Verging on Wednesday, March 16th, 1910
A night in Hogwarts never passed in silence. Peeves never slept, for one, and even the portraits were often restless on a full moon. Lately Nearly-Headless Nick could be heard bemoaning his exorcism to come (despite the constant reassurances from the professors that he would not be exiled for popping out of the plum pudding while the inspector was on duty). Owls and bats fluttered. Ancient floorboards creaked, and pipes blocked up by poltergeists clanked in eternal protest. Students collaborated in huddles, or murmured in their sleep. Quills scratched and parchment rustled as the diligent caught up on their studies. Prefects occasionally paced the hall, snooping about whenever a broken curfew was suspected.
Even in the hospital wing, a ward designed for peace and rest, a troubled spirit passed the night with anxious strides and whispered reassurances. Banished from his brother's consciousness, Theseus tethered Newt to the future in the only way he knew. Through hushed stories and old family jests he reminder his brother of all they had left behind.
He spoke about the vault, and how irksome it was to see an impersonation of himself wearing such a drab coat. (If Newt insisted on polyjuice disguises, at least he could dress more tastefully. What if such an image had been flaunted in The Daily Prophet? And he had the gall to run off before Theseus could properly thrash him for being a public nuisance.) Then he griped about the recently acquired zouwu and the nasty reports that had been left on his desk when eyewitnesses traced the beast's last sighting to a certain magical case. He groused about the favorite child who could scuttle about as she pleased, and therefore whilst exploring unsupervised by her caretaker made off with the emerald necklace and earrings Theseus had stashed amidst his ties, hoping to present the gems to Leta on her birthday. He mocked Black and his disdainful portkey, and praised the blasted niffler who had led a child amok in the proper timing to shatter the odious crockery.
When Theseus ran out of witty anecdotes, he reminded Newt of the days before. Back when there used to be drawers full of interesting rocks and leftover Potions ingredients, scribbled colorings and pictures torn out of books. Once a certain notorious four-year-old salvaged enough hippogriff feathers to pin his arms from shoulder to wrist, and Mother walked in upon the frightful sight of a "bwoke-beaked gwiffin" lying next to the upturned sofa, squalling and thrashing while Theseus babbled explanations and used the best table linens to try to stop the flow of blood spurting from his brother's nose. There was the unforgettable incident when Newt laid hold of their host's shrieking macaw, and not only retained all of his fingers but convinced a bird nearly half his size to sit upon his head for the entire evening.
And when he had no more tender moments to draw upon, Theseus recounted days in elegant parlors and fantastic walkways in France, when he waited impatiently for a letter, not realizing his own carefully logged encounters had never reached his brother. (And what a dismal memory accompanied this, though faintly he acknowledged that it did not quite belong, for the letters stopped shortly after Newt's second year and he never understood why.)
He admitted how dull it could be in the Ministry, listening to the other wizards mince about the most recent Sighting, or whether it was prudent to waste parchment on a welcome note for the newest intern, when she probably wouldn't stay past the summer anyways. He even disclosed such diversions as staging paper mice in fighting rings and tripping up the Minister with a subtle, incomplete leg-lock jinx. (Although Newt was not in any way to follow his example, for he was clearly too chivalrous to comprehend the ingenuity of a well-deserved prank. Miss Salamander-Eyes, on the other hand - dubbed by the late Davey as "Sovereign of All Rolling Objects" - was welcome to pop in whenever she pleased.)
As the night carried on, and Theseus' dry remarks degenerated into melancholy, he revealed that which he never intended for Newt to know. Perhaps he feared that it must be spoken while the memories remained intact, or perhaps he hoped that that some of the sadder years would wash away with the integration of a new youth, and such a revelation would be needless after all. Either way he convinced himself that, lost this night in his own shattered mind, Newt couldn't possibly recall what was whispered in the dark, and thus Theseus broke his long standing vow. He had never demanded an explanation for what went wrong at Hogwarts, nor did he wish for Newt to comprehend the lengths he went to to ease the first year after his expulsion. He had merely pulled a few strings; called in some favors; found a little niche where a sixteen-year-old could be hired immediately so that Newt could busy himself instead of wallow in his failure. The Ministry was a prison for Newt - Theseus understood that now more than ever before - but it had given him a chance to prove himself and eventually move to higher departments. The Office of House-Elf Relocation was the most boring and lifeless department to initiate a career, but without that first step Newt might never have traveled to the Eastern Front. His textbook on magical creatures would have been a whimsical dream.
