A/N: Minor character death


Newt woke up with a full bladder. He raised his head off the pillow with difficulty to peer at his clock. It was a quarter past five in the morning, and he stifled a groan of annoyance. Mauler and Hoppy had migrated down to the foot of the bed during the night, their fur tickling the soles of his feet. Bors had curled himself around Newt's pillow like a slumbering dragon guarding its treasure and snored wheezily into Newt's hair. Nature called and as much as Newt wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep his bladder refused to be ignored. He disentangled himself from the sheets, careful to avoid rousing the Puffskeins, and rolled out of bed. The floor was cold, and he tiptoed to the bathroom, as quickly and silently as he could across the creaking floor.

Newt looked into the mirror while he washed his hands and grimaced when he saw his reflection. He'd never been preoccupied with his appearance, his brother being vain enough for both of them – always preening in front of reflecting surfaces like a peacock – but this morning he looked dreadful. Newt turned off the water and leaned against the basin. He poked at the bags underneath his bloodshot eyes. His irises weren't as vibrant a colour as Theseus' who had been gifted with his father's dark blue eyes while Newt's hazel were inherited from his mother's family. Similar to his brother, Newt's chest was broad from playing Quidditch, but his thinness and wiry muscles drew the attention away from it. Newt knew that if he were to lift his nightshirt, he would be able to count his ribs. Not exactly the epitome of society's standard of beauty. He was a freckled thing with too thick lips, and a haggard look from too much stress diminished what little attractiveness he might otherwise have held. He blinked and broke the connection between himself and the harsh critic that resided inside him. Newt tried for a smile, going through the motions, but it looked as foreign as it felt and he immediately dropped it.

He left the bathroom and returned to his room to get changed before heading down to the kitchen. Newt was terrified of meeting his parents before he could make it outside. He planned on grabbing an apple for breakfast and getting out of the house before his father woke up. Someone was already awake and in the kitchen and Newt peeked around the corner to make sure that it wasn't his father. It made him look silly because his mother spotted him at once and he sidled into the room sheepishly under her amused gaze.

"I couldn't find my measuring cups this morning while I was preparing the porridge." She gestured at the simmering cauldron, and Newt frowned. His mother liked to be precise in her cooking and only used her magic to measure ingredients as a last resort. "Did you take it to the barn again? You know I hate it when you use it for the feed."

"No, I haven't left the house since we arrived. Have you tried to summon it?" Newt asked with a frown and blushed at the wry look she sent him. She slammed the drawer shut with unnecessary force and looked through all of its neighbours with increasing frustration.

"Now this is just getting ridiculous," she muttered and shook her head in frustration. Newt didn't join her search because he knew she must have already combed the kitchen and it would annoy her if he looked where she'd already searched. "Well, it doesn't matter now; the porridge is almost ready."

They lapsed into silence, listening to the bubbling of the cauldron in the pale morning light. Newt was rolling his apple around on the table top when his mother deemed their breakfast ready. She waved her wand, and the cauldron leapt from the dying flame with a twirl too energetic to be suitable in the early hours. It pranced over the counter; the porridge slushing around inside it alarmingly without spilling. Newt was accustomed to his mother's showmanship in the kitchen and no longer felt the wonderment at seeing her magic. The bowls rolled out on cue, and the cauldron took to the air and poured a portion into each of the passing bowls.

"I spoke to your father yesterday," his mother stated. He looked at her in askance, remembering how that conversation had started last night and she grimaced in chagrin when she saw his dubious expression. "I know you two don't always see eye to eye but your father really cares about you, Newton. That's why he's taking your suspension so to heart. He's very proud of you – don't give me that look, darling. I know he is!" She swatted her son with the tea towel, and Newt ducked his head. "You should have seen him when you became Chaser for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. Oh, he strutted around for days like a peacock and couldn't stop bragging about you. Honestly, it would have been quite embarrassing if it hadn't been so endearing."

Knowing this, however, didn't improve Newt's mood at all. It was disheartening to hear that his father only seemed to care about his accomplishments and not him as his son. His mother saw where Newt's thoughts were leading him because she pulled up a chair and sat down close to him. Newt turned towards her in surprise as she tried to tuck the curls from his forehead behind his ear. It was a futile effort since they stubbornly sprung back to their original place. Newt pulled away from her, feeling uncomfortable with her affections. His father was right; his behaviour was deplorable, and his mother shouldn't be coddling him so.

