Newt Scamander had never been a man who cared about his appearance. Only in his adolescence had he given it a second-thought, and that thought hadn't been a good one. He had look at his lanky build, his untamable hair, and his numerous freckles in disgust, telling himself that a beautiful girl like Leta could never look at him as more than a friend.

Now, for the second time in his life, Newt was looking at himself in the mirror and was anything but satisfied with what he saw. His hair had never been tamable, and he'd never tried to tame it. Now, he made a weak attempt to pat it down, but that had no effect. Even though he'd just bathed so his hair was slightly damp, it seemed impossible that his hair could lie flat and tame on his head.

As for his clothes, they were nothing new or special, though he'd taken care to make sure that they were clean and ironed for once. Along with brown trousers, white shirt, and his mustard-waistcoat, Newt had chosen to wear his dark grey coat rather than the teal coat he'd worn the previous night. When he magically tied his bowtie and looked at the full ensemble in the mirror, his one thought was this:

You look even more ridiculous than an auguery at a children's party.

Groaning in frustration, Newt walked to the bed in his childhood bedroom and let himself fall backwards onto the mattress. An indignant Pickett, jostled by this sudden movement, climbed out of Newt's breast pocket and walked up his chest until Newt could see him scolding.

"Sorry, old friend, I'm just…" His voice drifted as he rubbed his forehead, staring at the ceiling. What exactly was he right now?

Physically, he was tired and a little sore. He'd spent the entire day (hiding) in the hippogriff stables. He'd done everything from feeding them to mucking out every last stall. By the time he'd finished, he doubted that the stalls had ever been so spotless.

He knew why he'd spent most of the day shoveling 'griff manure: penance, pure and simple. With each stroke of the shovel, Leta's parting words in the kitchen echoed in his mind, and he couldn't deny how right she was. He had become blinkered; not about creatures, but about people. Last night and this morning were proof enough of that. And he had to make things right.

He sighed and finished his statement to Pickett: "…nervous. I'm just nervous."

Pickett tilted his head for a moment, and then he tried patting Newt's chin for comfort, but his sharp little hand made it feel more like a series of tiny slaps. How appropriate, Newt thought.

The sound of his wall clock chiming the half-hour – 18:30 – made him jolt a little, making the bowtruckle almost fall back. Sighing and rubbing his eyes, Newt muttered, "Back into my pocket, Pickett. It's time to head downstairs for the ballet."

The bowtruckle obediently slipped into Newt's breast pocket as Newt sat up and got off the bed. He pointedly avoided one last look in the mirror, knowing that he couldn't make himself look any better.

He walked to his window, the view affording him a very good look at the outdoor stage and stands that had been set up for the ballet. In the distance, he could just see the gates of the estate, and the first round of guests arriving.

Would she come?

That was the big question. If her sister was feeling better…and if she didn't completely hate him…as Theseus seemed to right now. Newt hadn't had the courage to try and seek Theseus out, much preferring the stink of hippogriff dung. Knowing how busy Theseus was in hosting and seeing the festival running smoothly, Newt had thought it wiser to wait until it was all over to approach him.

As for Tina…Newt hoped against hope that she would come. If she didn't, at least he knew her full name and where to find her in the Ministry. That was small comfort right now, though, because right now, bottom line…he really wanted to see her again. Simple as that.

Isolt of Ilvermorny.

Tina read the name of the ballet printed in gold calligraphy on the program that she'd been handed by a ministry employee after walking through the gates of the Scamander estate. Not that she needed to; she knew this ballet very well, probably better than most of the people seeing it tonight. She highly doubted that this ballet could be as popular in England as it was back in the States.

The summer evening tonight was just as lovely as the previous one had been, the perfect weather for an outdoor ballet. Tina had come the way she had last night, and again following the path towards her destination. But this time, it was not towards an array of tents and recreations, but an outdoor theater in the round. Biting her lip in anticipation to see the stage, Tina hoped that she would be able to get a good seat.

When she had seen the dress that Queenie had made for this night, Tina had almost cried. To anybody else looking at her, they would only see a simple, sleeveless, sky-blue cocktail dress, with a cranberry-colored sash pinned around her waist. But its symbolism meant much more to Tina. These were the very same colors of the Ilvermorny school robes: blue because Isolt had dreamed of belonging to Ravenclaw house as a child, and cranberry because of her husband James's favorite dessert. The sash was pinned by a very special silver brooch: the Gordian knot brooch that had been part of her Ilvermorny uniform, and that she had saved as a keepsake. Around her neck she wore her mother's locket. Over her heart was pinned another smaller brooch, this one golden and a gift from the school when she graduated; this one was of a thunderbird, for her school house.

