a/n: Oh hey. Sorry this took so long. Had to make sure my life was still in line. I don't own anything except my OC.

Somewhere in England

3:27am, 1920

Elsie awoke suddenly to the sound of knocking at her door. She stayed in bed for a moment, wondering hopefully if the noise had been a fragment of a dream. That hope was quashed when the rapping began again, this time a bit more frantic.

"Elsie!" she heard a whisper from outside. She knew immediately who it was. She let out a small huff and slipped out from the comfort of her warm bed and into her dressing robe instead. These visitations had become a habit, but one she'd be loath to give up.

"Elsie, I know it's rather late, but I am losing quite a bit of blood, and I'd appreciate it if—" She opened the door to her flat to reveal a worn and beaten Newt Scamander.

"Come in," she urged quietly, pulling the injured man inside. She looked down at the carpet outside the door, stained with blood. With a furtive glance around, and a flick of her wand, it was gone.

Newt stood right inside the door, anxiously waiting for her and clutching his right forearm, where blood oozed out between his fingers.

"Sit, sit!" she insisted, leading him further into her flat. She waved her wand, and a single, dim lightbulb lit up in her miniscule kitchen. She motioned for Newt to sit down at the linoleum table while she pulled out various items: assorted candles, two porcelain basins, some rags, and a large chest which she kept under the sink.

"I-I am sorry to wake you up," the young man stammered as she set out and lit the candles. "I wouldn't have come if it weren't an emergency, you know."

"It's all right," she assured him. "Let me look." She gently pried Newt's fingers off his wound as he winced. Her eyebrows knit together at the sight of the long gash on his forearm. Blood dripped down his elbow and onto the kitchen floor, but that was not her main concern.

"Okay," she sighed, opening the large chest that sat on the table and opening it up. "Since it's only the one, I think I could—"

"That's—" Newt interjected, not meeting her eyes. "That's not all," he finished. She turned her head towards him, a look of concern on her face.

"Show me," she commanded. Clamping his free hand over his arm again, Newt stood up and turned around. The back of his shirt was in tatters, where three large gouges had been cut into his back. Blood covered his back, soaking his shirt and trousers.

"Oh Newt," she sighed as he turned around to face her sheepishly. "We need to get that shirt off."

"Um, I don't—do I have to?" he asked hopefully, but the steely look in her eye made him not push the matter further. He moved gingerly to begin unbuttoning his shirt, wincing at the effort.

"Oh nevermind that," Elsie said, pulling a pair of shears from her chest and hastily cutting it off him instead. He watched helplessly as the tattered fabric left his body, exposing him and his scars to the night and to her.

Elsie, for her part, wasted no time in ripping Newt's shirt into long strips of rags. Taking his forearm once more from his grasp, she tightly wound a strip of his discarded shirt around his wound.

"Press here," she instructed, pointing to where her hand was squeezing his arm. He did as she said and turned around for her to inspect his back.

Elsie pulled a glass bottle filled with a sickly yellow liquid from her chest and poured the contents into one of the glass basins she had laid out. Newt recognized the pungent smell of murtlap essence. She quickly began dabbing it onto his wounds with a rag, instant relief from the pain flooding his senses.

"What was it this time?" she asked him while she tended to the deep scratches. She was not accusatory; merely curious. He liked that about her. She never made him feel guilty.

"Ukrainian Ironbelly," he responded, wincing as she gasped and pulled away from him.

"Newt!" she hissed, craning her neck to look at him from her position behind. "You're not supposed to have one of those!"

"Which is why I came to you instead of going to St. Mungo's," he pointed out, trying to turn the subject away from his illegal creature.

"You were supposed to give all of them back after the war," she reminded him, continuing to sponge murtlap onto his back to clean the wound. "I know you worked with them, but you can't just take one."

"He was the runt of the litter! He was going to be killed by one of the bigger ones—what was I supposed to do?" he asked forcefully. "It's not his fault he's different from the others. …He shouldn't have to be punished for it."

Elsie paused for a moment. Somehow she sensed Newt wasn't just talking about his dragon.

"This one needs a line of sutures," she said to break the silence, pointing to the deepest gash, even though he could not see it. "How's your arm doing?"

"Do I really need the sutures?" he asked, pleadingly, ignoring her question. "Couldn't you just heal them, Elsie?"