"He just needs some time to calm down, Newt. I know he can be awfully boorish at times, but he loves you," she pleaded for him to understand but he turned his face away. His father was much freer with his affections of Theseus and Newt couldn't understand why it was so difficult for his father to extend the same treatment to Newt if he genuinely cared for him.

"Well, he has a funny way of showing it," Newt muttered under his breath, and thankfully it didn't reach his mother's ears.

"Hm?" She sighed; half-heartedly patting his knee in encouragement and Newt lifted his head.

"Have you had any news from Theseus?" The change of subject was apparent, but Newt truly missed his brother, and the current conversation was making him feel more awkward than usual. He believed Theseus to be somewhere in Europe on some secret Ministry of Magic business. They always kept contact when they were apart but Newt hadn't heard anything from his brother since the beginning of April and weeks had passed with no new letter.

"Oh." His mother withdrew her hand and rose abruptly, turning her back to him as she put the tea towel away. Worry churned in Newt's gut as the silence drew out between the two of them. Had something happened to his brother? Newt knew that Theseus's chosen occupation was hazardous, but he refused to believe that his parents would keep him in the dark if his brother had been seriously injured.

"He was still in Siberia when we received an owl from him last week." Newt knew his mother was worried about his elder brother. She didn't like that her son had chosen such a dangerous line of work. Mrs Scamander wasn't particularly vocal about her fears, but Newt could see them in the way her mouth would tighten whenever the subject came up, and the way she would hug Theseus too tight for comfort whenever he left for a mission.

"He said that he would try and return for your birthday. You didn't hear that from me, dear. He wanted it to be a surprise." Her usual mischievousness returned, and Newt relaxed with a smile.

"I promise to act surprised when I see him," Newt smirked.

They dropped the subject and started on their breakfast. Newt was finishing his porridge when his mother spoke again, this time choosing a much more enjoyable topic. "Heather's been in a bit of a mood, so if you're going to visit her, I suggest you do so with caution. She's best left to her own devices right now, and Grimalkin has been badgering her – Merlin knows what he gets out of it! He nearly lost his eye to her claw last week when he tried to take her ferret."

After breakfast, his mother got ready to feed the Hippogriffs. Newt was always happy to help his mother with the morning feeding. They collected the Hippogriffs' meal from the storage, un-hooking a row of dead ferrets and attached them to their belts before heading out.

It took a moment for Newt to realise that Marigold was nowhere in sight. Instead, her eldest, Persephone, had taken Marigold's usual place in the herd. Newt must have gotten them confused in the darkness last night because Persephone was quite similar in colour and stature but nowhere near as mild as her mother in temper.

"Mum, where's Marigold?" Newt asked as his mother flung dead ferrets into the mouths of hungry Hippogriffs.

"Oh, she's taken to lie underneath the willow near Heather's lot," she replied in a mild voice. Newt chucked another ferret into Persephone's mouth, and she almost bit his finger in her eagerness to get at the meat. They trudged down the path towards the younger lot. The Hippogriffs were in a few different groups - the older animals tended to be annoyed by the rambunctiousness of the young ones.

His mother took charge of the feeding while Newt went to find Marigold. He found her by the leafless willow just as his mother had said and now that he could see the old lady he realised how much his mother had left out. The eyes were milky, and instead of her usual poise, she seemed to sag with the pull of gravity and old age. Fear and sadness stirred inside of Newt at seeing his old friend in such pitiable state. His emotions overwhelmed him, and weariness settled in. Newt didn't know how much more bad news he could take right now. Everything that could go awry seemed to do so. His mother joined him and tried to entice Marigold with a ferret, but the Hippogriff turned her head away in disinterest and closed her eyes again. Mrs Scamander set the carcass by her side and retreated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Newt asked his mother's back. He couldn't see her face but knew that he would see the same exhaustion that he felt reflected back at him. She must have kept it from him in a misguided effort to shield him from the pain of knowing a loved one was suffering.

