There is something so new about the day.
Something so special.
It is not, necessarily, the feeling of a body, of limbs and walking and breathing and blinking again, all the automatic things that one never thinks of until they can no longer do them.
Nor is it the idea, really, of wearing Mr. Scamander's clothing. Trousers, suspenders, a button-down. The tie. Whether or not the feeling of wearing them is actually new, the idea has been gone over so many times, mentally, that the experience is one of near-normalcy.
And yes, a moment in the mirror, the second when the tie needs tightening, the thought or two about the suspenders, about how other people can see the suspenders and the trousers and the tie—yes. It is at the same time a wild, rushing happiness. It is bliss. That is new. It is not the clothes, but the feeling of knowing they're on.
And what a happiness it is—never before. Never in real life. But it is a wild, glorious spark with nothing to light on, and it hits the cold stone, sputtering out.
The wild, rushing happiness only lasts the space of a moment. It is new—and now it is on. And now it is a memory that it would have been Tina's clothes. If not for the shattered room, it would still be Tina's clothes.
It is still a world of zero people who know and understand, regardless of what the clothes are.
Now it is remembering that nothing has changed but the clothes.
Everything is the same, but for the clothes… almost.
But the new feeling is really Mr. Scamander.
Mr. Scamander, smiling and awkward, hair askew in the morning and not much better afterward, a smile that flickers on and off like a faulty lightbulb, but that never leaves his eyes.
Mr. Scamander cannot be real.
Because Mr. Scamander does not do what a man does to a woman.
Standing, two pairs of hands on a wand, wonderful warmth blooming and trickling through a regained body as if the heart has restarted, the touch of magic waking a brighter, better side of magic than the Obscurus and sending the senses alight.
Mr. Scamander's eyes stay up the whole time, stay clear and steady, a bright and brilliant blue. They do not flicker downwards for a moment, even though Mr. Scamander's hatred for eye contact is no secret.
When it is over, when the tingling has faded and the magic stops calling out and every limb feels human again, if not exactly right, Mr. Scamander simply returns to his side of the room.
And he stays there.
And he does not touch, he does not even look, he does not force anything.
Mr. Scamander cannot be real.
Because Mr. Scamander is the first person who asks are you a man?
Mr. Scamander is the first person who decides that it is not the sex of the person that decides who gets the tie, but the amount which the person wants the tie.
Mr. Scamander is the first one who asks questions and does not demand answers to them, to say nothing for the people who do not bother to ask any questions at all.
This is new.
This is so, terrifyingly, incredibly new.
It is a soaring, building feeling, simmering below the wild spark that jumps and sputters. It seeps into every inch of skin and tugs at posture and movement, as if everything a human body does is suddenly a tiny, tiny bit different.
Because what Mr. Scamander is saying is that the sex inside is what matters, and that he will listen, and he will believe and that he will try his best to understand, and this is something astonishingly new.
Tina, even, caring, lovely Tina, did not ask. She had only safety in mind, but not reason. Not the why behind so many lashings, not the why behind terrible hand-cut hair, only how to fix it, solve it, end it.
You cannot solve a problem with only one half of it.
And if the half ungiven isn't ready to be given, taking it is only creating a new problem entirely.
Mr. Scamander is willing to solve the problem by looking at as many pieces as he has—and he is willing to wait for the rest of them.
He is saying this—in every word and every gesture and every smile.
Mr. Scamander cannot be real.
Because this doesn't happen.
And yes, it is new and it is wonderful and there is something awake in a heart never quite this awake before, in knowing that someone else knows, but there is terror too.
True terror.
Because it feels like Mr. Graves all over again.
Mr. Graves, with all of his promises, Mr. Graves with his manipulation, Mr. Graves with his enchanting words and his acceptance—of magic, if not sex.
So many words that were false.
So this terror is new, today. Because men have done this before—men do this. But the promises, in words or in actions, change every time. The deals and the exchanges, said not in so many words, but implicit, even if non-compliant and violently taken—change terms every time.
And this is a promise beyond every dream. Beyond every barrier around the heart, desperately built, every safeguard against hope, because this was never going to be a hope in danger of being awakened.
This promise of—of acceptance has the incredible potential to be false, and the first one to be met with a proper amount of skepticism… but it may not be a promise that can be resisted. Even knowing how fantastical it is.
Even then.
Mr. Scamander may very well be real.