"I don't see the world like you do," Theseus whispered, watching as Newt's shoulders heaved once before he settled. "Merlin's beard, sometimes I don't know where you get your insane ideas from. You're reckless, you're impetuous, you don't fear enough to keep yourself out of harm's way…."
Huffing softly, he admitted, "I've always wondered what it would be like to have your courage. You've overthrown every obstacle. Even… even me. The entire world could not stop you if it tried." He blinked rapidly, despair escaping him before he could dash it from his eyes. "I've always been proud of you. Every day, since Father first placed you in my arms. You irrational, brave fool."
Shuddering, he stooped and pressed a kiss to Newt's brow, lingering with their foreheads pressed together, as though by touch he could burn his memories into his brother's mind. "You can't leave me tonight, Newt. What would I be without you?"
There was no answer from the inert figure. When dawn colored the windows and the owls retreated to their roost, Theseus rose and paced to the window, stretching hours of tension from his limbs. He would put it off no longer. There was no sense in lingering for farewells. Newton would do well enough on his own for the rest of term, and one day he would understand why Theseus could not say goodbye.
Glancing at the trunks and leather case waiting by the bunk, Theseus allowed a wan smile to lift his despondency. Dumbledore had taken long enough to pack a few shirts and ties. There was no question that the professor had taken an idle stroll through Newt's case before sending it along with the house elves. Theseus hoped it had enlightened him to a boy's immeasurable potential. There was no better man to trust with Newton's future.
Had he not been standing so still, he might have missed the light scuff of a child's tread. Stilling, Theseus looked surreptitiously at the door. A shadow momentarily blocked the light from the hall, followed by the faint thud of an object settling on the floor. Immediately the footsteps retreated.
Striding to the doorway, Theseus hovered for a moment, waiting for the echoes to fade. Carefully he eased the door open wide enough to retrieve the anonymous parcel. A gift for Newt, perhaps? An acknowledgment of farewell from one of the students whose bangles and shiny trinkets had been retrieved from the niffler hoard? Probably a comprehensive guide to pest extermination, courtesy of the headmaster, Theseus thought darkly. The book folded easily as he picked it up, the leather binding barely holding together.
Of course.
"Blood Bonds and Boundaries," Theseus murmured, carefully restacking the ruined pages. It could only be Leta. Was it an offering of sympathy, or a testament to an altered mindset? He told himself that it was the latter. Perhaps she no longer needed the bindings of a blood oath to trust that someone could be her friend.
Rejuvenated by the symbol of hope, Theseus contemplated taking one last stroll after all. The morning was early yet. Aside from the wary mischief-maker who sought to return the evidence undetected, no students should be wandering the castle. He would be no more acknowledged than a ghost passing through the halls.
After a week devoted to delving through old texts, he relished the nostalgia of taking one more quiet moment to indulge in the library.
Without a fellow mischief-maker to encourage him, Peeves had left the stuffy library alone. Recently the shelves had been dusted, categorized and alphabetized properly, fit to satisfy the most obnoxious inspector. Theseus wistfully considered a change in occupation. Perhaps one day, if they could overthrow Grindelwald before the Ministry fell, he might dabble in a less hazardous department. Leta would have found that amusing.
I'm not old enough to retire yet, Theseus reminded himself as he slid Blood Bonds and Boundaries into its place in the restricted section. There may be another war ahead, and where else shall I be save the front lines?
Another war. Another chance to play hero. Only those who had survived the heat of battle understood how much he loathed that title. Heroes were those who had collapsed in the front lines, crippled under the first onslaught of spells. Heroes lay among the slain. Theseus was no more valorous than any one of them for escaping a similar fate.
And it was to this future that he must return.
Breathing deeply, imprinting on his memories the essence of leather and parchment and isolation, Theseus turned away deliberately, disillusion weighing his shoulders the moment he stepped outside of the library. He had no place in this era of peace. Perhaps someday his children, if he ever found a woman who could match a beguiling, emerald enchantress, would romp around these halls without fear. As for himself, he had outlived such opportunities.
It was time to go home.
No sooner had he rounded the corner than he heard the anxious wheedle which fettered his stride and stole away his breath. Oh, Newton. Now is not the time. Go back to your room and leave me be!
But the stalwart petition was not directed towards him. Pressing himself against the wall, Theseus glanced around the corner, incapable of quenching the pity that gripped his heart. Still clad in his pajamas, his hair mussed from tumbling out of bed, Newton avidly pointed at the library, his expression flushing as he babbled, "I was just returning it. I didn't ruin it, I swear."
