Suzu: these beginning chapters feature a sillier (but earnest) Newt, but we'll steer into other genres soon.
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Ministry of Magic Classification
XXX: Competent wizard should cope
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Queenie looks on in horror as Newt finishes.
"You most certainly will not," she declares after it's over. The younger Goldstein sister rarely sounds imposing, but at this moment, she is the very voice of heaven, raining icy judgment down on the hapless Englishman.
Newt looks frazzled. A shaky hand runs through his tousled hair.
"You don't think she'll like it?" he breathes into the very still room.
"I know."
"So… I don't have your permission?" His crestfallen mood deflates his imperious-looking chest, and the magical air seems to puff right out of him, like an impressive balloon float deflating.
Queenie almost relents. The man's intentions are clear, despite his mind being filled with accented English and a unique brand of Newt-ish gobblygook. But she cannot be the one to compromise, here. As the only surviving near-relative, she is the sole guardian and carries the full weight of responsibility over her sister's happiness. It's not an easy job, and Queenie is justified in being most discerning.
She likes Newt. That doesn't mean she can't shape him up a bit. "You ought to be more low key about it, honey. Don't you think that suits Teenie, more?"
"Low… key…" The Englishman's mouth blesses the words. His brain, on the other hand, doesn't know what they mean.
"No puffing then?" he clarifies. "I could work on the proportions."
"None."
"What about dancing?"
"Only in private."
"The mating call?"
"Horrifying," she says sweetly.
"Horri…fying," Newt echoes numbly.
Her perfect face creases. "My sister is not a baboon, Mr. Scamander."
Newt's eyes grow wide, and he does a little scramble to land, almost groveling, at her feet. "Oh, yes, most certainly not a baboon, Ms. Goldstein. I wouldn't dare insinuate—I mean… I was going for more, y'know, a Plimpy, a remarkably intelligent creature, quite like your sister, quite like you—ah."
Newt couldn't read minds, but he could see that Queenie did not enjoy being compared to a plump, legged freshwater fish.
Her forehead pinches. "You asked Jacob for advice," she intones in wonder. "He told you to 'do what you're best at', and you came up with this."
'This' drips off her silver tongue like a rancid peel.
"Yes. Well, he is... married." Newt makes a helpless gesture, motioning toward her, though he dares not look up past her twinkling pink shoes. "You liked his proposal pastries, right? That's what did it?"
Queenie sweeps from the room with a complex look, whispering a soft 'good luck, Mr. Scamander'. Newt—having survived, physically intact—is now terrified for his best friend.
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