But what Mr. Scamander is showing himself to be—that cannot be real. That may not be real at all.
There are a dozen stories of a man helping a woman only to have her, and a delusional woman still has a body.
It is no problem if her delusions are easy to indulge.
NewtCredence is as hungry as anything when they join the Goldstein sisters for lunch, side by side, like two human beings do.
It doesn't surprise Newt—after all, Credence has gone how many days without food?
What does surprise him is the sound of Credence's voice. Maybe he's gotten used to the sandpaper sound of the Obscurial, but he'd imagined Credence's voice raspy and rough—instead it's smooth as water, though it burbles up and down like a thin stream over the rockiest river bottom out there. There's no catch to it, no coarseness.
Newt finds he likes the sound of Credence's voice.
But Credence doesn't use it much, save for pass the water pitcher and yes please, as Newt loads up a plate, and then when it's finished, Queenie pushes another serving onto it, and then Tina brings out some soup, and Queenie fetches some cookies, on and on like this because Credence is clearly ravenous until they're all sitting about the table over empty plates, pretending not to be waiting for Credence to finish.
Queenie, of course, cheerfully starts a conversation so as to dispel the awkwardness. It doesn't quite work. "Jacob has bought the store he's going to use!"
Newt's heart warms for Jacob. "That's wonderful! Does he remember you?"
Tina glances at him sharply, with a look that clearly means what are you doing?
Newt didn't mean to say that, he just meant to ask a question and show interest, the way people do when having conversations, only he's never been quite so good at it himself.
"You can always meet him the normal way," Tina says quickly.
Queenie looks between them. "Oh, I can't bear you two sometimes. What, do you really think I'm that breakable?" She puts down her napkin. "Why didn't you tell me Credence was here?"
Tina looks down and mumbles something Newt suspects is not actually words at all, just noises. Newt keeps his mouth shut, but he does think of mentioning he didn't want to keep Credence secret.
"I'm dangerous," Credence says simply. Credence hasn't looked up from the food. "It's frightening to have me here."
All three of them are silent.
"Sorry," Credence says quickly, still not looking at any of them. "I spoke out of turn."
Newt hears Tina mutter something else that sounds a lot like Merlin's sake. He's not the only one furious with Mary Lou right now—Tina's the one who took a stand for Credence in the first place, losing her job in the process.
"You can say whatever you want, whenever you want," Tina tells Credence firmly. "We'll never be upset."
Credence does look up then, with a hint of surprise and… more than a little mistrust. "Thank you."
Tina nods. "It's just—you had so much to deal with already, Queenie." She catches her sister's eye. "You know I meant well."
From Queenie's softening expression, Newt gathers this is the way Tina normally apologizes. "Oh, it's alright. It was just a surprise, that's all."
And that's the end of it.
When Credence is finished and the sun is in the middle of the sky, Newt pushes back and helps clear the dishes. He puts all the food away in tupperwares and then sends them to Tina, who washes them, and from there, they go to Queenie, who dries them.
All with magic, of course—it's so much faster that way.
Newt doesn't think a bit about it until he catches Credence staring.
Credence looks quickly away, as if guilty, as if caught doing something forbidden, hands fidgeting. "I thought I would help with the dishes." There's a brief pause, and then, "I'm sorry."
"No, no, don't be sorry," Newt rushes to say. "It's easier this way, really. I think it would be nonsensical to make you do the dishes when we can have magic do it—but I hope it doesn't bother you."
Credence blinks, mouth half-open as the plates fly and put themselves away in the cabinets. Newt's pretty sure they're both thinking about how the plates and the cabinets were both broken all over the floor just yesterday.
"If it does," Newt picks up awkwardly, after Credence doesn't say anything, "We can just as easily do it by hand."
"No." Credence says, and nothing else.
"Alright." Newt searches for something more to say, finds nothing, and goes back to putting the food away.
He still doesn't have anything to say when they go back to their room, and Tina heads off to work, and Queenie leaves to follow Jacob. Newt wonders if the wand permit office has given her a break off of work, or what.
"Do you… have anything to do?" is what he manages to come up with.
"I…" Credence looks about. "I could clean."
"Oh," Newt waves his hand. "Don't. Not unless you want to. Magic can clean this place up in a jiffy."
Credence stares, sullen. Always sullen. It's hard to tell if Credence feels sullen, or if this is just the heavy eyebrows and the dark eyes and the full lips and the sharp cheekbones. "Is there magic for everything?" Credence almost sounds despairing.
