The Old Man and The Sea

Oneshot. Cuba 1954. There's only one person that Newt Scamander has ever gotten into a fistfight with: Ernest Hemingway.

A note on the text:

While I intended for this fic to be humorous when I started it, in the end, things are a bit more serious. It's a little funny, a little serious, and a little fluffy, in that order. Two racial slurs feature in this story, thus it receives an M rating.

I haven't managed to introduce this into my other stories yet, but I write biracial, white-passing, desi-Newt. There was a fair amount of Indian immigration to Great Britain during the mid 19th century, when Newt's parents would have met and married, and we know that intermarriages were socially acceptable in wizarding society before they were acceptable in muggle society. Since we know nothing about Newt's parents in canon besides that his mother breeds fancy hippogriffs, I depict him as a Scottish-Indian Christo-Muslim in the majority of my fics—because why not!

Cuba. 1954

The first time Newt meets Ernest Hemingway is in Paris, 1923. Fiery dislike is established within the first five minutes. Newt is a nature conservationist with all the devotion of John Muir and Hemingway is a passionate trophy hunter. It's a match made in the heart of hell. It doesn't take long for a shouting match to rise in the little Parisian café, spilled espresso and toast knocked to the centuries-old brick floor.

Newt pays the waiter double to make up for the disruption and storms away before things can go too far, leaving the author pouting over an unlit cigar.

Newt almost never thinks of Hemingway again, aside from the occasional announcements of book releases, but even the name of the man sends blood rushing furiously up his neck. He receives a cheeky letter from the man in 1927 when Fantastic Beasts is released to the public—a backhanded, begrudging compliment that calls into question Newt's manhood and competence and the wizard fumes over it for two days before burning the damned thing.

John Tolkien, a muggle friend who he had crossed paths with during the Great War (and father to very talented, magical sons who aren't even old enough to go to Hogwarts yet), politely tells him to tell the brash old squib to shove it where the sun doesn't shine. It makes Newt laugh enough to let the anger drift away for almost 30 years.

Between the Stock Market crash of '29, Grindelwald, World War Two, and Porpentina Goldstien, Newt all but forgets about the trophy-hunter and begrudging fellow author Ernest Hemingway…

…until the Scamander family goes to Cuba on holiday in 1954.

It's a bright day, partly cloudy with warm winds blowing in from the south, sometimes sharply—hurricane season is encroaching but not quite here. Newt is tempted to stay long enough to hunker down through the first hurricane of the season to observe its effects on the wildlife, but Tina sternly reminds him that it would be better to not put their son through that kind of experience just yet. Curious though he is, Newt entirely agrees.

Conceived only after the end of World War Two, Ezra Scamander is nine, sometimes calls his father "mum," and is less fascinated by animals than Newt had hoped he would be, if only because, having grown up with many creatures for playmates, they aren't as novel to him.

At fifty-seven and fifty-three, respectively, Newt and Tina are occasionally mistaken as their son's grandparents by muggles—having children at a late age isn't uncommon in the wizarding world, but it is less common among ordinary people and they spend a lot of time amongst ordinary people. Since they aren't retired, Ezra spends more of his childhood with his feet off the ground than on it and while it is wonderful it comes with its own set of obstacles. They do imagine that it may have been easier to keep up with the energies of a child if they had chosen to begin a family sooner, but their son is safer and happier this way than if he had born in the midst of war.

There are many kinds of flora and fauna unique to Cuba. Ezra is hoping his father will show him a chickcharney owl, as his mother's clumsy, humorous encounter with one during her childhood is a beloved bedtime story. Newt's biggest goal for the holiday is to track down and observe the elusive Magui Boa, an enormous, magical, horned snake with special water affinities.

Though they are not parselmouths, parseltongue can be learned and Ezra has fun playing word games with the great Runespoor that his father looks after. He hopes that the Magui Boa will play word games with him—the water is blue and the sand is white and the trees are green and the food is delicious, but Ezra is bored. He would rather be playing ball with the local children and learning Spanish from them—raised in a multicultural household often on the move, Ezra loves languages.

It is a Tuesday. Newt is off to look for evidence of the Magui Boa for lunch and Tina ushers Ezra out with him in order to spend an afternoon with her own thoughts. Ezra has been insufferable, mixing his English with his Punjabi with his Yiddish with this new Caribbean Spanish and Tina can't take anymore of his yapping.

