
She was just standing there laughing as an erumpent charged in her direction, dark heavy tresses trembling around the faint stir of her face that contained unfulfilled promises and hopes and dreams.
The sight was beautiful…
And terrifying.
Those eyes turned to him—proud, defiant, deranged—trembled with the possibility of farewell and his heart broke.
He threw himself at her.
Before she slid off into the darkness, she felt how warm his body felt pressed up against hers.
She threw her arms around his neck.
...
Abraxas told his father.
The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures paid a visit to Hogwarts.
Newt didn't try to apply for a post at the Ministry any more.
They also paid a visit to the Scamander residence. (It was rumored that madness in hippogriffs ran in the bloodline.)
Newt didn't have a family business to take over either.
And Newt's suitcase returned to him—completely empty.
...
The next time Leta woke up he was gone. Nothing to mark that he ever existed at all except:
A journal.
A stack of unread letters.
A single photograph.
And a hollow hungry ache in her chest.
...
She hides them all as quickly as she can.
The sounds of celebration continue to stir beneath her feet, grating at her nerves, mocking her, reminding her of that noise that night—the sights and sounds and explosion.
There are footfalls approaching.
Not the ones she wants to hear.
A man appears in front of her.
Not the one she wants to see.
"I found this outside your room—" He procures a ring. "Keep better track of it. It would be a shame if you lost it."
"A shame indeed," she replies and holds out her hand mechanically. He slips the ring back on. She thinks she might as well slip a noose around her neck too.
He's so cold.
And she is cold too.
She's craving warmth. And she wonders…wonders if his blood runs as cold as he does.
Careening through a hazy nightmare that showcases a flash of silver, she discovers for herself it doesn't run cold. It's quite warm actually.
The only warmth he was ever capable of.
She collapses into a pool of scarlet and blond. Turning the photograph over and over again in her hand, she leans back and exhales three words.
...
A thousand miles away there is a man sleeping in a suitcase who inhales them.
...
He is a thief.
She is a taker.
And they loved each other.
But neither of them knew that.
A/N: Ohhhh mannnn, it got really dark. I did not mean for it to get so dark. This fic just started out as a plot bunny and spiraled out of control really fast.
I watched the movie last week and Leta has been stuck in my head since then. To me, she was by far the most interesting character in the movie and she was only a picture. I don't know…there's something about tragic romance that enraptures me (I'm awful I know).
Also, please review! I originally intended for this to be a one shot. But after working on it, I've been giving thoughts to keep the same plotline (with better historical accuracy…I essentially just ended the Malfoy bloodline…oops) but expand it into actual scenes instead of this hazy broad stroke brush type of writing style.
Or at least give it a part two.