There is a man within the woods.
Newt stares at his limp form, cradled against the tree, moss already growing on his jacket. How long has this man been here? He chews his bottom lip, glancing at the laughing sprites in the trees, clawed hands tipped in dried blood.
He’s never been here when a person has. He sighs, pulling the man away from the vines. The clearing is never empty, not when there's prey to be had, but it seems he is being allowed to intervene. He lays the man out, careful not to touch the bare skin. Newt can’t exactly leave him here, not if he wants the man to wake up. Clearings are a danger, so Newt drags him a little way into the undergrowth, the thick darkness shielding them from the golden eyes of predators.
Laid out like this, Newt sees why the man was taken. He’s rather beautiful, with silver hair that shines in the dim light of the floating lights. His dress is clearly expensive, though it is not the only thing of power to him. He breathes with it. No wonder the Friends had taken him. Newt himself forces himself to breathe through the initial desire to stay within it.
Deciding this has gone on long enough, he sets to pulling the flowers from the man’s hair, peeling the moss from his skin, and brushing the remnants of the vines that held him there.
Sleeping here is a bad idea if he does not wish the man to be stolen from him, so he settles for humming a tune as a trade for the play he has taken. The man, to his credit, stirs quickly. It is a good thing so many owe Newt favours, or taking the man would mean taking his place. The man is quick, and not even Newt’s reaction time is fast enough to duck the hand reaching for him, setting him against the tree.
The weapon he reaches for is not iron, not the way Newt has been taught to carry one sheathed in leather, but wood. Why would a man reach for wood to face against the Fair Folk? Unless he is one of them, but Newt cannot see him tied up in such a way. At the very least, the sprites would have warned him. The pointed end–is that the only thing he was going to use?--is pressed against his throat before he can speak.
“What,” The man speaks, rage coalesced into a single word with a finesse even Theseus cannot match, “are you doing?”
Newt stares, wide eyes unable to watch the stick to his throat but perfectly able to convey the confusion of their holder. The world around them lights up, but when Newt throws his eyes around for a source of the light, for a sprite to mock him for his rescue turned standoff, he realises the shadows are reflected like the light is coming from within.
“I–” he starts, and then again, because what? “Are you doing that?”
The man raises his eyebrow. Looking for all the world like it’s the dumbest question in the world. Newt, who is rather used to such expressions being directed at him, feels a distant sense of indignation.
“Okay, dumb question.” He agrees.
The man looks amused now. The stick is lowered away from his neck to reveal that, yes, it was the source of the light. It’s still aimed at him, though, so Newt decides not to test his luck too much.
“I’m not sure how long they had you asleep.” He said, “But their magic could be attached to the growth. Better to get you out of it.”
The man nodded, looking thoughtful. “Are you part of my movement, then?”
He says it like it’s an already answered question. Newt winces, because the ones who think they are known are always the worst, but he shakes his head.
The man tilts his head, running his eyes over Newt’s form. There's a look in his eyes that Newt can’t parse, which is the worst kind of look, and Newt can’t really help the heat that rises to his cheeks.
“Surely, then, you know how dangerous it is to free me?”
Confirmation that this man is dangerous is not what Newt wanted, but worse things have happened before.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m afraid I don’t know who you are, but I don’t think anyone deserves the fate you were heading to.”
The surprise in the man’s face is genuine, and Newt tries to wrack his brain for a face like his, but he already knows he hasn’t seen this one before. The glance over him this time is far less lingering, it’s assessing. Newt does not straighten, does not hunch. He does not know which reaction is better, and cannot act without guidance when this man is well known enough to be feared.
Where, though? Within the forest he seemed helpless, but outside of it should not grant him the power the stick seems to give him. Perhaps neither of them, then. Newt has never paid attention to the whispers of humans nearby the forest’s borders, not if they do not enter.
The man watches him, eyebrows furrowed. He takes a step forward. Newt takes one back. The man looks a little too amused by him. “I,” He announces, as Newt hits the tree he was first pinned to, “am Gellert Grindelwald.”
Gellert stares at him expectantly. Newt stares back. He clearly expects him to know who he is.
“That’s alright, don’t be scared, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Newt stares some more. The man stares back.
“I don’t…know who that is.”
Gellert doesn’t seem to be capable of anything but staring at this point. Maybe Newt’s broken him. That would be bad. He leans around Gellert to check if there's anyone about, but there doesn’t seem to be. Still, they shouldn’t be here for long. As much as Newt has plenty of time to spare, Gellert’s outfit doesn’t really give him the same idea of spare time.
Gellert sighs. “The Dark Lord? The revolutionary? The one the ministry keeps trying to stop?”
“Right.” Says Newt. “I know what all of that means.”
Then, before Gellert can say anything stupider, “Well this dark lord, or whatever, needs to follow me before we spend months here staring at each other.”
It feels rather good to be on the other side of the look Newt gets to give Gellert.
Gellert steps to his side, sighing, and allows himself to be led through the forest. He’s rather jumpy, eyeing the shadows and lights with equal wariness. Newt doesn’t bother with the fear. It’s useless, here.
Whatever confidence Gellert had is obviously minimized here among the undergrowth, where faeries flit close to them, never quite touching. The break in trees is a relief if only for the closeness that dissipates as they are bathed in light once more.
The stick is brought out once more, this time without the light. Newt watches it dubiously.
Gellert watches Newt carefully. “Do you know what this is?”
“A stick.” Newt says helpfully.