"I didn't want you to worry. You were at school with enough on your plate, darling." She reached over and squeezed his hand. Her voice was soft and remorseful, but she forced some cheer into it. "Her time will come when she's ready, and the best thing we can do is to ease her passing by letting her rest. There is no cure for old age." Newt caught the shakiness of her voice, and he hovered in inaction, caught between wanting to offer comfort and struck dumb by the sheer awkwardness he felt at his inadequacy. He had no clue what he should do if his mother shed tears in front of him and the knowledge served to make him feel even more useless. Thankfully, his mother pulled herself together before Newt could try and comfort her.

"I'm going to check up on my cabbage patch; those blasted gnomes have been chewing it up again!" She pulled away from him and gestured towards the greenhouse. "Be a dear and de-gnome the garden once you've finished here, there's a good lad."

"Of course, don't worry about it, mum." He watched her retreating figure until she was out of sight.

Newt lay down by Marigold, fearful of jostling her if he put any weight on her. She huffed and closed her eyes, her lids almost translucent and a mass of spidery veins. Her pearlescent feathers had dulled to a pale grey, and she must have stopped grooming herself because her usually preened feathers stuck out at odd angles and her coat was matted with dust. Newt dozed with his face turned up to catch the rare April sun and only stirred when the apparition of his father's departure startled him. He jolted upright with his fists raised in a boxer's stance; looking completely ridiculous, and Marigold opened one eye to stare at him resentfully for disturbing her.

Newt observed her for a moment in silence, his mind still half asleep, and decided that he couldn't stand to see her look so dishevelled. He went to get a bucket of water from their barn, Cuthbert the Ghoul wailing at the top of his lung when the creaking of the pipes woke him. Newt found a sponge among the mess of rusty equipment as well as a brush and a pair of gloves. Marigold was still lying in the shade of her tree, and Newt encouraged her to stand up so he could get better access to her coat.

After he'd brushed most of the dirt from the fur of her hindquarters, he put on the gloves and set to preen her feathers. He didn't want to strip her feathers of their natural water-repellent fats by doing it barehanded. She stood still, with her eyes closed, as Newt carefully washed her coat while humming tunelessly to himself. It was almost therapeutic, and Marigold seemed to gain energy from Newt's attention because she ate her ferret while he went to pour out the dirty water. Newt knew Marigold must have been very content because she stayed still and didn't even voice a complaint while he braided her tail. Finally, he turned the bucket upside down and sat on it facing her. She lay down and rested her forehead against his chest as he traced her feathers with his fingertips.

Newt smiled when he realised that she'd fallen asleep and left her to go and check up on Heather. There was no visible sign of pregnancy aside from her increased aggression. Heather was still ruling her generation, and Grimalkin was doing his best to act like her guard dog. He must have taken Newt for a possible threat because he advanced on him threateningly. Heather would have none of it, and Grimalkin couldn't even look in Newt's direction without her angry squawks. His mother was certainly right about the likelihood of them having mated since both of them fulfilled every instinctual behaviour of a nesting pair. Pregnancy had only made Heather louder, and Newt determined that it would be wise to just stop for a short while to avoid ruffling any feathers. Heather magnanimously let Newt stroke her beak, nudging her face into his palm for a brief moment before jerking away and charging at Grimalkin with flapping wings when she saw him lurking threateningly behind Newt.

Newt took a moment to stroll around the farm to greet everyone before he headed over to the garden to rid it of its pesky inhabitants. It took Newt a moment to push back memories that surfaced at the sight of gnomes. He'd gone once a week to the Hogwarts greenhouses and taken a gnome back to the Jarvey. It had posed a moral dilemma for him, as humans were not the natural predators of gnomes, so the poor things never stood a chance, but a quote from a book by a famous muggle zoologist that his father had once given him as a present had cleared his conscience - survival of the fittest.

He went through the familiar motions of de-gnoming, making sure to put an extra twist to the end of his throw so that the gnome would be too disoriented to find its way back to its burrow anytime soon. He didn't know what they got out of raiding his mother's vegetable patch since the little blighters could only digest roots of trees and worms. It was quite disgusting to see the result of their pillaging, regurgitated cabbage and turnips littering the sodden mud. He grabbed them by their spindly legs, wary of their sharp teeth and tossed them as far as he could in the direction of the field where the young ones were kept. The hatchlings liked to chase the gnomes and seemed to have a taste for them. The gnomes stood no chance against the Hippogriffs, their massive heads slowing them down.