Thus, Ezra is present when Newt Scamander crosses paths with Ernest Hemingway for the second time. Like a thundercloud blocking their yolk-yellow, Caribbean sunshine.

They are wandering along the beach with the ocean swaying at their left and the lacy hem of the rainforest at their right when Newt stops. Ezra pauses from squishing his bare toes in the sand, empty conch shell in hand, to look up and see what has caught his father's attention.

"Scamander! What the hell are you doing here?"

Newt growls and shields his son behind him. He puts his weak leg behind him, shoulder aimed defensively forward. "Hemingway."

With the exception of holidays, the Scamander's are vegetarian and Ezra finds Hemingway's bouquet of fish both interesting and off-putting. It smells; several of the fish are half-baked from the sun. His moustache is tinged with grey, his eyes crinkled and narrow, and he smells of tequila and brine. Bandage wrappings peek out from his shirt-sleeve and shorts, as well as his left hand.

"I did hear that you got caught up in a fire." Newt comments. "Those look like dragonfire burns."

Hemingway is a squib, but he wields a wand of a different sort—a gun. He pats it affectionately and shrugs. "The official story is that an African bushfire broke out during a fishing expedition. Now I'm out here looking for that water snake. She'll look good mounted on my wall."

Ezra doesn't much like the sound of that. Neither does his father.

"Not one of your better ideas, Hemingway. The Magui Boa is known to curse anyone who seeks to kill or capture it. I don't know what you think that ridiculous gun will do for you, either. Its hide is impenetrable."

"Well, sure, impenetrable to regular lead! That's why my bullets have been blessed by a Voodoo Priestess."

Newt is sickened. "I'm surprised you found a witch willing to do that to a sacred creature."

"People these days don't ask too many questions about where their money comes from, Scamander. If they're lucky, Castro will be in power soon and they'll have nothing to worry about anymore, but until that day…" Hemingway gestures to his gun and grins.

Ezra anxiously tugs on the lapels of his father's linen guayabera shirt. He has Newt's immediate attention, and the man kneels to listen.

"Is he here to hurt the Magui Boa?" Ezra asks in whispered Punjabi.

Newt's pained response is interrupted before it can begin.

Ezra, with his mother's dark leefa hair, his father's freckles, and his grandmother's Indian complexion, is mistaken for a native child. Hemingway is blatantly unflattering and the youngest Scamander sticks his tongue out at the man indignantly. He isn't sure what the word means, but he knows from the man's tone that it is an insult. Newt takes it with less grace. Ezra has never seen his father turn such a deep shade of vermillion; it would be funny if it weren't for the fact that he's never seen his father so angry before.

Newt has his wand out in an instant; the tip of the lime wood crackling with sparks.

"You're going to use magic on a defenseless squib, Scamander? Not much of a man, are you?" Hemingway smirks, jutting his chin out daringly.

Newt considers the other man and drops his wand, "You're right," a moment later Hemingway falls to the sand, howling and clutching his cheek. Newt had hit him with a mean right hook. "This is far more satisfying."

"So, you do have balls!"

Hemingway is no slouch, but Ezra knows his father is strong, stronger than anyone would think. He works with creatures; he has to be. However much Hemingway may think he likes a good fight, however many shots he may get in, he simply is not a man who plays with dragons and erumpets and graphorns on a daily basis. Newt is. The two men are lost in a flurry of fists, snarls, linen, and sand.

Newt stands first and spits a mouthful of blood onto the sand. He scoops up his wand and stows it away. The white of his left eye is rapidly reddening with blood and his toothy grimace is frightening. Hemingway pushes himself up into a sitting position, looking just as raw.

"If you ever say anything about my son ever again I'll break more than just your teeth, you wretched, murderous trophy hunter!"

"Yeah. Got it." Hemingway coughs roughly.

It isn't until Ezra is lifted off the sand and pulled into his father's embrace that he realizes he's crying. Newt walks quickly, balancing 60 pounds of little boy on his hip, and Ezra realizes that his father is trembling. He is too. He has never seen his father so angry, has never seen Newt hurt someone, has never imagined that his father ever would hurt someone. Newt is suddenly a bigger and more formidable figure than before and Ezra is in awe. Mostly, however, he is shaking with relief to know that his father is okay. He buries his face into the man's shoulder and lets several silent tears fall. Newt's hand lifts to cradle the boy's curly-haired head.