“Its–its a wand. It is the singular most powerful wand in the history of Wixen, a member of the greatest set of artifacts to ever grace the face of the Earth! It is, in fact–”
“A stick.” Newt repeats, because it seems if he doesn’t this will go on a while.
The look he is given could melt a path to the Winter Court.
“You are aware of the magic of the woods!” Gellert near shouts.
“Yes.” Newt says back. “It’s rather obvious.”
Maybe he should turn it down just a tad. “What I mean,” he says, completely failing at sounding apologetic even to his ears, “is that I grew up here. The forest lets me remain.”
Gellert almost responds, no doubt with something as ridiculous as the rant about the stick, but something stops him. “I apologize,” He says, because he has learned nothing, “but it seems I must go. What is your name?”
Newt pauses to look at him. It’s not really an appropriate question, even though it avoids the trap. Names still have power, even if they are not given. Still, Newt has to give him something.
“Newton.” He offers, because it’s legal even if it does not quite belong in his heart. “Newton Scamander.”
Surprise flits across Gellerts face, but he nods.
“I shall see you soon, Leibling.”
He’s gone before Newt can ask him not to. It seems not even Gellert’s foolish offer of a favour will get him out of social interaction.
Against all common courtesy, Gellert does in fact find him again. This time, it’s at Jacob’s bakery. He waltzes into the place with completely unfounded confidence given the way he had watched the trees back in the forest. Newt almost points out that several creatures remain within these walls, but given Gellert hasn’t truly tried to harm him he decides to leave that for a later date. Gellert has switched outfits, just as luxurious as last time, but now it looks pristine. At least he didn’t decide to keep any ‘gifts’.
Still, coming to find someone who you offered a favour to is a fantastic demonstration of foolishness.
Newt smiles when he sees him regardless. As ridiculous as he is, he’s also unharmed. The power that had scraped the underside of his skin is settled, now, instead of close to breaking skin. It whirls through the air, catching on the glamour of the creatures nearby, causing Nancy’s fur to briefly turn from brown to calico. The magic is in absolutely no rush, instead lingering across Newt, entangling in his hair. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to gift him any sort of name, if he can see this deep.
“Newton!” He calls, silver smile across his face. He spares no thought to the other patrons, never giving them so much of a glance before he slips into the seat across from Newt. “Must this be where you are to be found?”
He doesn’t let Newt speak before he continues. “I apologize for leaving so suddenly last time, but I have some time now.”
Newt sighs. Two favours? In such a short time? It is becoming increasingly clear this man has no idea what he is offering. “You shouldn’t apologize so readily,” He instructs, “but I forgive you, of course. No debt needed.”
The string snapping is a relief, even more so when the other does as well. Perhaps Newt should hold onto at least one of them, but part of him is addicted to the feeling of having strings over such a powerful man, and that needs to be nipped in the bud far more than Newt needs insurance. Just because the man can find him here, where he is often seen appearing, does not mean the man could survive the forest once more if Newt needed to hide.
“I would like to ask you some more questions about the situation we found ourselves in. For starters, why were you there?” Gellert leans forward as he speaks, hands folding underneath his face.
Newt weighs answering. There's no real harm, and Newt’s sort of curious, now, about what sort of creature Gellert is.
“I go there regularly. The creatures miss me if I’m gone too long,” He reveals. “What were you doing there? Humans don’t tend to roam that far in.”
Gellert smiles with a lie perched on his tongue, and Newt smiles back indulgently. “I wandered in by mistake,” The man says, “I was simply lucky you were there.”
Newt nods, eyes skirting to the way Gellert has moved whilst talking. Tells are easier to spot if you’ve seen what someone is like while you know they are lying, afterall.
“But enough about me,” Says the man who hasn’t told him a single thing about himself the entire conversation, “I’m curious about you. You don’t seem to know what a wand is, yet you knew where to step to avoid the things out of sight.”
Fascinating, Newt thinks. The man couldn’t see the Fair Folk. That’s not quite damning, but it is interesting. What does it mean, for someone so aware of magic, capable of wielding it, even, to not be able to see? It means at least one thing for sure, and that is Gellert Grindelwald is not one of the Folk. A suspicion, yes, but it means far more to have it confirmed.
It also means that Newt truly is alone. He had thought, perhaps, when Gellert had come to him, that the interaction would be worth it to have someone to walk with through the knotted roots of a world he seems utterly singular in.
He shakes his head. If that is the case, he won’t be revealing secrets to this man. He rises out of his seat, leaving the tea set on the table unfinished. “Stay out of the woods.”
Then he turns on his heel, clicking his tongue to call Nancy to him as he steps into the street. Behind him, Gellert goes to follow, but stops dead as he sees the seemingly house cat leap to Newt’s shoulders, coiling around him in a familiar embrace.
“Newton!” He calls, voice back to the cautious hesitance he held back in the forest. Really, Newt should have known when he failed to leave himself. The allure of someone who would believe him meant far more than such warnings, and now Newt pays the price.
“Whatever it is I did, I’m sure we can work it out!” The man calls, slowly approaching Newt, still not quite matching the flamboyant attitude he held in the beginning. “I’m sorry!” He calls, and for the first time in a long time, Newt grabs that favour with fervour.
“Do not follow me.” Newt says, and feels no satisfaction in the way Gellert’s feet lock in place. Three favours now. “And stop apologizing to people you don’t know!”
Newt lets the city turn into green, until he steps off of the branches to the empty fields.