There were more of them than he'd anticipated and he was just finishing up by the time his mother was calling him in for dinner.


The passing days blurred together in their mundanity except for Marigold's steady decline and strained meals when Mr Scamander was home from work. Newt stayed outdoors mostly, out of his father's way. The young wizard would rise with the sun and go out and explore the woods, and sit for hours on end reading in a clearing when it was dry and hiking miles when it rained. He caught a nasty cold in the middle of May when he'd risked a storm. Newt had decided that since he was already soaked from the rain, it was high time he searched the lake for the ever-elusive freshwater Plimpies – fully clothed. His mother had threatened to spank him when he came home sopping wet with a runny nose and demanded he go dry off and warm himself before he caught something. He'd spent weeks with a stuffy nose since his mother hadn't had the time to go and procure a Pepper-Up Potion.

Newt was brought back to reality in the middle of August when a fleet of prim-looking owls delivered his new schoolbooks. They came from the Educational Office, and a surly spotted owl waited impatiently for Newt to fill out his Wand Permit but softened a little when Mrs Scamander offered it a mouse. An envelope stamped with the Ilvermorny coat of arms carried Newt's list of required school things, all of which were very similar to those at Hogwarts'.

He was ecstatic to see that the first volume of three about the migration habits of dragons that he'd been itching to get his hands on was among the schoolbooks. The other books he'd received paled in comparison to it. There was a second book assigned to his Magical Creature course - a slim volume about troll behaviour which Newt would take a look at after he'd read the one on dragons. Newt quickly stuffed all the other books into his trunk and set off to the sitting room to find a nice chair to read in. In his excitement, he'd forgotten that his father was home from work for once and it was just his luck to choose the same place to read as him.

"There's no need to run away every time you see me, Newton," Mr Scamander sighed, closing the book he'd been reading and taking off his glasses to look at his son. Newt had been in the process of turning back from the room when his father had seen him and stopped short at the reprimand.

"Well, take a seat." His father gestured to the chair in front of his and Newt knew then that he wouldn't be reading anytime soon.

"Your mother thinks I was too harsh on you and that I should apologise," he started to say, and Newt knew that this was as much of an apology his father was capable of so he nodded hesitantly. "She may be right, but I worry about you, son. I know you don't get along with your classmates, but if you'd make some effort to fit in you wouldn't always be in such trouble. You need to shape up and shoulder some responsibility. How will you ever become a man if you waste all your time on silly beasts?" Newt wondered if his mother had ever heard his father speak of her beloved creatures like this and knew that it was unlikely since she would have tarred and feathered him for it. They sat in silence as Newt digested what his father was saying. Mr Scamander found him lacking in some way and wanted him to change for the benefits of others and behave in a way that his father considered normal for young men at Newt's age.

"I'll try, but I can't promise to be what you want me to be." Newt twisted his lips into a thin smile, and his father seemed to deflate.

"That's not what I want at all. I want you to have a bright future like Theseus." His father sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. Newt suppressed a grimace. His father always brought up his brother when he was trying to make a point about his prospects. Newt didn't hold it against Theseus, and their relationship was sturdier than most other siblings Newt had seen. It became tiring to hear how he'd never amount to anything like his brother but Newt had learned to smile and let it roll off him like water off a duck.

Their talk left them both feeling awkward, and Newt knew his father would consider it rude of him if he'd try and leave soon after it. Instead, Newt propped open the book in his lap and decided to immerse himself in it. His father followed suit and the tense atmosphere ebbed as they both lost themselves in their reading. It wasn't until much later when Mrs Scamander came in from her outing in an upbeat mood that they looked up. She greeted them jauntily and pressed a kiss to Mr Scamander's forehead before swinging over to her son and depositing a small pouch into his hand from seemingly thin air. Newt recognised the material from that of a Mokeskine and knew that the outward size of the pouch was deceptive of what it could contain.

"I popped by Gringotts and had them convert some money to Dragots. It should cover all your expenses while you're out there." Newt stood up and hugged her, grabbing the book before it could slide off his lap. He knew that she had become anxious as the date of his departure neared. Newt had never left the British Isles in his life, and with Theseus so far away from home, Mrs Scamander became distressed at the thought of him going as well.