What did Hemingway not like about him?

Newt's bruises blossom on the walk back to the boathouse, the sockets of his eyes going purple, his left eye goes entirely red, and every few minutes he swallows a mouthful of slowly trickling blood from the inside of his cheek. The knuckles on one hand have split and there's a small break in the skin above his temple.

Tina has a fit when she sees them. They're home unexpectedly early and she is out of the dock with a book in one hand. The humidity makes it impossible for her to straighten her hair, thus her wild leefa curls are out in full glory, framing her face with doll-like ringlets. Her light grey linen trousers and periwinkle blouse bring out the black in her hair. Her eyes snap up as soon as she hears Newt's uneven gait hit the boat dock. She gasps, audible from 6 yards away, and sprints to meet them in a panic.

"Mercy Lewis, Newt, what happened?!" She checks their son over first, her worries relieved when she sees that Ezra is spooked, but unhurt. He clings to her leg, nose pressed against her hip as she checks her husband over. "No snake did this! You look like you were chewed up by a wild dog!"

"Well, that may depend on your definition of a dog."

"Newt!"

"It was a mean goy with a gun, Mommy," Ezra says softly, "He was going to kill the Magui Boa."

Tina hesitates and takes a moment to hold her breath and count to ten. "I see." She grabs each of her boys by the hand, hoisting the leggy 9 year old on her hip, and leads them back to the boathouse. "Let's go home and clean up then you can tell me the whole story." They both cling to her like a lifeline.

Of all the places the Scamander's have stayed in over the years, the houseboat is one of Ezra's favorites. The rocking motion is soothing in a way that he can only compare to the fragmented memories of his infancy. It is also small, which means he gets to cuddle up with his parents at night in the enormous hammock that hangs from the ceiling. In the three weeks they have been there, he has spent numerous hours on the deck learning how to fish (catch and release, of course), and jumping off the railing to swim under the dock and look at the barnacles, seaweeds, and dive for various bits of junk rusting on the shallow ocean floor. He has often returned to his mother with seafoam on his upper lip or draped in kelp like some muggle movie monster—he hasn't been able to spook her yet, but he keeps trying. He has a pair of hermit crabs sitting in a jar in the kitchen—he's been trying to figure out how to speak mermish.

It's good to come back. His father is hurt and the home feels like a haven.

"So?" The auror prompts, dabbing her husband's face with a cottonball soaked in essence of dittany. "Talk." The sunlight is behind her, giving her features a foreboding shadow.

Newt shifts uneasily in the wicker chair. "I, er… I hit someone."

"You hit somebody?" Tina's dark eyebrows rise incredulously. "I've seen you hex and curse people, but I can't remember the last time I saw you hit someone."

"Er, well, punched, actually. Repeatedly." His hands fidget in his lap, short fingernails picking at the cuticles. "It was Ernest Hemingway."

"You got into a fistfight with Ernest Hemingway?"

Anxious hands curl up angrily. "He's a rotten, bloody trophy hunter as if that isn't bad enough. He insulted Ezra!"

"What!"

"He called him…" Newt glances at their little boy through purpled eyes and cups his hand around his wife's ear to whisper into it.

Tina goes stony, her mouth pressed thin and her dark eyes wide. Her hand forms a fist at her side. "I'll hex that kholerye into next year."

"What does gollywog mean anyhow, Papa? Mommy?"

Tina growls. "I wish you never heard that word…"

"I want to know, Mommy. It's about me." Ezra stomps at her stubbornly. The boathouse sways.

Newt lowers his eyes, wincing when Tina dabs him with the cottonball a little too roughly. "It's an ethnophaulism for dark-skinned individuals of the Caribbean, Ezra. It's a terribly unfriendly word and you should not suffer anyone to insult you like that!"

"Eth-no-fall…" the child repeats slowly, his agile, multi-lingual mind breaking the word down into its individual parts to determine its meaning. "So, he doesn't like that I look like Bebbe Fatima?"

"He's a bigot." Tina says flatly.

Newt looks pained.