"Newt, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times—magical wounds heal differently," she said, trying to sound exasperated. She couldn't manage it, though. In truth, she rather liked his questions. "Wands are no use here. Though I can…" she pointed her wand at the three gashes and cotton padding and surgical tape wound itself around him. "Stop the bleeding for a bit. I have a feeling that arm will need sutures, too."

Newt turned around to face her and she began the same process on his forearm, dabbing it with murtlap essence and cleaning it gently. The flat stayed quiet as she worked, the early signs of morning dawning outside the window.

She pulled out a needle and thread from her chest of medical supplies and gazed up at him woefully.

"You do need the sutures here, I'm afraid," she told him. Newt frowned and looked away.

"You'll be fine," she assured him, patting his hand comfortingly. "You don't have to look." Noticing the worry on his face, she got up and took a bottle and a glass from the highest kitchen shelf. After pouring a large portion, she handed it to him.

"Drink," she insisted. Newt sniffed at the amber fluid gingerly.

"Firewhisky?" he asked, surprised.

"Drink," was all she said. She pulled out a second vial from her chest and opened it. Newt didn't know what it was, but the smell was confirmation—she only used it when he was getting sutures. Without a second thought, he downed the glass of Firewhisky in one go. At least it couldn't hurt.

"This will sting a bit," she warned before splashing the cold liquid onto his wound. He winced and bit down a cry at the intense pain, though it soon began to dull and the sensation of his skin being pulled this way and that told him she had begun.

"It's quite lucky that you know how to tend to wounds," he commented after a few minutes of silence between them.

"It's quite lucky for you that I worked as a healer during the war," she corrected him, her concentration completely on his arm as she worked. "Not all of us could train dragons, you know."

Newt smiled slightly and chanced a glance over at her. Her tongue was between her teeth, her brows drawn in focus as she worked adeptly at closing the wound. When she was satisfied, she cut the string and looked up to see him watching her.

"You don't like needles," she reminded him.

"Must be the firewhisky," he replied, his eyes darting away from hers again, though he couldn't hide his small smile.

She bandaged his arm tightly and moved on to his back, applying more of the stinging liquid.

By the time she had finished stitching him up, the sun was already peeking through the curtains. The morning light brought with it a better view of the damage Newt had done to her flat.

Blood had spattered the kitchen, pooling along the hardwood floors, and staining her table. While his hands and body had been thoroughly cleansed, Elsie's hands were a deep red from his drying blood. His trousers had been soaked, and her nightgown and robe were as well. As he looked behind him, he saw the trail of blood he had left on his way through her flat and immediately felt a pang of guilt.

"I-I-" he stuttered, looking to Elsie with a devastated expression.

"Don't worry," she told him. "I'll clean up. You should get some rest." She stood from the table and washed the blood from her hands. Newt wasn't sure where to go. He couldn't exactly walk through town without a shirt, and he certainly couldn't apparate in his condition.

"Come on," Elsie insisted, after drying her hands. She beckoned him to follow her down the hall to her bedroom, where Newt once again hovered anxiously outside.

"I don't exactly have anything that would fit you," she muttered, looking through her closet. She pulled out a second night gown and held it up to him. "I suppose that will have to do." She handed it to him, smiling slightly at the astounded look on his face.

"I'll wash your trousers while you rest," she told him, and it dawned on him that he was supposed to wear her night gown. He couldn't think of anything to say in defense, so he just nodded obediently.

"Think you can manage to put it on without help?" she asked, and he nodded once more.

Several minutes later he emerged from her bedroom, wearing her nightgown and carrying his blood-soaked trousers. The kitchen had already been cleaned up; the only sign of blood was the washbasin in the sink, where a brush had already been charmed to scrub at what appeared to be Elsie's other nightgown.

"You can put them in the washbasin," Elsie called to him from outside the kitchen. After doing what she said, he followed her voice to the sitting room, where she sat curled up on a lime green loveseat.

"You can take my bed for now," she said, giving him a sweet smile. "I daresay you need the rest more than I."

"Thank you, Elsie," Newt said, suddenly feeling a rush of gratitude towards the woman. "I appreciate your help. Now, and when we were in school," he added.

"My door is always open, Newt Scamander," she told him.

"As is mine," he replied. Their eyes met for a moment, both smiling at one another, before he turned and walked back towards her bedroom, ready for some rest.

a/n: Please leave a review if you'd like. Next chapter will be more exciting, I promise. x