Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. own absolutely everything, I own nothing.

Warnings: Funeral, aftermath of a major death, swearing. A few bloody non-explicit threats made.

"Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Theseus couldn't decide whether he loathed the rain today.

Well, he could; but it would mean dredging up memories that would leave him vulnerable past the point of no return. And Theseus still had a job or two left to complete.

Usually, he felt encouraged to be downright chipper when it rained; perhaps it was something as simple as the English gentleman in him. Or, perhaps, it was the joy he took out of watching highly-trained, highly intelligent, top of their assorted classes Aurors—Travers, specifically, though Theseus would never admit it under pain of the Killing Curse—struggle with something as simple as staying dry.

When Theseus had been able to write more than brief notes demanding status updates from Newt, half of his letter had consisted of rants about his colleagues, along with aspersions on their intelligence, common sense, magical abilities, and pedigree.

Perhaps it was because Theseus had as large a masochistic streak as his brother did. Neither had ever minded a little water and mud.

Theseus's first Patronus came from a memory of when they were barely eight and six; when they had snuck out of their house, through a rainstorm, across a field of tall grass, to the top of a tree on the edge of the family property; the rainbow, and Newt's joy at the sight of a unicorn on their way back, had been some of the most beautiful sights Theseus ever saw.

Used to, that was.

All gone now.

Perhaps that was why Theseus wanted to hate the rain today of all days; it was one of the few things without fur or scales or venomous fangs, sweet Merlin, Newt, that never made him stop and stutter. On the contrary, Newt had always looked forward to the most vicious of thunderstorms, for reasons Theseus could never quite fathom.

Something that brought his brother joy didn't deserve to be at his funeral service.

Theseus didn't deserve to be at his funeral service; not after the job he had done looking after his jeopardy-friendly brother.

Then again, the downpour certainly matched the knot in Theseus's chest, as he stared at the blank stone walls of the Scamander family crypt, looking without seeing at the crumbling marble and vibrantly green ivy creeping up to strangle it.

The knot had been Theseus's constant companion for awhile now; a growing, evermore entangled knot of grief and pain caging a heart glued together by rage.

Theseus didn't care if it meant he died screaming—he would tear the bleeding heart out of Newt's murderer.

He'd failed his brother enough in life; avenging Newt and the orphaned children he had chosen was the least Theseus could do.

"Auror Scamander," Tina Goldstein called softly from behind him.

Theseus reluctantly turned around, clenching his jaw for self-control as he took the pair in.

Auror Goldstein's eyes shone with tears as she stood next to the Muggle— Kowalski , that was his name; Newt had always spoken fondly of the man and his pastries—and sheltered both of them with an Umbrella Charm from the rain; Theseus hadn't bothered with one. Despite the blotches on Goldstein's cheeks that she hadn't tried to hide, and her pasty complexion, the American Auror still cut a commanding figure in mourning black, he noted disinterestedly.

Small wonder Newt had been infatuated with her; his brother had a type, if nothing else.

And the obliviousness; Theseus couldn't forget the obliviousness, a protective shield like few he had ever seen. Leta was the love of his life, and an amazing woman grown from her school years; but he could never quite forget, even if he could forgive, who was responsible for the mess that had been Newt Scamander after being expelled from Hogwarts.

Kowalski, on the other hand, looked like a wreck in the making. His clothes had been straightened and ironed by a clearly magical hand, his eyes were already a bright red, and the sound of his sniffles cut through the air like a knife. Goldstein the younger leaving him and joining Grindelwald's cause had done him no favors; the death of the wizard who had been one of his closest friends was a blow that would have felled anyone in his position. It spoke volumes of Kowalski's strength of will that he was here, and openly grieving.

Theseus could never quite figure the pieces of the puzzle that was the Muggle population; maybe it was from spending too much time around pure-bloods and half-bloods who might as well have been pure-bloods, but they continued to surprise him in both the best and worst ways.

He was too kind and open for their world, Theseus decided. He'd ask someone beyond Auror Goldstein to keep an eye on him, in case one of Grindelwald's followers came looking for another strike; not, he suspected, that Graves would take much convincing.

Theseus had known the man since the war, and knew exactly what kind of character self-flagellating Graves could win a medal in; it didn't mean that if Graves had ever decided to voice his affections that Theseus would have hesitated before using it as an opportunity to teach his trainees in how to successfully capture, interrogate, and terrify a criminal.

While staying within the regulations dictating what methods were permissible, of course; never let it be said Theseus Scamander was a needlessly cruel man.

"Auror Scamander, Theseus!"

At Goldstein's insistent tone, Theseus realized he had been staring for the past minute. "What is it, Goldstein?" he snapped.

"It's time," she said quietly, her eyes uncomfortably understanding. "But if you want to — "

"I'll be inside in a moment," Theseus interrupted, brusquely, "Now if you could kindly give me a moment, it would be much appreciated."

Theseus liked Porpentina Goldstein, truly he did. She was intelligent, didn't take bullshit, confident in her own abilities, and used her common sense. But, however irrational it was, a large part of him remained convinced that if she had done anything at all when Newt had left New York, his baby brother would still be alive.

Then again, that's why he had liked her in the first place. She had respected Newt and his choices.

Theseus's own track record was a bit more checkered in that respect.

Goldstein's eyebrows flew up at his tone. Kowalski chose then to breathe in noisily and open his mouth. "C'mon, Tina. Let's give the poor guy a moment before he h-has t-to deliver the —Newt's eulogy. . . .Besides, I think this magic umbrella's wearing off."

Theseus watched the pair walk slowly to the chapel, and measured his breathing, as he prepared mentally to follow, and wished desperately for Leta's presence. She had always known the right thing to say, where Newt was concerned; he'd been jealous of her, at times. It had been so easy for her. And here he was, decades later, still fumbling. Ashe sluggishly walked away from the family crypt and cemetery, he was unable to stop himself from sparing a glance to the blank gravestone behind him. It would be the only marker, as there would be no coffin; there had been no body to. . .recover.

Newt, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I failed you.

"Merlin, Newt," he whispered, the words catching on the raindrops, "It was never supposed to be you. You never should have been involved. It should have been me."

Theseus's voice cracked on his last words.

"It should have been me."