The floor of Newt's shed was covered in books, some written by wizards, but many by muggles. He'd often found, when researching something new, he needed a share of knowledge from both the magical and non-magical worlds.

In fact, Newt had some rather sharp words to say about wizards who, on principal, or out of laziness, would avoid muggle libraries. He'd have gotten nowhere in the world of magical taxonomy without heeding what the muggle researchers had to say.

It had taken him weeks to calibrate the dosage of Swooping Evil venom—not to mention the best equipment he owned and charm work he could muster to dilute it thinly enough—for he found that even absurdly low concentrations had a profound effect.

He had to work sparingly as he was testing the venom on himself, and, well, he was a rather busy wizard, and potentially losing field observations for his book to an Obliviative venom was a bad idea. (He was sure his publisher would agree.)

And so, he had worked in the quieter times, those long days aboard ships, crossing continents. Finally, he had charted it down fairly exact. Newt could predict, with very good certainty, the dilution to erase a minute, an hour, and a day worth of memories.

It was a tricky thing, though, measuring memories in units of time. After all, memories were not always so linear or neatly packaged. Newt had days in his life he could remember every second of, and long swaths of time from which he could remember nearly nothing, Obliviation or not. Still, the venom had been straightforward enough to calibrate for short-term memories—those from within a day.

Newt was eager, and somewhat nervous, for the next trial. With tremendous focus, Newt used an eye dropper to add a small drop of the Swooping Evil dilution into a cup of tea. He took a seat and made a few notes.

He didn't down the tea right away.

First, he dimmed the lights and sat back, closing his eyes and breathing steadily.

He forgot the shed, forgot the creatures surrounding him. He traveled back through darkness to a very specific memory from long ago….

Leta had appeared at breakfast that morning, utterly stricken, eyes dashing back and forth as she read the letter before her. Newt had spied her from across the hall, himself seated at the Hufflepuff table.

Newt saw her fold up her letter with a sour look on her face. She caught his eye. Newt raised his eyebrows in question. Leta crossed the hall to him.

"Can you walk with me?" she said. It was a demand, not a question.

Newt, who had only just started to bite into his breakfast, put down his toast. Leta looked troubled. More troubled than usual.

"Yes. Yes of course, Leta."

The pair wandered out onto the school grounds, deserted on the crisp morning. They arrived at their favorite sitting spot on the edge of the lake.

"My father wrote me this morning," Leta began. "Says I'm… He says I'm coming of age soon, and that he needs to start considering my future."

Newt looked at his friend seriously. She looked both angry and scared, her stormy eyes glaring at the lake, her knees drawn up to her chest.

"Your future?" Newt inquired. "What did he mean by that?"

"He means," said Leta, the anger rising in her voice, "I need to find myself a good man from a respectable family once I leave school… and if I don't, he'll likely find someone just as good for me. Well, just as bad, I think. Knowing him."

Newt's eyes went wide. He knew that Leta's father had a rather narrow definition of "respectable", though if he was being completely honest and base, that wasn't the part of Leta's revelation that bothered him the most…

"Well, I don't think that's going to happen," said Newt firmly.

"Why not?" said Leta morosely.

"Because I know you, Leta. I've known you for a long time. I can't recall you doing anything you didn't want to. And you obviously don't want to listen to your father."

Leta turned to him, her eyes shining with a few tears. Newt looked into them, lost in those dark pools. Desperate to comfort her, he reached out and grasped her hand, squeezing it.

Electricity seemed to fill the space between them, and suddenly, Leta was leaning forward. Her lips, soft, landed in his own. Newt hardly knew what was happening, but he was kissing her back, and one hand went to her hair, and another to the small of her back.

It was awkward at first. There was some fumbling, but soon, they flowed together passionately, each desperately drinking the other in.

Finally, they broke apart. Leta peered up at him, a little shyly. Newt looked at her anew. His heart was pounding, and something powerful stirred within him. Everything had changed between them with that kiss. Or perhaps, everything had really been this way between them all along.

"You wanted to do that?" asked Newt, stunned.

Leta laughed and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time, Newt."

Back in the shed, Newt froze, the Swooping Evil dilution a mere inch from his lips. He opened his eyes. He set the tea down, and sighed.

It wasn't a bad memory. Not really. Not at all in fact. But still, it brought him pain for everything that had followed. He'd long suspected his life would be a whole lot freer without the good memories of Leta Lestrange.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

So he settled for a more expendable memory for the proceedings—the time Theseus had broken his first broomstick when they'd been children. Unimportant, but he could remember it well. He crossed out a few lines of notes and added more words. Closing his eyes once more, he summoned that memory, drank the tea, and waited.