'Newt? Jacob says dinner's ready in fifteen minutes.'

'Just a moment, Queenie.' Newt was changing the Niffler's bandages and didn't want the little beast squirming away before he was done. He finished wrapping the fresh bandages around the injured paw and secured them with a quick wave of his wand. 'There you go, little one. All done.' The Niffler bounded away at surprising speed on just three paws.

'Sorry, Queenie, just finishing up with Niffler.' He stood up, brushing off the dirt on his trousers as he turned to greet her.

Newt hadn't really spoken to Queenie since their less-than-friendly conversation in his apartment before she went to Paris. She seemed different now, without that innocent air of youth. She'd also lost a little of her bubbly personality, and a serious spell had engulfed her every word and every movement. She also looked tired.

'Are you all right, Queenie? You look a little tired.'

Queenie sighed. This seemed a little out of character; the old Queenie would have brushed off his concern with a cheery 'of course, honey'. But Queenie replied solemnly, 'I'm fine, Newt, no need to worry.' She seemed to realise her sombre demeanour was concerning him, and added. 'After all, worrying means you suffer twice, doesn't it, honey?'

Newt perked up at this familiar phrase. 'Jacob told you that?'

Queenie nodded. Something flickered behind those wide, swirling eyes.

'Queenie, I meant to apologise,' Newt said. Each of his words tumbled out quickly, but with a long pause in between. 'I shouldn't have been so abrupt about Jacob's enchantment. I hurt you. I'm sorry.'

'Oh.' Queenie looked a little taken aback. She hadn't seen that coming; she couldn't read Newt very well. 'It's quite all right. You were right to call me out. And besides, you were hurting - that's why I heard what you were thinking. That really was a rather horrid magazine.'

'Right.'

In the silence that followed, Newt and Queenie stood before each other, their thoughts tumbling around them in a chaotic mess.

Surprisingly, it was Newt who broke the silence. 'Speaking of the magazine, Queenie, I wanted to ask. What can you tell me about Achilles Tolliver? The Auror.'

'Oh, honey, you haven't asked Tina?'

Newt shifted uncomfortably. 'I haven't gotten around to it.' Then he added hastily, 'But I did tell her I wasn't engaged to Leta.'

Queenie smiled. 'She would have figured that out anyway, as soon as she saw Leta and Theseus. Newt, you should ask her about Achilles. Just ask her. Don't be afraid.'

Newt took a moment to absorb her words, then nodded in agreement. 'Okay. Thank you, Queenie.'

'No problem, honey,' she replied cheerfully, sounding much more like her younger, carefree self. Then her expression darkened slightly. 'But if you hurt her again, Newt, I will make sure you regret it.'

Newt gulped. Queenie was a powerful witch even under normal circumstances; he didn't want to see what she could do if she was angry.

Queenie reverted back to a light, whimsical tone. 'But you won't, so you needn't worry. You Brits are really hard to read at the best of times. But the exception is that people are always easiest to read when they're hurting...or in love. And you really do love Tina very loudly, Newt.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' he said.

Queenie laughed out loud at this. 'You Brits do apologise an awful lot. Come on, Jacob's made the most wonderful stew for dinner.'

Newt followed Tina towards his shack to climb up the ladder for dinner in the apartment. On the way, however, Queenie suddenly stopped. 'I forgot! I volunteered to come down to fetch you for dinner because I wanted to ask you a question.'

Newt had indeed wondered why Queenie had come to fetch him, when normally Jacob would just stick his head in the case and yell at him.

'What's the question, Queenie?'

Queenie looked thoughtful for a moment, and a little confused. 'What's a runespoor?'

Newt's eyebrows shot sky-high. Queenie had never shown much interest in Magizoology before. 'The runespoor is a three-headed snake, native to the African country of Burkina Faso. The left head is the planner, the middle head is the visionary and the right head is the critic.'

'I see.' A look a dawning comprehension was appearing on Queenie's face. It was Newt's turn to be confused.

'Why do you ask?'

Queenie shrugged. 'So when you said Teenie had gone 'middle-head', that was a compliment.'

'Oh,' Newt could feel his cheeks turning beetroot. 'Yes, I suppose it is.'

A sly smile appeared on Queenie's face. 'Brilliant. I was wondering why she was so enamoured by the expression. That and the salamander eyes thing. This is going to be fun.'

Later that night, Tina endured no less than ninety minutes' worth of Queenie's teasing. She must have a word with Newt about less amusing compliments.