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Ministry of Magic Classification
XXXX: Dangerous / Requires specialist
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Their child is born in chaos. The world is still imperfect, despite everyone's efforts. Yes, the official war has ended but new walls have been build, between countries, between wizards and Muggles. Newt believes, wants to believe, that there's good in this world—Tina's laugh, Tina's smile, Tina's fingers interlaced with his—but now Tina is shrieking, and he is hopelessly lost.
"I am going to hunt you down when this is done, Scamander," she huffs in agitated, hurried pants before her teeth crash into her lips again and she's straining, shoulders tense, eyes clenched against the pain.
She utters a few more threats against him, all promising utmost danger to his physical integrity and his future mating capacities. Through it all, like the excellent multi-tasker he knows his wife is, she pushes.
Newt is bewildered.
His left hand is turning an alarming shade of white, circulation completely cut off by his wife's prodigious grip. It's like she's gained super strength, during this process. Under more pleasant circumstances, he would be making detailed observations. However, as his life is being threatened and his heart is threatening to pound out of his chest, Newt merely holds his breath and tries to signal (with wide eyes) to the midwife.
The midwife growls at him. "For the LAST time, Mr. Scamander, the Missus will be fine."
(Newt's starting to lose his confidence in the whole thing. This woman said there were pain-dulling charms, too, and look what a big success that was.)
"Are you sure I can't hel—"
"NO, Mr. Scamander, I UNDERSTAND you're a famous BEAST RESEARCHER, but I AM A MIDWIFE, and your creatures are NOT HUMANS." The midwife's responses are punctuated by megaphone-like crescendos, matching her careful concentration in telling Tina to 'push, dear'.
"Magizoologist," Newt squeaks quietly, and shoots another glance at his purpling wife. She is lovely, no matter what shade she is, but he must admit that this is all a bit much for him, even having witnessed numerous creature births.
It's different, somehow, when it's your wife, your child.
Their child.
The idea fills Newt with so much wonder and fear and love, he barely feels his crushed hand being let loose (that may be because the nerves are quite disconnected now), and barely registers the reality of a final, gasping push as the midwife's hands emerge a familiar gooey red.
The next part is not reminiscent of creature births. This vision eclipses the former experience almost entirely. Newt's heart expands exponentially, feeling hot and tender and far too large, too invested in this beautiful, screaming, red-faced babe born among chaos.
"He's beautiful."
Tina beams weakly, her head resting back on the chair cushion. Newt is torn between hugging her tight (she doesn't look like she wants to be squeezed, in her disheveled state) and taking the new arrival into his arms, shielding him against the world.
"A playmate for Jacob Jr.," Tina smiles weakly.
"He's a strong one," the midwife declares, cleaning up the afterbirth on her hands.
Strong.
Newt wants to shout the word from the rooftop.
His son is strong. His son will not bow, will not cave, in the face of danger. His son will experience full love, from him and Tina. Not like Newt himself—not like the silent second son, where painful shyness since childhood crippled a good many years—his son will be everything, have everything, not lack anything.
His incoherent thoughts are interrupted by a soft "Newt."
He redirects, still shell-shocked, to Tina, his gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife. She smiles at him, because she understands that he's never been good with words, never known how to voice his loudest thoughts with actual decibels.
The midwife has already handed the baby to his mother. "You can hold him," Tina says, her cheek against her son's, her eyes wet and then traveling upward to beam at him—the father, the happiest man alive.
A sliver of green emerges from Newt's waist pocket and travels upward to examine the bundle in his arms. The midwife gives an alarmed cry, and Tina only laughs.
The bowtruckle tickles the soft pad of the baby's cheek with utmost care.
Newt grins. "Pickett, meet the newest member of our family."
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