Pomegranate Seeds, Winter Evenings

“…Fir wood, phoenix feather core… 10 ½ inches and reasonably springy,” Ollivander hummed, rubbing his stubbled chin, “A survivor’s wand… powered by the essence of creature caught in an endless cycle between life and death. It’s curious, really. When I made this wand, I thought to myself that it would be a nice match to an Auror… or one of the boys sent out to the war-fronts.”

The wandmaker frowned.

“You’ve been through a lot this past year, haven’t you, Mr. Scamander?”

“Could say that,” Newt flipped over the wand, “Are you absolutely certain that you can’t fix the old one? I’m sure I could work something out with the bank—”

“My boy,” Ollivander interrupted for the hundredth time that day, no doubt tired and annoyed by how many times he could ask the same question, “I’m afraid it’s shattered beyond repair.”

“Don’t do well with change…” Newt mumbled, flipping his new wand over and over and over again, hoping against all hopes that maybe eventually his fingers would slip into all the right notches instead of feeling all… wrong.

“I don’t know,” he said, “Maybe I was just imagining the warmth. Now that I think about it, it does get awfully stuffy around this time of year. That must be it. Maybe we could take another look at that batch of Cedars—”

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Scamander,” Ollivander interrupted again, “Not the other way around.”

“I know, but maybe—”

“You’re kindred spirits. You and your wand,” he continued regardless of Newt’s continued attempts in trying to talk his way into making the impossible possible, “There’s much for you to learn from each other. All you need to do is listen.”

“What if it’s not the right fit thought?” Newt swallowed, quiet and uncertain, “What if… I’m not the right fit?”

“Then you come back and we’ll try out those Cedar wands again,” Ollivander smiled, “But take it from someone who’s been doing this far longer than he can remember: give the wand a chance. I know that it can never replicate the connection you had with your first, but, in time, maybe that won’t matter as much.”

Newt looked down at his wand.

There wasn’t much for him to complain about, really. Its simple elegance, the smooth lines arching downwards ever-so-slightly and the mother-of-pearl embellishments lining the handle made it resemble the first so much that it was scary how similar they were. If he couldn’t have his old wand back, then this one should’ve been the perfect substitute. And yet…

He breathed. In and Out.

And gave Ollivander an awkward smile.

“Thank you. I’ll give it a go.”

Newt exited the shop with a simple farewell and hovered upon the precipice. He stared up into the summer sky and squinted. Not a single cloud was to be found, nor drop of rain nor boom of thunder. It was calm and peaceful… and bizarre, especially by England’s gloomy standards. The unnatural sun burned against his unguarded cheek and scorched his throat. His eyes watered and his sweaty skin clung to his clothes, suddenly tight and suffocating. It was no wonder Basilisks molted as often as they did, because Newt wanted nothing more than to do the very same right now.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to dive down deep into his suitcase and never come out, to forget everything that had happened. But as much as he hated this… as much as he wanted everything to go back to the way it was… he’d rather take this discomfort than endure the opposite.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

“Newt?”

Dark eyes met his.

“I’m sorry,” Newt apologized with an awkward smile, “What were you saying?”

“What sort of wand did you get?” Credence repeated, shifting from foot to foot.

Newt’s smile turned genuine. He wasn’t entirely certain when it had started or why, but Credence had developed the rather particular habit of shuffling his feet or shoving his hands into his pockets whenever he didn’t want someone to know he was excited. He’d often look at the ground, hair covering his eyes as if suddenly demure or afraid… but Newt knew. Newt knew Credence as intimately as the back of his hand. He’d pioneered the study of all things Credence.

And that was precisely how he knew how much Credence loved every subject that was otherwise looked down upon when compared to more lucrative career paths, like becoming a healer at St. Mungo’s or an Auror for the Ministry. Wand lore, the history of magic, the culinary arts, magizoology… Credence had devoured every book he could get his hands on, jotting down notes and observations in the margins. It made Newt fall for him just a little bit more.

“I was thinking Maple or Pear…” Credence mused out loud, “Maybe a Hawthorn?”

“Fir, actually,” Newt answered, offering his wand to Credence so that he could give it a closer inspection, “Phoenix feather core this time, instead of dragon heartstring.”

“Those don’t get sold a lot,” Credence said, handling the wand more delicately than an Occamy egg. He brought it up to his eyes, looking down the end. “They’re notoriously picky.”

“You know a lot about wands.”

