When the famous war hero Theseus Scamander was eleven years old his muggle parents received a letter detailing the second most shocking revelation of their lives. Of course, at the time, it was the most shocking revelation, but they would learn years later they were rather naive. Still, they took to this with the ease that rich people had with throwing money at the problem, because, of course, that was what they were, and that was what they did.
Soon, Theseus was outfitted in robes and materials that caused several purebloods to spend far longer than they should racking their brains for the significance Scamander held. In the end, only a trip to the library could convince them of his muggle birth, and by then he wore green robes.
The entire matter was resolved before little Newt turned four.
It was generally believed, then, that Newton Scamander oddities were the result of his magic. When he ran through the fields of their estate, returning hours later with tales of tiny creatures in the trees, his parents brushed it off as normal behavior, only a little more bold than Theseus was. When hours passed and he came back with moss grown onto his clothes, it was dismissed as accidental magic, and what an ‘adorable sight, really’. When Newt’s grades dropped in elementary school, Theseus assured him such subjects weren’t necessary for Hogwarts. As Theseus grew, the time for Newt to attend Hogwarts came closer.
When Newton Scamander turned eleven, it was the most shocking revelation of their lives. No owls greeted them at the door, no letters in the mailbox. They had been warned of course, that two magical children from one home was quite rare, but then what was Newt?
At first, there was only disappointment. Theseus hugged him close, assured him he would still teach him of all the wonderful creatures in the magical world. His mother brought him onto the bed, holding worksheets for the subjects he had let slip, her words calm. His father ruffled his hair and bought him his favourite treats. Life went on.
Newt, however, did not. He still spoke of the creatures in the trees, still spoke of the moss growing right before his eyes, of glowing eyes and whispered promises. At first, they thought it might be lingering magic from Theseus.
When Theseus moved out, Newt did not return for three days and three nights.
Everything changed.
He was not allowed out. He was not allowed to speak to guests. His letters to Theseus were read without his permission. Textbooks rested on his desk. The books that Theseus had brought back for him were taken away, and his drawings were missing. His parents demanded eye contact from him. Newt had tried to tell them about how his friends were waiting for him, that he had never been gone this long, he needed to get back to them. Newt would have had to have spent much less time with the Fair Folk to miss their reaction. The tightening of his mother’s grip on her book. The way his father’s face wrinkled in all the wrong places.
Newt had finally figured out what he had done wrong.
It was a month before he was let to roam once again. A month of sitting in one place, of never mentioning the pull to the outside world, never speaking of the way he ached when he looked outside, of never even mentioning in passing his friends. His stomach roiled on the second week inside without the smell of earth to combat the way he felt within the walls. It was only days until leaves littered the floor along with blood. This is not magic. He told the vines, you are not real. They were wiped up like they were, thrown into the garbage can wrapped tight in tissues.
By the time the month was up, Newt had lost track of time. His work was done. Stepping outside felt like a dream.
“You are not like Theseus,” His mother had told him. “You do not have magic.”
His friends greeted him with open arms, and Newt forgot the taste of iron, if only for a moment. When he came back in, his parents were unusually still.
“I saw a friend today.” He said, hating how they tensed. “A squirrel. Can I keep it?”
The Fair Folk cannot lie, but Newt is not one of them yet.
He moves out at eighteen, joining Jacob at his bakery, and tries to ignore the way the city tastes like iron.
At twenty seven years old, Newt was almost getting the hang of working the counter, the same job he’s been doing for several years. Today, however, was even worse than usual. Something was happening. Jacob hadn’t been in in several days, a fact that would usually spark a search, but there was a note left at the bakery. The note, of course, was entirely unspecific. Jacob, as a rule, did not leave the bakery. The fact there was even a note to begin with instead of a conversation meant whatever this was was urgent. Newt ran his fingers through his hair, watching them spring back into place. This was not good.