"Well... er…" Newt thinks on this. Presently, nothing comes to mind, even though he knows there are many, many things magic can't do. He's not good with words when put on the spot.
Credence's hands twist. "Can't I help with anything?"
Oh. Oh.
"Oh. No, oh, Credence." Newt doesn't like touching all that much, but he reaches out to gently still Credence's hands. "If you like to, of course, but you really don't have to. Tina and Queenie have got everything quite well in hand. I must say I rather admire them for it."
There's a pause. Credence is staring at their hands. Slowly, almost curiously, Credence's hands open and turn up, until their hands are palm to palm, loosely speaking.
The current is back. The magical current that trickles like water up from Newt's fingertips, as if flooding his veins, cold and visceral like the sea crashing into a cliff.
Credence pulls away, hands flexing, and then looks up as if to speak about it—but no. "And you?"
Newt pauses. Oh, yes. They were speaking just then. That's right. "Ah—not so well in hand. But I'll manage."
The Swooping Evil has been getting hungry of late. They don't have to eat often, but eating any at all is still difficult to provide for—Newt's gotten so many strange looks for asking if he can buy the brain, if any butchers are planning to throw that part out.
Credence seems to latch onto this eagerly, but Newt suspects it is not so much a burning desire to help as it is a long and painfully taught principle of working for your keep. "Is there something I can do?"
"It's my work." Newt pulls out his case, unlatching it. "It's in here."
Credence shrinks back visibly. "I don't…"
Newt is strangely disappointed—the same feeling as the first time Credence didn't want to come in. Not that he hasn't been disappointed when others don't show interest—he's always a little disappointed—but with Credence he feels as if perhaps they have become rather close friends.
"No worries." He smiles, though he suspects it doesn't come off completely bright. "Please don't come if you don't want to. I shouldn't like to make you do anything you're not comfortable with."
But, he adds in his mind, they're not dangerous.
Oddly enough, Credence blinks at this, and then looks a touch more afraid. And then, as if somehow prompted by this, Credence looks down. "I'm a man, Mr. Scamander. I'm a man."
Carefully, Newt closes his partly open case and clicks the latch shut.
His heart swells and lifts for Credence, feeling ready to burst from his chest.
"Alright," he says. He feels stupid. There should be better things to say—he should have better things to say than alright. "A-Alright then. So you are."
He thinks Credence should give him a good smack upside the head.
"Ah… I'm happy that you told me. Really, I'm—I'm really—it means something, I think, that you could tell me." He's making this all about himself. Oh, bugger. He is. "And you're incredibly brave." He's never meant anything more. "You're so brave."
Credence is watching him carefully, the edges of his form blurring black as if he might disintegrate into Obscurus form. "I know you saw my—my…"
"Body," Newt fills in gently.
Credence's color heightens for a moment, and then he steps back, as if suddenly realizing they're only a foot apart. (Or perhaps that's only Newt projecting—Newt hadn't realized until now.) "But I'm not a woman." He says again: "I'm a man."
"Yes." Newt wants more words, better ones. Something to show Credence he's not like Mary Lou, he doesn't need convincing. "Yes, I believe you."
Credence runs a hand over his short, choppy hair and looks down. He's wearing Newt's clothes, tie and suspenders over his shirt, which is a little bit tall for him. And a bit slim for him, around… well, around the chest. Underneath, there's a change in color—another layer, it looks like, of white cloth, just visible in the afternoon light from the window.
Newt's looks quickly away; it isn't his place to know what Credence does or doesn't do with his body, not without Credence's allowance. But… he supposes Credence might want a male body.
And then, he may be assuming—not all do.
But seeing the bindings makes him think, suddenly, of a potion he's heard of, what people called the Transitioning Potion. He hasn't thought of it much since his Hogwarts years, but he's bound to have a copy of the instructions buried somewhere among all his old papers—that potion spread amongst the students like fire.
For a moment he thinks of bringing it up, but he files away the thought for later. He'll certainly go look when he has the chance, but with everything considered, Credence probably wants a day or two to breathe before Newt adds this to his pile of things to think about.
As it is, he looks overwhelmed enough.
Credence sits on the bed and pulls his knees up, curling tight. In a moment he has gone from determined and afraid to only afraid.
