What is a shambles? Rolf Scamander asked his grandfather this question a lot before he finally got anything resembling close to an answer. He grew up in America and England, yanked across the pond, so he found words in the English language fascinating. Newt pulled a look filled with a seemingly endless nonverbal commentary.
Newt merely sat back, rested his hands on his belly, and studied his grandson over his spectacles. Far from his old days when he ran through city streets in his peacock blue overcoat, a shade the magizoologist incorrectly called Klein blue, Newt kept his white hair trimmed and dressed better than most Muggles; the old man liked to stay with the times and a casual suit usually did the trick.
"It's a mess," said Newt softly, licking his dried, chapped lips. Rolf handed him a tube, their roles reversed with time. Years ago, when he was a boy, Rolf got helped with small tasks. Rolf dressed the old man. "This doesn't bother you?"
"Did it bother you when I got diarrhea from eating the poisoned berries?" Rolf remembered eating what the locals in a quiet Peruvian village called rosa roja, or red rose, despite his grandfather's lighthearted warning. "When you shit and cough up blood at the same time, we'll enjoy a chat."
Newt shrugged, dipping his false teeth in a solution. The magizoologist enjoyed a not so quiet retirement. Rolf doubted he knew what it meant, and he often through it out like a joke maturing with time or wine.
Rolf loved his grandfather. He felt as though the old man kept his, Rolf's, heart beating. Newt wasn't always there with him because off illness, timetables, or what have you, but Rolf kept the man alive in even his slightest movements. A black man, an African American and part-time Englishman, Rolf adopted Newt's old style with light fabrics.
Rolf attacked with an ambitious flair because his family told him to believe in everything and question whenever there seemed to be nothing left.
"Rita Skeeter says you're wrong," said Newt, plopping down in the wheelchair. He'd fallen at the magizoo and suffered a broken hip, a shattered hand, and a sprained ankle on his right side.
"I'll prove myself wrong before Rita Skeeter puts any of this together." Rolf changed the bandages gingerly. He kissed the old man's fingers before he pushed Newt around. Newt, 113, luckily managed not to let the wind blow him away.
Newt's laughter shone in his eyes. "Play nicely."
"Why? She doesn't." Rolf lifted his grandfather in his arms like a small child. Newt learned not to complain, and they sprinkled the awkwardness with humor. Newt rested his head on Rolf's shoulder, spent after light activity. "Want me to read you a bedtime story? I do these animated voices for the boys. No extra charge."
"No. You like the Three Brothers, although you don't believe in any of it." Newt's feet, like icicles, turned this way because of poor circulation. Rolf worked around him, fluffing pillows and firing the warming pans with a Heating Charm. Creature comforts. I don't need to die in a feather bed."
"I believe in God." Rolf respected his grandfather's adoration of an altruistic agnostic, but he followed the Jewish faith. Newt, agreeing to disagree, flicked the Star of David dangling from his wrist. "You helped me through everything. There is a reason you are here, and if there's anything I can do to make it better, I will do this."
"You made chocolate chip cookies for the children." Newt leaned back.
Rolf went into the kitchen, nicked the cookie jar like a proper thief and carried it back into the bedroom. He filled a glass with ice cold milk by swirling his wand on the inside.
"That's not a very wholesome snack. " Newt grinned when Rolf, cheeky, turned his milk into chocolate milk and added whipped cream for good measure. In truth. Rolf no longer cared what his grandfather ate because Newt Scamander did as Newt Scamander damn well pleased, thank you very much. "I like you."
"I love you." Rolf's eyes went misty when Newt, smiling shyly, left it there. Rolf shared these words with very few people. He wiped the tears away, fighting the urge to beg his grandfather, his rock, never to leave his side. "Stay with me."
"Your God may disagree with you, son." Newt licked the cream from his fingers. He lifted his hand, locking his fingers with Rolf's dark ones. "I will never leave you, Newton."
Newt shared a part of himself with the younger magizoologist, and it wasn't until recently Rolf realized he wanted to continue his grandfather's work. They graduated from cookies to cheap instant ramen topped with a breakfast sample
"Sriracha." Rolf drizzled chili sauce onto the surface of a couple perfectly fried eggs. Newt appeared mildly interested for his benefit, and he hid any disgust. "Don't knock it till you try it. I'll eat it."
Newt mastered chopsticks. "It's American. If you bothered to eat the real stuff. Like pho."
"Taste it." Rolf sat on the edge of the bed and fed him like he fed Lorcan and Lysander. The salty both dribbled down Newt's chin, and Rolf cleaned up after him. "If you were poor and starting out in Romania, this passed for good enough because if filled your belly."
"You got trained in a kitchen," said Newt, chasing a mushroom around the bowl. The goodies sunk to the bottom.
"Stop eating it." Rolf had actually considered cracking the egg over to give the ribbon effect, but he knew his grandfather cared nothing for parlor tricks because he ate for survival. Newt shrugged, going to town on the dish and shrugging his approval. "Yeah. The whippersnapper knows what he's talking about in a pinch, eh?"
Newt asked for more, so Rolf demonstrated his ribbon technique and crafted egg drop soup. The stuff hit the spot. Newt called this dinner a shambles because they went completely out of order.
"When I die," he started, sighing when Rolf insisted he needed to talk about a lighter subject, but the old man plowed on, slurping soup. "I do not want to retreat in the dark place. Seamus did a lot of work with you, and I want you to brush yourself off and keep on walking. It doesn't matter what that woman says. You've got a big nose. You're Jewish."
"Who gives a shit about Rita Skeeter?" Rolf recited what his favorite dragonologist said about the gossip columnist. Newt studied him again, his clouded eyes narrowed. " Charlie. Not me."
"No. He's right. Sometimes the shadow wins." Newt considered Charlie's stroke of brilliance with adoration and admiration. "How old is he?"
"My age." Rolf frowned at him. "He's twelve days older than me, Grandpa, you shove our birthdays together on Christmas Eve."
"Right." Newt sounded weary. "Don't let them tell you what's supposed to be right. And if Miss Skeeter ever calls you niggardly again, you stare her down. You're mine."
"Okay." Rolf gathered the dishes, took them in the kitchen and dumped them for clean up later. "Grandpa?"
"Hmmm?" Newt accepted a cookie with thanks.
"I think I'm okay." Rolf nodded, stumbling along here and there.