Ezra knows that his father was often bullied at school. Granny Fatima once let slip that his classmates sometimes called him "Chee-chee." Ezra had thought it a reference to how his father loved birds (among many other creatures), but now he doubts that assumption. It must have meant something much more rude.

This genre of bullying isn't entirely new to Ezra, but growing up on the move has allowed him to evade encounters that others, like his father, had to learn to face head-on. To the nine year-old, the insult stings, but he doesn't put much weight into the words of strangers. The elasticity of youth allows him to shrug it off. His parents are far more upset than he is—his father, especially. In a moment of sudden clarity, Ezra realizes that his father feels upset because seeing his son insulted like that probably reminded Newt of this taunting he was subject to during his own childhood. The young Scamander child has no idea what that must feel like, but it most certainly must be terrible.

Ezra throws his stringy brown arms around Newt's neck and hugs him with all of his might. "It's okay, Mum. I won't let anybody talk about me like that—or about you! If we ever see that goy again, next time I'll protect you!"

The sunlight is warmly curled up on their shoulders like a cat, the air smells of kelp and salt, the driftwood wind chime clattering softly, and Newt bursts into tearful laughter and pulls them all together in a big Scamander sandwich.

Ezra is happy.

End

Author Notes:

The reason this takes place in 1954 is simply because I wanted an excuse to research Caribbean cryptids and creatures—as a former Tom Riddle writer, snakes tend to attract me.

Unfortunately for Hemingway, 1954 was not really a good year for him, aside from being awarded a Nobel Prize. It was a very rough year for him and he suffered several severe injuries in multiple incidents—including getting second-degree burns during a bush fire while on a fishing trip. He's in pretty rough shape by the time he gets to Cuba that October (note: I have taken liberties with the time of year and the weather, here; hurricane season usually starts in early summer). So, this may not have necessarily been a fair fight, but I was more attracted to Cuba than I was to writing out an extended fight scene. I had initially intended to go a more humorous route with Newt and Hemingway going at one another, but once I starting creating a child he took over the story (even in writing children tend to demand attention).

Ezra is, of course, named after the actor who plays Credence—once I found out that Ezra is a Jewish name there was no other name that I wanted to use (also, I grew up in the town where Ezra Pound was born; the house is used today as an Arts Center). Since I write Newt and Tina as being very multicultural, it makes sense for my interpretation of their son to be enthusiastically multi-lingual. However, I have no idea how children behave. I literally Googled "what do 9 year olds look like."

I have written Newt and Tina to have their first child late in life because we know that their grandson, Rolf, marries Luna Lovegood, who was born in the early 80s. We don't know how old Rolf is, but I wouldn't ballpark him at more than a decade older than Luna, at most, so most likely born in the 70's (that puts Newt and Rolf 80 to 90 years apart in age, which is a bigger gap than usual)—and I personally thought it more reasonable to have Newt and Tina start a family in their later years than to have a son who didn't have his own child until his later years—considering WWII ended in 1945 and they had an active part in it. I think it makes sense to wait.

I love the idea of Newt's children referring to him as Mum in much the same way he thinks of himself as a mother to his creatures.

I think it reasonable to assume Newt understands and may even speak a bit of parseltongue based on the deleted scene with the Runespoors. We already know from Ron Weasley opening the Chamber of Secrets in Book 7 that it is possible to learn it.

Why yes, that WAS a "don't speak to me or my son ever again" meme reference!

I chose the slur "gollywog" because there used to be a band called The Gollywogs—they later became the band Creedence Clearwater Revival. (See what I did there?) A gollywog was originally a doll and comic character, and over time the term came to be used as a derogatory word for Afro-Caribbean people.

Chee-chee is a racist term referring to an Anglo-Indian or Eurasian mixed race person, especially a person with a Southwest Asian accent. Literally translates to "dirt." Not to be confused with the Japanese onomatopoeia for birds chirping.

Kohlerye is a Yiddish insult that means "good-for-nothing." Pronounced the same way as the disease cholera.

Goy is a Yiddish term for non-Jewish people. Sometimes an insult, sometimes not.

Bebbe is the Punjabi word for paternal grandmother.

Please take the time to point out any errors I may have made in this fic. I struggled with the closing scene and if anyone has suggestions on how to improve it, I am happy to hear them.

~MegiiJ