"Credence." Newt kneels. Hands out and open and palms up. "People without magic, they… they do things a bit differently, see? In the wizarding world, we don't hurt people for this sort of thing. We don't think it's wrong for people to be different sexes, or for men to love men, or any of that nonsense. Not most of us."
There's a moment where Credence just stares at Newt. A long, long moment.
"Am I talking too much? I reckon it's a bit much for you to take in all at once—I don't suppose Mar—I don't suppose you're used to being believed."
"No."
Whether the no is about talking too much or being believed or both, Newt doesn't know. He's inclined to think it's about being believed, so he stops talking.
Newt realizes that with Tina gone to work and Queenie off following Jacob, they're the only ones in the apartment. Or, it isn't so much that he's just noticed as that it is just now that they feel so alone together.
Then Credence moves. He doesn't drop his knees or say anything, but he reaches out and slides a hand over into Newt's. A tingle runs up Newt's arm, running into him almost curiously. Friendly, as if this time, Credence is holding back a bit, controlling it, reaching to him consciously and deliberately. Newt sends a bit of his magic back, wondering how it feels.
And they stay like that.
Just like that.
Newt doesn't mind the quiet as much as he normally does. He doesn't mind it at all. Usually, he likes quiet, but he never likes quiet with people. With people, quiet usually means everyone involved is feeling very awkward, but this is anything but.
Credence is the one who breaks the quiet. "Didn't you have work to do in your case?"
Oh, goodness. Newt glances outside—from the brightness and angle of the sun, he'd guess it's about mid-afternoon already. He casts a Tempus and sees that he's right. "Oh," he says, "Bugger. It's far past their lunch hour." But he doesn't want to drop Credence's hand, or cut off the gentle flow of magic between them. Credence's blurry Obscurus edges have faded, now.
Credence takes his hand back and clutches it close, as if Newt's touch has been a bit too much. "I'm sorry." He's looking at his knees.
"Nonsense." Newt opens his case up and steps in. "I liked that." He still sounds stupid. "I'm glad we…" Held hands? "I'm glad you told me."
He pauses then, halfway down the ladder, his head just above the rim of the suitcase so that he can see everything from a very low angle, including Credence's wide eyes watching him disappear into the case. He supposes Credence may have watched him in fascination before, but he's never been able to tell what an Obscurus sees.
"Ah… Credence. Will Queenie and Tina know?"
Credence's eyes flick up from the case. "Do they have to?"
"No. No, of course not."
Frowning, Credence drops his knees from his chest and leans forward, a little closer to Newt's level. "Do I have to do anything?" He sounds almost frustrated.
"You have to…" But Newt can't think of anything, except crass things like eat and piss and sleep. "All you have to do is what feels best."
Credence's frown deepens. "I'll tell them." And then he shakes his head. "No, you tell them." And then he shakes his head again. "No, I'll tell them."
"Anything you want."
Even deeper frown. "Anything I want," Credence echoes.
Newt hovers. "Er—yes." He can't find anything wrong with this, personally. He didn't say it flippantly. He didn't say it rudely or exasperatedly, or—he said it perfectly fine, he thought. "I mean it," he says, in case it didn't come across.
"Don't you have work, Mr. Scamander?"
Newt knows a hint when he hears one.
When he's fed them all, he settles himself on the ledge of rock where the Nundu likes to come out at night and stares out over all of his creatures. Looking out here always helps to put things into perspective—it makes him feel small in a big world in the best of ways, even though it's all in his case. Creatures from all of the world have a sanctuary here.
Sometimes it gets him thinking, though. That the world is so big. Can a badly-written, haphazardly researched publication by a school drop out change the minds of the whole world? Can it change the minds of anyone?
He has to finish the book first, he tells himself every time. An unfinished, unpublished book is changing no one's mind.
He stands and brushes himself off before he can go any farther down that road—again.
It must be dinner, he thinks, but he doesn't go up—he keeps forgetting to look for that potion.
The Transition potion must be somewhere in his papers from school, and they're all piled up in his drawer in his little shack. They're badly organized and the place is badly lit, but a Lumos does the trick, casting the shelves and jars and photographs in a bluish light. He puts his wand between his teeth as he drags out the drawer and sets it on the floor.
He doesn't have seven years' worth of Hogwarts papers anyway, and he only kept the cool ones. This shouldn't take too long.