"Then who was it?" the Hufflepuff head boy asked, looking as though he wanted to drum his head against the wall rather than settle one more dispute between prepubescent students. Gripped in his hands, half falling to pieces, was a coverless copy of The Tales of Beetle the Bard.
"I don't … I don't know," Newton said, failing to make eye contact. "I found it."
"Newt, if someone has damaged a book you should report it," the head boy censored. "Now why were you sneaking it back to the library?"
"I wasn't sneaking!" Newton objected, the tips of his ears coloring to match his scarlet face. "I was putting it back for… Before anyone… noticed it was missing," he ended badly.
"So you admit it was your fault," the head boy stated.
"No, I didn't tear it!" Newton protested. "It probably fell. I found it in the hall."
Rolling his eyes, the head boy said tartly, "Did you or did you not have this book in your possession?"
"Yes - I mean, no! I mean, not for long. It was just earlier this year, and then I lent it - I mean - I was going to…."
"So the fact that it was borrowed under your name - that was in October, Newt, look at the date! And then you suddenly felt compelled to return it without any report of damage when most of the castle is still in bed... Merlin, Newt! How many fibs can you tell in one morning?" Sighing, the head boy shuffled the torn pages together and tucked the book under his arm. "I'm going to have to speak to the headmaster about this."
"No, wait!" Newton yelped, lunging for the book. "I'll replace it! I've got enough knuts, I think. And I can borrow some from Theseus before he goes."
Stiffening, Theseus forced himself to look away, clenching his fists until the blood left his fingers. It would be so easy to round the corner and slip a galleon into the head boy's pocket. Book paid for, bribe asserted, and Newton wouldn't suffer the consequences of what was clearly Leta's mischance. Such a small favor. Surely it wouldn't….
But if it did.
"It's not the money that matters, Newt," the head boy droned. "You damaged the book and you tried to hide it. You know how the headmaster feels about sneakiness."
"But I didn't do it!" Newton insisted.
"Then tell me who did!"
"I.… I don't know!"
How many schemes have you covered for, Theseus wondered, despair cloying the peace he had felt that morning. He thought back to the afternoon in the case, when Leta contrived ingenious pranks while Newt picked at the grass, interested only in the presence of his brother and his best friend. Leta had graduated with success. Newt had fallen to the wayside.
Which of the two had been judged fairly?
Neither, Theseus acknowledged heavily. He could not intercede this time, however. This was the moment when he could no longer save Newt. Closing his mind to the troubled pleas, he braced his resolve and strode in the opposite direction. He now understood why the letters would stop after Newt's second year. Any nincompoop could look towards the library and see him walking away. Unmoved by his own brother's unhappiness.
"Wait - Wait, Theseus! See, there he is; I'll get him! Theseus, I just need a sickle. I'll pay it back, I promise!"
Ducking his head, his eyes squeezed shut against the knowledge that he was spurring the distance between them, Theseus sidled behind a portrait and hunkered down in the hidden passage, covering his face with his hands until the running footsteps slowed and the head boy's voice echoed dimly in the hall.
"He's gone, Newt. Come on; you can't cover up everything just because your brother's the inspector."
"But he was right here! He wouldn't… he wouldn't leave me…."
Gasping, Theseus covered his ears, blocking out the tremulous young voice that verged on tears. I can't. I can't! Oh Merlin, if only I could….!
If he could but spring out of hiding now and stride forth like the hero his brother expected, rescuing him from another dreadful week in detention. He could ease this last moment between them: hold to his promise that he would always, always be there when Newt needed him.
Yet here he crouched in the shadows like a coward, leaving Newton alone with the illusion that even his brother was disappointed with his conduct. In that moment Theseus knew that all would continue as it had before. Newt would leave him behind at the train station. In the span of seventeen years he would lose his brother.
If one day that permitted a magizoologist to travel to New York, befriend a muggle, chase after an obscurus, and travel back in time to hunt for a menial spell, Theseus would accept the burden. He would suffer the years alone until Newt returned to his original memories. He would count every day until all was revealed in a quarrel inside a magical case. And he would wait at Newt's side every moment until he woke, prepared to greet whatever ghost of the past remained. Whether stranger or old friend, he would cherish the one who would always be his little brother.
Slipping out of the passage, Theseus trudged to the hospital wing, looping the time-turner over his head.
He would never exonerate himself for betraying Newt.
He could only hope that one day he would earn his brother's forgiveness.