Filled with pride for where she had come from, and very excited to see the ballet that meant so much to her, there were moments when Tina nearly forgot that she may see Newt again tonight. The thought simultaneously thrilled her and terrified her. But she had resolved that she would not even think of seeking him out until the ballet was over and the banquet being provided afterwards began.

Upon entering the stands, Tina was thrilled to see that this was a theatre-in-the-round setup, with the stage low to the ground and ascending bleachers surrounding three-quarters of it. Thankfully, Tina was very good at getting around crowded places quickly and without jostling anybody. Soon, she had maneuvered to a good perch in one of the top bleachers, where she could clearly see the entire stage.

For a while, she read through the program, reading the names of the cast members and the little biographies and well-wishes that they had written for their families. Those made her smile; her own, years ago, had practically been a love-letter to her sister and her late parents. When she heard the orchestra begin to tune their instruments, she turned her attention to the stage itself, vaguely noticing that nearly everybody was seated by now.

As she studied the bare set-up (Good, she thought, it should be as minimal as possible, nothing to take attention away from the dancers telling the story), Tina did not hear the small commotion that was slowly coming closer to her. This commotion consisted of annoyed grunts and words from various audience members in their seats, and of a hushed and very-English voice repeating the phrases, "So sorry," and "Pardon me," and "Excuse me."

She didn't notice until her attention was pulled from the stage when that voice said softly and nervously, "Tina?"

Her body reacted immediately: heart pounding, cheeks flushing, palms sweating, a little harder to breathe. But she swallowed and forced her head to turn to the left. There stood Newt, looking much the same (and adorable) as he had the previous evening. The only noticeable difference to Tina's eyes was that the long coat he wore was a storm-grey rather than a rich teal. He also carried no suitcase with him; she saw that when she noticed that he was wringing his hands nervously. His head was down, and he was peeking at her apprehensively through his shaggy bangs (Fringe, she mentally corrected herself).

"M-may I sit down?" asked Newt, in that same soft and nervous voice, nodding to the empty spot beside her.

Tina felt herself nodding. Gratefully, Newt sat beside her, very careful not to touch her in any way. His gaze went to his hands, now wringing in his lap. Tina herself turned her gaze back to the stage, trying to gather her thoughts. She knew what she needed to say to him, but how to say it in the right words? Perhaps she should wait until the ballet was over…or would it be better to get this over with now –

"I'm so sorry, Tina!"

His words, said in such a sincere and remorseful tone, made Tina look at him so quickly that her neck cricked a bit. Newt let more words fall out of his mouth like a waterfall, again peeking up at her through his fringe.

"I hurt you last night, I know I did, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. What I said about aurors, that's what did it. I didn't know that you were one, that you worked with my brother. He told me this morning. You've every right to tell me to piss off, I know, but I wanted to apologize, for you see…I was wrong. My opinion was wrong, I know that now. Oh, I know that there are some aurors that are like that, I've come across several in my life, but it certainly isn't true for all of them. I was being narrow-minded, unfairly judgmental…just plain blinkered, Tina. And I'm so, so sorry."

Though the words came out in a rushed, hushed tone and in an accent that Tina was still acclimatizing herself to, she heard and understood every word. Once those words were done, words that Queenie had spoken that morning ran through her mind:

If this Newt is as good a man as he seemed to you, then he'll listen and come around.

As usual, Queenie had been right. But Newt hadn't had the chance to listen to what Tina had planned to say; he'd beaten her to it, leaving her no reason to justify herself. She was quite lost for words.

Unfortunately, Newt took her silence as a rebuttal. He lowered his head fully again and muttered, "Well…thank you for listening, Tina. I'll leave you in peace now."

But just as he was about to stand, Tina's hand reached out and covered both of his resting in his lap. His wringing fingers stilled at once, and he seemed to hold his breath at the contact. Tilting her head a bit, Tina said softly but firmly: "Look at me, Newt."

She needed to see his eyes, to get that final reassurance. He obediently raised his head and met her gaze. There was a moment of silence, as Tina looked into his eyes and Newt hoped that she could see what she needed to see. Finally, Tina smiled a small but lovely smile, and she squeezed his fingers. "Thank you, Newt."

Newt let out the breath he had been holding, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. His fingers involuntarily reached after her hand when she withdrew it.

"Now, as for leaving me in peace, I'd much prefer if you'd keep me company," said Tina. "Would that be alright with you?"

Newt's mouth bloomed into a full, relieved smile. "Oh, yes…there's no one else I'd rather have the company of."

Their eyes locked again as both of their cheeks colored at his bold but honest statement. It was only when the orchestra began the overture that their gazes broke and both looked towards the stage in anticipation, their hearts pounding in the best way.

A/N: Anybody who isn't familiar with the story of Isolt Sayre, the founder of Ilvermorny School in America, please check it out. I like to imagine that she serves as a role model and inspiration for many American witches, including Tina and Queenie.