They sat back down, and Mrs Scamander took her husband's hand, and they spoke in hushed tones, which Newt tuned out in favour of returning to his book. His attention was only drawn from his book when an owl from the Ministry flew in. His father read the missive and excused himself to go and hunt down some documents for a colleague. His mother seemed to have something on her mind, and Newt closed his book when he couldn't ignore her fidgeting any longer. She sighed and moved to sit closer to him.

"I know you still haven't told the entire truth about that night, Newt. I had hoped that you would open up given some time, but it's been months! You're leaving for America soon, dear, and it will be hard enough without keeping all of this repressed. You can always talk to me," she implored

"I've told you everything there is to know!" Newt spit out, feeling harassed - why couldn't she just leave it. He knew that he'd taken the wrong tone because his mother's chest fanned out in indignation and her nostrils flared, and Newt knew that he was about to get chewed out.

"I know you, Newt. You wouldn't have hesitated if it were only you that was getting in trouble. Oh, I just know it's that Lestrange girl isn't it? She's just like her family –rotten to the core!" His mother accused. She had never approved his friendship with Leta. Mrs Scamander had attended Hogwarts with Leta's father and despised the man. She didn't want her child to get mixed up in that sort of company, especially Newt who already had a difficult time making connections.

"Well, luckily for you that's not going to be an issue now. Your son is back to being the social pariah of Hufflepuff. You won't have to see Leta again!"

"Newton, don't you dare turn this on me! I am not happy with any of it." She looked hurt by his accusation, and Newt felt ashamed. "She must have used you in some way, or else you wouldn't be acting like this. It's at times like these that I wish you had been sorted into my house. Ravenclaws can be reasoned with, but there is no arguing with sheer obstinacy!" It stung to hear his mother use his house against him. In the past, she'd often said he was too intelligent for Hufflepuff, but that had sounded like a compliment.

"Stop badgering me!" Newt's voice broke, and the irony of his choice of word escaped him. He didn't notice how he was backing away from her, but her proximity unnerved him. Newt knew that his mother would never physically lash out at him, but it was pure instinct to put distance between them.

"Can't you see I'm trying to help you?" she cried.

Newt didn't have an answer for her, but he still opened his mouth and lied. "I don't want your help-". The rest of his sentence was cut off by an outburst of animalistic screaming from outside. They both recognised the sound of battling Hippogriffs and from how high pitched the eagle-like screeches were it must be a brutal fight. They ran out, forgetting their argument, and hurtled down the path to Heather's lot.

The fight was over by the time they arrived. Grimalkin was limping away, and Tarron was bleeding from a cut on his face. Heather had broken them up and was pacing around Marigold's willow, brandishing bloodied claws and daring anyone to approach their fallen leader. Mrs Scamander's wailed and ran to Marigold, heedless of Heather's agitated wings. The sounds of his mother's cries would remain embedded in Newt's memories as she cradled Marigold's lifeless body in her arms. The fight must have broken out after Marigold's passing since there were no visible wounds on her. This kind of behaviour was not abnormal since Hippogriff's fought for the control of the herd, but unlike their horse counterparts, they only did so after the death of their current leader. Evidently Heather had taken over as the head of the herd.

Newt stood by his mother in shock with tears streaming down his face. He placed a hand on her rocking shoulder, and she wrenched him down to the ground to bury her face into his shoulder. They stayed there for what felt like hours, but the 'crack' of his father's return startled Newt. He didn't want his father to witness his tearstained face and gently detangled himself from his mother. She didn't react, and Newt seised the chance to retreat. He ran into the forest, stumbling over gnarled roots and loose rocks until he came to his favourite tree. He stayed there and tried to gain control of his emotions until he gave up and let himself weep.

Newt didn't return home until the sun rose the next day. He was dead on his feet by the time he was inside. His father was snoring in an armchair by the fire with his hand hanging limply to the side as if he'd fallen asleep holding his wife's hand. Mrs Scamander was still awake, her eyes bloodshot and her nose red from overusing her handkerchief. She kissed Newt's forehead and sent him up to bed, and he knew that all was forgiven.


A/N: I have no regrets