“I just—I just think they’re fascinating, is all,” Credence averted his gaze, the tips of his ears growing pink, “Just think… our entire society functions on the ability to use one. None of us would be able to use magic as easily as we do without it. It’d be possible, sure, but difficult. Wands and wizards, they go hand in hand.”

Newt twirled his hair.

If the wand makes the wizard, then what was he? He’d been without his for almost an entire year now. He’d been a burden, useless in every regard except one. His creatures had needed him and, he supposed, he had needed them too. Taking care of his creatures were the reason why he still pulled himself out of bed in the morning. They were all he had. But now… they had Credence and he was already so much better at everything than he was.

Maybe he should just hang up the apron entire and retire—

No, he shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts.

How he could he be jealous of those eyes so filled with enthusiasm? How could he be jealous of someone who loved magic, despite everything that magic had done to them? How could he be jealous of someone that had known nothing but darkness and misery their entire life, being happy and free?

“One of these days we should invite Garrick over for tea,” Newt said, because the answer to ‘how could he be jealous?’ was that he couldn’t, “I think you two would enjoy talking together.”

“I don’t know…” Credence gave back Newt his wand and picked up their suitcases, “I feel like his eyes can pierce my soul, like he knows more than he’s letting on. I’m not sure I can handle an entire afternoon of that.”

“Garrick? Garrick Ollivander?” Newt laughed, surprised but non-judgmental, “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. I always saw him more like Father Time.”

“It’s unsettling!”

“Okay, okay. We won’t have him for tea then,” Newt grinned, “Where are we supposed to meet our transport?”

“Sugarplums Sweets,” Credence answered, leading them forward, “They’re supposed to arrive with our portkey half past nine, so we have a little time before then.”

“Would you like to share a Pumpkin Pasty while we wait?”

Credence thought about it.

“And a Chocolate Frog?”

“And a Chocolate Frog,” Newt repeated.

“Then yes,” he grinned, “I’d love to share a Pumpkin Pasty with you.”

They slipped into the crowd. It was particularly congested that morning in Diagon Alley, which wasn’t all that surprising considering that it was a Saturday in summer. Of course everyone would be on holiday, perusing the shops with friends and family and having a grand ole time. There were a group of Americans gathered in front of Broomstix, checking out the latest stock. Australians clinked mugs of butterbeer outside The Leaky Cauldron alongside Germans and Swedes. Indonesians chatted with Peruvians over cones of ice cream, and Canadians watched a batch of loose chocolate frogs hop down the sidewalk alongside Argentinians. That much was normal this time of year. Loud, but normal.

What wasn’t normal was how every eye seemed to be on them.

How can he walk like that? Pretending that nothing’s wrong?

Doesn’t he know what he did?

Why wasn’t he arrested?

He should be ashamed of himself.

Don’t look at him, children. People like that should just stay at home.

Newt kept his gaze to the ground, face burning and silver scars exposed in the open daylight. The voices surrounded him, encapsulating him in a suffocating cocoon of scarlet spiderwebs. The WANTED posters had come down months ago but, it seemed, the memories had not.

I didn’t do it I didn’t do it I didn’t do it—

“In and out.”

What?

Dark eyes filled his. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped.

“Breathe with me, Newt. In and out,” Credence said, his voice soft and patient and kind, “Whatever you’re thinking, I want you to grab hold of it, look it in the eyes, and say in the biggest, loudest voice you can muster: fuck off.”

Newt choked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“S’what I tell Modesty when she gets that same look in her eyes,” he smiled innocently, “Did it work?”

Newt sucked in a breath. In and out.

“Yes, I—I think it did,” he eventually breathed, “My apologies. I—I get stuck in my own head sometimes. It’s a bit of a mess.”

“If it’s anything like the mess you leave outside your head, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Newt puffed out his cheeks.

“Oh hush.”

Credence laughed, but grew serious again a moment later.

“Do you need to stop for a moment? Mr. Mulpepper’s isn’t too far away. Maybe we could—”

“No, no,” Newt said with a small shake of the head, “I’ll be fine. I just… need to sit when we get there.”

They continued making their way through Diagon Alley, Newt sticking close to Credence and making idle conversation about the molting habits of Basilisks to keep himself from retreating back into his head until they came across Sugarplums Sweets. A refreshing coat of pink paint colored the exterior, a pleasant change from the toothpaste blue it had been when he was a child. Even the bench where he and Theseus used to snack on Fizzing Whizzbees on while Mother shopped had gotten the same treatment.

They hurried inside, Newt grabbing the window table guarding the suitcases while Credence went to the front counter to order.

Newt crossed his arms against the table and gazed outside.