There are a few papers on more advanced Transfigurations, and a few on other potions, most of them with a healing focus. And then, of course, dozens and dozens of magical creatures. All about the mermaids and werewolves, of course, but also unicorns, Nifflers, fairies. Little bits on other creatures that Newt saw, and wondered why there wasn't more. Scribbles in the margins, sketches of them, questions. So many questions.
He can't be the only one curious about them, the only one convinced they're worth just as much space on the page as anything else. If he publishes his book—when he publishes his book—there will be people who will listen to what it says. There have to be.
He swallows down his nostalgia. What would seven years in Hogwarts be like? He doesn't know. He wonders if he would have friends today if he hadn't been expelled—most people stay friends with at least some of their Hogwarts friends for their whole lives. It's hard not to, with seven whole years learning side-by-side. Most of them also have "respectable careers," and might be taken a little more seriously than him even if they're saying the exact same things.
It's fine, he thinks. As he always does. I have my creatures.
But with Tina and Queenie, and with Credence (Merlin, Credence), he isn't so sure anymore. That he can go back to being alone, traveling with no one to talk to or even send a letter to about it.
Ah! There it is. Some copy penned out in the hand of the girl that used to sit next to him.
Transitioning Potion, it says in big, capital letters at the top, and then below it, Works for female to male and male to female. And also if you want to be something in between—that too. Only, you have to know what it is you want your body to be like.
It's quite a potion.
Leech juice, Ashwinder eggs, fluxweed plucked at full moon, knotgrass, newt spleen, Billywig sting slime, unicorn horn shavings, banana.
Tonight is the full moon.
Perhaps Credence doesn't want to change his body, doesn't feel the need to. But Newt resolves to come back and pick some of the fluxweed that springs up between the rocks of the Mooncalves' habitat after dinner. He'll be down here to feed the Mooncalves when they come out for the moon, and he'll do it then.
"Oh, honey." Queenie's the first to speak.
She came back with a box full of pastries. Somehow, she'd struck up a conversation with Jacob, and from there, it wasn't long until Jacob was handing her a box and telling her about the bakery he's going to be opening soon, and Queenie came home over the moon.
She serves Credence some now, even though Credence has already had some, scattering powdered sugar on the table as she reaches over. "Have more pie." She looks as if she's trying to catch Credence's eye, but Credence isn't looking up from his plate. "We believe you, you know. I have a friend who was born like a girl, but he's not a girl, and we all love him very much."
"What Queenie's trying to say," Tina cuts in, "Is that you're safe. You'll be safe here, and if we ever get you out in the world again, you should be safe there, too. Safer than you would in the No-Maj world."
"And that he'll be loved and supported," Queenie corrects. She props her head in her hand and tilts it, smiling. "You're a very handsome young man."
Credence's eyes widen and his cheeks flush. He looks shocked more than anything, but his eyes are shining. "Thank you," he mumbles.
Tina's mouth turns up. "He's twenty-six, not seventeen."
"Are you really?" Newt blurts. "You're a stunner."
Queenie twitters, but Newt's too busy trying to get the floor to swallow him whole to really pay attention. Tina makes a sound that seems involuntary. Newt's sure his face is redder than the tablecloth (which today is red).
He doesn't look seventeen. But he does look younger than twenty-six by a good couple years. Twenty-six. Merlin. And Queenie's right, of course.
Credence has these big, deep eyes and a distinctive brow, hair black as his Obscurus. He's got these cheekbones and a jaw like Newt's never seen and—
And he has these full lips—
"Thank you."
Newt glances up, mortified to see that Credence is watching him, and to realize that the pause between his words and Credence's thank you was quite a bit longer than the pause Credence gave Queenie.
"So we should use he and him and his?" Tina jumps in, before the silence can stretch for too long.
Newt looks around the room at the lit lamps and candles, feeling very hot inside his button-up, which is ridiculous because it's December, and thinks about how cool it must be inside those solid wooden cabinets where the plates are kept, imagining he's hiding in there, cold and definitely not blushing.
It doesn't work.
"Yes, please." Credence pauses. Newt wonders if Credence has looked away from him yet. "Thank you."
"No thanks necessary." Tina must be the one Credence is looking at now. "Do you have any desire to find clothes of your own or change your body?"
Oh, oh Merlin. Tina's the way she is on a case—at least, Newt's known her—determined to solve the problem. To get it all done. To set everything right.
Newt looks up.
He was wrong: Credence is still looking at him. There's something flickering in his eyes, something like fear, or panic, and the edges of his form have blurred ever so slightly, though from the way Credence's muscles are tensed, it could be a lot worse.
