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Ministry of Magic Classification
XX: Harmless / May Be Domesticated
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"Forgive my being forward, Miss Goldstein, but I am attempting," he tries, "to w-w-woo you. C-court you."
Neither term particularly strikes his fancy. Though Newt imagines that 1920s America is a more liberal, wild, forgiving place than England, he wonders if she would truly mind if he slips up a bit.
No, no. This is Tina he's talking about, and Tina is about as relaxed as a jarvey when aggravated. He's seen her dueling hexes when trailing her at work (yes, well, you would, too, if you fancied a lass like Tina). The speed of her spells frighten Pickett into a brilliant blue perfectly matching Newt's coat.
Anyhow, today is it. Today, Newt must be firm. Clear. Step up to the tea biscuit plate (lovely, incomprehensible No-Maj jargon, related to Muggle cricket).
They've been on two previous tea jaunts now, and as a gentleman, Newt ought make his intentions known. (It's something like No. 4 or 14 of the Scamander Men's Code, which he has a harder time staying interested in than his father and brother, who, frustratingly enough, breezed through everything in life. Everything.)
Newt peers again at the mirror hanging above the bathroom sink, taking in his wide-set eyes, flushed cheeks, and appallingly ruddy hair. Why on earth would the most brilliant woman working at MACUSA consider me? He imagines her firm, sweet voice, laughing with him, calling his name.
"Uh, Mr. Scamander!"
He nearly crashes into the door, in his haste to open it and then pretend to be practicing absolutely nothing of interest in the men's loo.
Tina's face is painted with a flush (lovely color, excellent skin, truly the picture of health, Newt assesses), as if surprised by his rapid exit. Her voice is careful.
"You were in there nearly thirty minutes, Mr. Scamander. I was getting worried."
"Yes, erm," he coughs, readjusts his bowtie, and attempts a casual crabwalk past her, back to their café table.
She sits down after him. Her expression is solemn from two feet of cheerful yellow tablecloth away. She exhibits signs of a female, wounded. He tries to fathom why, but the female psychology escapes him.
"Was I boring you?"
Never. Impossible! I'm sorry. Newt can think of a million proper, gentlemanly, banal phrases to say (human verbiage! So disheartening). Somehow, they're all wrong for the occasion.
"No," he exclaims, finally. "You're very interesting!"
"Interesting."
Now or never.
"Quite. Like a hippogriff. Can't take my eyes off you."
His eyes snap to the table immediately. Oh Merlin. What was that? Newt resigns himself to staring into the gaping, dark abyss of his cup of tea, drained from too-dry mouth and too-dry throat, as his voice utters in just a croak:
"Sorry, I mean, er, how is your family?"
Astoundingly, he feels a soft pressure come to rest on his knuckles, which are clutched to the teacup as a lifeline of sorts.
"We talk about me all the time, Mr. Scamander. I'd, um, like to hear about you."
Sometimes it's harder to take, than give. In that moment, Newt's painstakingly crafted plans threaten to topple around him. Tina's words are a terrifying release from a carefully constructed, self-made cage. So many have wanted to listen, but not to hear. He could drone for hours, days, about his creatures—his passion, his life—but somehow, Tina inspires more happiness and fear in him than any of his chums and bullies from Hogwarts days.
"I'm not very interesting, just a bit odd," he murmurs, to which he steals a glance upward. "My beasts, maybe."
"You're a mystery." She's insistent, the soft fire in her eyes marvelous. "I'd like to see your suitcase again, your fantastical creatures."
She's the mystery: a stupendously wondrous one.
"Really?" he breathes.
Tina sports a shy dimple in her half-smile. "I do like them," she says, "But it would be lying to say it's not an excuse to see you." Her smile morphs into a grimace. "Oh no, is that strange? Odd?"
So they've both been building elaborate, twisting cages. And both are tumbling down.
"Absolutely," Newt utters in awe. "Brilliantly so."
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