It was funny how quickly life changed. He remembered when he’d first turned eleven and got fitted for his very first pair of school robes down at Madam Malkins. He remembered picking out brand new field journals at the start of every year at Scribbulus Writing Instruments and saving up his summer allowance to buy himself a Self-Inking Quill. He remembered seeing Owl stuck in the far back of Eeylops Owl Emporium—a beautiful barn Owl with an amputated foot—and begging his Mother to get him instead of the proud Screech Owl she’d been eyeing.

He remembered all of their September traditions. Theseus daring him to eat a handful of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans all at once. Playing Hide-and-Go-Seek together among the robe racks, even when they’d grown old enough to put behind silly childhood games. Stopping off at Florean Fortescue’s with Leta and sharing one ginormous dragon ice lolly.

That had been routine. That had all been familiar.

And now, it had all changed. He had changed. Transfiguration classes and late-night homework sessions had been replaced with camping underneath the stars and coaxing an injured Jackalope out of her den. Quidditch practice and detentions with Leta had been replaced with training dragons and coming home to Credence running him a warm bath.

Newt didn’t do well with change.

But sometimes… well, it wasn’t that bad.

Credence returned with a silver tray, setting it down on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, sliding over a frothing mug of butterbeer in front of him, “I ordered us a set of drinks too.”

“Not at all,” Newt took a sip, purposefully giving himself a foam mustached because what was the point of having butterbeer if not to end up with a foam mustache? “I was feeling a bit parched.”

“Figured,” Credence sat down, “Ever thought of growing a mustache?”

Newt gestured to his face.

“No,” Credence snorted, “I meant a real one.”

“Butterbeer mustaches are real mustaches,” Newt insisted, breaking off a portion of his half of the Pumpkin Pasty and dunking it in his mug, “I prefer being clean-shaven. Facial hair doesn’t look good on me. Doesn’t feel too nice either.”

He took another sip of butterbeer.

“And what about you?”

“Always wanted a pirate’s beard,” Credence drawled, opening up a chocolate frog carton, “Big, burly mustache that you can twist the ends on. Maybe even braid some jewelry into it. Who knows? Maybe I can round up a ship and merry crew and sail the seven seas.”

“I thought you didn’t like the ocean.”

“Ah, that’s right,” he grinned, “I’ll settle for a goatee then.”

“Credence,” Newt placed his hands on the table, utterly serious, “If you grow a goatee, I will not—I repeat—will not be able to stop snogging you.”

“You mean to tell me you already don’t?”

“Cheeky bugger,” Newt laughed and leaned back in his chair, gesturing to the chocolate frog, “Who did you get?”

Credence flipped over the card.

“Some wizard named Albus Dumbledore,” he answered and furrowed his brows, “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know, but he certainly is one handsome devil, isn’t he?”

“Professor,” Newt immediately stood up.

“Hello Newt,” Dumbledore greeted with a charming smile and set down his bags beside theirs, “Room for one more?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and immediately pulled up a chair. He pulled of his leather gloves one-by-one and folded them neatly on the table before stuffing them inside his coat pocket. He checked his watch, tapping the dial.

“Oh, it seems like we’re all early. Wonderful. I’ll have enough time to read the morning paper before we leave. I do like a good crossword to get the brain going,” Dumbledore chuckled and turned to Credence, “My apologies, I’m afraid we haven’t made a proper introduction. I’m Albus Dumbledore, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts.”

“I—I uhm… pleased to meet you,” Credence blinked, looking between him and Newt, “I’m—”

“Credence Barebone, I’ve heard,” Dumbledore tapped the side of his nose, “Everyone’s fascinated with you. You’re all the papers can talk about. Raised amongst Muggles all your life, developed an Obscurus, went against Gellert Grindelwald and survived. They’re calling you a miracle among men. I’m, frankly, honored to meet you.”

Credence’s hands curled.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Newt quickly interjected, “But we’re waiting for someone—”

“Ah, yes. That would be me.”

“I—what?”

“I’ve been summoned as witness for Grindelwald’s trial,” Dumbledore rubbed his chin, “If our testimony goes well, perhaps everything will be wrapped up in time for the new semester. However, arrangements have been made regardless, in the likely event that I can’t make it back to school in time. Professor McGonagall offered to come out of maternity early for me. Oh, you should see the photos of the baby, Newt. Little Minerva is going to become a fine witch someday, mark my words—”

“I’m sorry, Professor. This is just taking a moment for me to register,” Newt gaped, “You’re… coming with us. To Paris. To—to testify against Grindelwald?”