"I—I don't know." Fumbling with the napkin, twisting the cloth, Credence shrugs, movements jerky. "I mean. I do know—I…"
"Too fast, do you think?" Queenie whispers to Tina, but the room is quiet enough that they all hear—the only sounds are the clink of silverware. It's snowing outside, muffling the sounds of horses' hooves and carriages over the stones, and even the loud rumbling of automobiles.
Tina nods quickly. "You don't have to know. I was just wondering."
All of them are sitting, finished and quiet, around the table again.
Queenie waves her wand, packing up the pastries. Tina sends the dishes to the sink. None of them stand up; none of them want to officially end the conversation. There's the quiet sound of water running, and then of the plates putting themselves away.
"I don't want to take Mr. Scamander's clothes." Credence fiddles with the suspenders. "But I—I shouldn't use any more of your money."
"Oh, no. We always have too many leftovers, and what other money are we spending on you? Those beds are there whether you're in them or not." Queenie reaches over and ruffles Credence's hair. Credence, eyes wide, lets her. "Teeny's wondering whether you want to look more like a man usually looks. We can even cut your hair! Don't you worry about the money."
"I'll pay for it, if you like," Newt offers.
At this, Credence's mouth lifts. "Mr. Scamander, why would I want to spend your money any more than I would want to spend theirs?"
"Er… I'm not sure, really. But I thought I'd offer." Newt can't stop looking at that tiny smile. Just the barest lift of Credence's mouth—but Newt's never seen him smile before. It sends his stomach fluttering.
"Well, I…." Credence speaks slowly, as if weighing his words. As if afraid of misspeaking. None of them push him. "I do want to look like a—a man." The smile has faded. He looks afraid again. "Is that okay?"
"Yes," they all jump to assure him. "Yes."
"Of course."
"Anything—" Newt begins to say anything you want, but he stops. He thinks this distresses Credence, though he doesn't know why. "Anything you want in particular? Or shall we revisit the conversation when you're more sure what it is you'd like?"
"I'd like…" Credence stops. "I'd like more time. Please. But thank you. For… for…"
Queenie smooths his hair down.
"It's no problem, Credence," Tina speaks for all of them, "No problem at all."
The creatures flock around Newt again when he steps in. The poor things may be beginning to believe they've got to get everything they can out of Newt when he's down here—how many times has he been late in the past week?
He gets them all fed and grooms the ones with fur, stopping by the Niffler's nest with another coin, shiny and American before he heads over to the Mooncalves, who coo and bob eagerly around him as he feeds them. He plucks a dozen scruples of fluxweed and tucks them into his pocket.
Pickett hangs onto his finger for a long time before he persuades the little Bowtruckle to return to his new friends and his tree.
"Go on, then," he murmurs, sitting himself on a stump and leaning his shoulder and head against the tree, watching Pickett waver between the branch and his hand. "Go on. Up you go."
He closes his eyes. It's night inside the case, just a few winking lights of free glow bugs floating about, leaving light impressions on the backs of his eyelids. It's nice here, warmer than New York in December. The Bowtruckle's space is perpetually spring.
Pickett, though, smooth and supple like a young, green twig, is very cold. He wakes up to Pickett tugging none-too-gently on his earlobe, but if that hadn't woken him, Pickett's cold little body pressing against his neck might have.
The sun has risen in the habitat, meaning it's morning up in the real world as well.
Again.
Ruffling through the clothes he keeps in his case, shaking them out for dust, he pulls on a fresh shirt and trousers, clipping his suspenders as he hurries out to the habitats.
Newt rushes through feedings—not so rushed that any of it gets done wrong, of course—glad that he'd chopped up the carcass for the Graphorns last night and doesn't have to do it today. He brushes his bloody steak hands on his shirt before going up the ladder so the blood doesn't make his hands slip.
He peeks out.
The curtains are open and the windows are closed, revealing a glittering white snowscape of rooftops and a very muddy and wet street. People have already cleared most of the snow at ground level, and those with automobiles drive carefully and slowly down the street.
Oh…. he's a bit late, isn't he?
"Tempus," he murmurs.
"It's ten."
Newt turns, nearly jumping out of his skin.
Credence is sitting in black trousers and a black coat, and a black tie underneath it, his black eyes on Newt. His face is grave. It always is. His stare, Newt has begun to notice, is deep enough to be just on the edge of frightening, unhelped by the fact that Credence so rarely looks at anyone at all.