He could go looking. That would, however, require not following Jacob’s directive not to, and generally Newt tried to follow Jacob’s requests.
More than that, however, was the heavy, scared, presence that hung above the city. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.
Even the creatures were anticipatory. The one who liked to hide in the shape of a cat, Cat, paced this way and that, watching the outside with trepidation, where before they would wander the streets as a king to a palace. The tree branch in his hair, Pickett, chittered nervously away, pulling at his hair when they had been outside too long. Even the sleeping cocoon in his sleeve seemed all too ready to wake.
Newt needed to find the source of their unease before it was Taken, and he needed to go soon.
The lights lit up two hours after closing, hovering in mid air in a trail that Newt knows he must follow. It is only two steps out of the bakery that the world around goes blurred and dark, the only clear spots are the lights in the sky. This is a dance Newt knows well, however, so there is no hesitation in his venture, even as whispers call from outside the path. Newt hurries as quick as he can, horribly aware of the time limit inherent in the attention of the Folk. He is not so foolish to turn around, just as he is not so foolish to believe the lights will be there when he returns. The yellow sprinkles dusting the cupcakes now mark the path back, should he find himself somewhere unknown.
A breath, a blink, and when he opens his eyes it is not to the warm streets lit by familiar lanterns. Instead, a dark, cold, ruined subway tunnel. Newt watches the debris carefully, aware a creature rests here but unsure what the damage was caused by. Despair filters through the air, sorrowful and guilty, and Newt hums.
“There you are,” He shushes softly, “you’re alright now. I’m here.”
He can’t quite soothe the way he wants to, not without anything to reach out to, but he hums a lullaby.
When he speaks again it is even softer. “I’m called Newt. What are you called? I bet it’s something pretty. I can tell these sorts of things.”
This time the presence seems to wisp into being for a moment, dark and roiling and so so hurt. It’s gone in the next moment, but Newt’s seen it now. “Oh, wow.” He says, breath briefly caught. “I don’t think I’ve met one of you before. You’re wonderful.”
The words aren’t always important, though some creatures can understand him. Still, Newt always wants to be honest.
“How about this?” He says, “You can follow me to the bakery, if you want. There’s pastries there for sure, fruit if you want it, and meat whether you like it raw or cooked.”
The creature doesn’t respond. “Even better, though, is that whoever is going to come looking for you here? They won’t be there. The only people there are you, me, and the rest of the creatures. They’re very lovely too. You’ll like them, I think.”
This gets him a reaction, a slow rise of visibility that Newt carefully doesn’t turn to. “You can leave whenever you want, too. Not that I could keep you there, I’m sure, but it’s a human custom to phrase it like that.”
The creature is mostly visible now, shrinking down as it moves forwards. Newt doesn’t move in response, but keeps even breathing and a light smile across his face. He keeps talking.
“I’ve met quite a bit of creatures before you. Not all of them choose to stay, and not all of them choose to leave forever. It’s an open offer, you see. Earl likes to visit sometimes, however rarely. He’s a dragon. I bet you’d like to meet one of those. I did, before. It was at the top of my list. He definitely didn’t disappoint. I have Cat back home–yes that’s her name. I had to, you see, because my brother was growing rather suspicious. Not that he would take her away, mind you, but I would get an earful. So anyway, back to Cat. She’s decided to stay with me. She wasn’t quite like that at first, but she was injured, so she put up with me. Nowadays I can hardly leave without her calling me right back. I go, of course.”
The creature has coalesced into a boy. Newt has never seen that happen before. He’s rather small, a teenager at least, but scared. Newt smiles at him, his best disarming one, head lowered just a little to show he isn’t a threat. The boy edges closer, looking uncertain, but Newt doesn’t move. No sudden movements, he knows.
“I…” The boy starts, voice raspy, and Newt forces himself not to move. “Credence.”
Newt was right. It’s a lovely name. “Okay, Credence. Follow the yellow sprinkles road.”