"Credence," he says, turning to him.
Credence's eyes flick down and go wide. "Mr. Scamander—" His edges go black and fuzzy. "What happened?"
What…? Happened? Newt clicks his case closed and puts it away under his bed safely. His bed is still made, crisp pink sheets and a folded blanket at the foot. He rubs the back of his neck.
"I… fell asleep," he admits sheepishly. "I hope I didn't worry you too much."
"What—oh." Credence's brow creases, and Newt almost reaches to soothe him. "A-a bit. But I meant… your shirt."
There's a bit more blood than Newt realized from those steaks—big red streaks smeared starkly against his white shirt, a bit splattered on his brown trousers. "Nothing, nothing. A few of my creatures eat meat, that's all."
Credence, if possible, looks more alarmed. "Did they—did they try to—"
"Oh! Oh, no. Not in the least. They're really very friendly. This is just from the meat I gave them."
A breath escapes Credence, seeming to relax his whole body. "Oh. Good." Credence turns his head away, mouth ticking up. He looks on the edge of another smile. "I'm glad."
Something blooms in Newt's chest. He's glad Credence is glad. He's so glad Credence is glad. "I'm glad—"
Someone knocks on the door. "Is that your voice I hear, Mr. Scamander?" Tina's voice sounds muffled through the wooden door. "Are you finally back?"
"I'm back!" Newt calls. Credence's expression has mellowed out into his usual semi-sullen one. He misses the smile. "And I'm dressed."
The door opens.
"Oh thank Merlin," Tina says, no longer muffled. "You had Credence worried sick." She smiles at Credence, whose color has gone up.
He looks so nice with a bit of a flush in his cheeks, lending color to his face the way the pink of his lips does.
"For goodness sake." Tina turns right around and leaves. "Change your shirt before you come to breakfast, please."
"You won't even be here!" Tina has work at 10:30.
"No one goes to a civilized meal with that much blood on their shirt." Tina shuts the door behind her before he can respond.
Credence makes a sound. It's rough and wobbly, a bit like a hiccup.
Newt realizes—Credence is laughing. The laugh is over as quick as it came, two seconds at most, but Newt's heart tumbles giddily in his chest. Credence laughed.
It's a strange laugh—not conventionally attractive or whatever you might say, but it's the brightest laugh Newt's ever heard. The most genuine, because it's so unique. You can't fake that laugh. A bit of a wobble, a bit of a hiccup, almost like a sob. Almost a snort. Just in the middle of them all.
It isn't until Newt's at the table, spooning brown sugar and raisins into his oatmeal, that he realizes he's memorized the two seconds of Credence's laugh, analyzed it, put it to heart, like a Pensieve memory watched over and over… in the span of five minutes.
He glances at Credence, dark hair falling over his forehead as he serves himself a bit of oatmeal, expression so serious it's almost comical. The pale skin on his hands around the wooden spoon looks thin and breakable, uncalloused by traditional male work.
Except for the scars from the belt.
Newt's heart rips in his chest, bleeding hot anger into his stomach. He pulls his gaze away and tries to get the intensity of his fury under control.
"Did you wait for me?"
Credence stirs the oatmeal in his bowl, watching the wooden spoon clink against the white bowl. Newt watches it too, because Credence is. "Yes," he says. The corner of his mouth turns down. "I was worried."
Newt takes a spoonful of oatmeal—it has gone cold, and he gives it a quick warming spell. Credence's eyes track his wand. "I'm sorry for worrying you. Do you want me to warm up your oatmeal?"
Steam rises from Newt's oatmeal, and Credence's eyes follow it up, but then stop somewhere around his lower face. Does he have oatmeal on his face? Newt rubs his chin. No, he's just forgotten to shave. He leans back and gives himself a quick shaving charm, and Credence's eyes widen.
"Could you teach me magic?" he asks quietly.
Newt doesn't know the details of what happened between Grindelwald in the form of Percival Graves and Credence, but he's sure this has something to do with Grindelwald. Credence's voice is small and flat, lower. A bit rougher. Soft enough that Newt can barely hear it. Somehow, he knows this question is one that Credence was afraid of asking, a question that is big not only because magic is big, but one that carries some sort of emotional baggage.
Newt isn't the person for this job. He's suddenly struck with the thought, and he can't let go of it. He's not the guy for it.
"Or just heat my oatmeal."
Newt shoots off another warming charm and picks up the sugar bowl. "Brown sugar?"
Credence eyes it longingly. "No, thank you."
"May I… I think you do want some. Might I serve you some?"
Credence concedes.
Newt retreats back into his thoughts.
Credence is a man in a body that he doesn't seem to like at all, in a society that tells him that body belongs to a different group of people, in a world that has forced him to act like part of that group, which he is not, to so much extent that he didn't believe Newt when Newt assured him he didn't think Credence was a woman.
He's a man who has the most powerful well of magic Newt has ever come into contact with wild and chained inside of him, and he's afraid of it, resulting in the biggest Obscurial the wizarding world has ever seen, he's never learned a word of magic, and he's grown up with a family that condemns and suppresses it.
And… Newt?
Newt can try as hard as he can, but he can't do this right. He can't say the right things and know what to do and—
"I'm sorry for asking." Credence stares at his oatmeal, stirring in the brown sugar. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"No!" Newt says quickly—so quickly that Credence jolts in his seat. "No, please. Let me help you."
Credence doesn't look happy, but he doesn't look so downcast as before. His eyes are wary, though. "Do you promise?"
Newt blinks. "Yes, of course. Of course. Now, mind, I'm no expert in teaching. The first thing, before we begin teaching you spells at all, really, is to get you comfortable with your magic."
"Before?" Credence looks uncertain. Newt gets the unsettling feeling Credence is trying to tell if he's running a sort of scam.
"Er… I think so." Newt applauds himself for his stellar show of self-confidence. "See, your magic listens to what's inside of you more than it listens to the words or whatnot." With some effort, he demonstrates a wandless, wordless washing of half a dozen dishes. "If your heart and your magic aren't on the same page, it will be much harder to do any magic."
Credence's brow creases. "Your heart matters the most?"
"Well… I suppose it's a matter of opinion. You know, there are a lot of things you can't do without being taught. Very complicated spells, spells you wouldn't even think to exist, very specific spells…." He's blabbering on and on again. He should stop.
"There are spells that aren't for fighting." Credence speaks as if feeling out the words on his tongue. "When you do the dishes and cook the food and—" Here he goes pink. "—shave, that's just… mundane things."
It takes Newt a moment to swallow down the fact that Credence had thought magic was antagonistic only. "There's a world of spells. Did you really want to learn magic that bad, thinking it was only fighting?"
Turning the spoon, folding the oatmeal, Credence says, with a completely matter-of-fact air, "People like me get hurt a lot."
It's true, isn't it. It's true. Newt's heart aches more than ever before. "I'd… I forgot for a moment. I'm sorry."
Credence shakes his head, as if to shake off the apology. This doesn't settle well with Newt—it's as if Credence doesn't think he's owed an apology at all. "Stop," Credence says. "Stop pitying me."
I wasn't, Newt is about to say, I think you're too strong to pity, but that doesn't mean I can't be heartbroken for you, and angry, and that I can't want to help you in any way I can. It's not pity, it's care. I care.
But he doesn't know how to put it into words.
"I don't—" he begins.
"Just tell me about why the heart matters more than the technicalities." Credence's voice has gone low and rough again.
Newt swallows. "Well, without your heart, you could execute very little magic at all. Reliably, at least. No matter how much you know."
The brown sugar, from what Newt can see, is very well dissolved and mixed in by now, but Credence keeps stirring. Circles, circles, around and around, folding the oatmeal.
"If you don't like oatmeal, I can very easily get you something else," Newt offers. "You can see me do some more mundane magic." He's trying for a smile.
He doesn't get one.
Instead, Credence looks as if he's about to cry: his eyebrows are drawn together and his mouth is a flat line, the rims of his eyes shining just a bit more than usual. Newt thinks it's a wonder he hasn't burst into Obscurus form.
"Don't worry, I don't think it will be hard. The fact that you want to makes you on better terms with your magic already. And the way that we… touch each other—I—I mean, when we. When we—I think that will help immensely, to be able to sit with your magic flowing, just as you have been. I promise to do it with you whenever you wish."
Credence pushes back the oatmeal, muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm not hungry." The tablecloth bunches under the pushed bowl, exposing the dark wood edge of the table, and Credence's hands clutch it, tight and white-knuckled.
"I'm sorry. Did I say something—?"
Credence looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "My heart is wrong again. My heart is always wrong."