“Yes, that would be correct.”

“The Ministry has been trying to get you to fight against him since forever. Theseus has been trying to get you to fight against him since forever,” Newt said, “What made you change your mind?”

“Ah, well I’m not exactly going to be fighting against him, now will I?” Dumbledore slipped his hand back inside his coat pocket, “Not to say that gaining my testimonial didn’t come with certain… terms. Grindelwald may have been captured, but his followers still roam the streets—some that work in the very same government that’s trying him. I don’t trust anywhere they’d house us, safe or not, so we’ll be staying with a colleague of mine instead.”

Dumbledore placed a kerchiefed item onto the table and uncovered it. It was just a silver spoon, etched with the alchemic symbol for Pluto on the handle.

A portkey.

“Is that—Is that what I think it is?” Credence’s eyes widened, “Why is it shaking?”

“Because I do believe that it’s time to take our leave. Seems that I won’t be able to catch the morning crossword after all,” Dumbledore grabbed his suitcase and gestured to the spoon, “Shall we then?”

Credence’s hands trembled, and it was in that moment that Newt realized that Credence had never used a portkey before. They’d always used apparition or Muggle transport or some form of both for their travels before, but never a portkey.

“I’m with you,” Newt said softly and reached for his hand, “We’ll go on three?”

Credence hesitated, and took one final bite of Pumpkin Pasty, before grabbing their bags and slipping his hand into his.

“On three,” he said.

Newt smiled.

“On three,” he repeated, “One… two… three!”

They landed inside a townhouse, alchemic runes carved everywhere in stone. Glass beakers bubbled and fizzed on the dining room table with a mysterious red substance that possessed all the viscosity of mermaid snot. Vines hung from the ceiling and slithered down the walls as if alive. A pair of portraits were carefully leaned against the living room chairs, seemingly immersed in conversation. A peacock descended the staircase and trotted into the backroom.

Having been in Dumbledore’s office plenty of times before, Newt wasn’t all that surprised that any acquaintance of his possessed the same taste in décor.

“Albus? Albus, is that you?” an old man dressed in nothing more than a stark white night-robe shuffled down the stairs, “Albus Dumbledore! I dare say, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Didn’t we have tea last week?”

“That was over ten years ago.”

“So… last week,” the stranger grinned, “Good to see you, old friend.”

“Not as good as it is to see you,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he turned around to introduce them, “Newt, Credence… I’d like you to meet my good friend: Nicolas Flamel.”

Newt laid in bed, watching the stars shoot across the ceiling. Everything that had transpired within the past twenty-four hours had been simply… exhausting. Being chosen by a new wand, discovering that his old DADA professor would be accompanying him to Paris, finding out shortly after that he wouldn’t be staying in a Ministry-endorsed safehouse but with the Nicolas Flamel instead… it had overwhelmed him, and Newt had quickly found himself excusing himself, saying that he needed to go tend to the Fwoopers.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t sleep.

Newt lifted his wand into the air, frowning. He missed the old wand. It had served well before ultimately being snapped underneath Grindelwald’s feet. The broken splinters were still stuffed away in a drawer in the cabin, wrapped up in cozy familiarity. This wand though… It was cold. It was unfeeling. The mother-of pearl handle shimmered in the moonlight, just like scars wrapping around his hand.

The stars exploded.

Newt was running. From what? He didn’t know. He dared look behind him and found nothing but white surrounding him, sweeping him off his feet and mummifying him alive like an insect trapped within a spider’s web. He struggled, kicking and thrashing about, by the bands only tightened.

He closed his eyes.

But instead of darkness, all he found were clouds.

Newt screamed, feeling like he was being torn apart, and then he was falling up, up, up, up. Thestrals billowed past. Vermilion tentacles encircled him. Grindelwald’s white hair and matching white eye grinned down at him, opening his mouth and swallowing him whole—

Newt bolted up in bed.

Heart pounding.

A hand inside his—Credence. By some miracle, he hadn’t awakened. Newt watched him sleep, remembering a time when he’d thought that he could die happy staring into his eyes and curling his hands in his hair. And then, he had.

Newt slipped out of bed.

He stepped onto the balcony, the midnight air chilling him to the bone within a matter of seconds. There really wasn’t much of a view from Flamel’s townhouse. They were nowhere near close enough to see the Eiffel Tower or even Sacré-Cœur. Or they very well could have been, but the neighboring buildings and fire escapes obscured them, so it was impossible to tell. Either way, Newt didn’t mind. He liked the anonymity. He liked knowing that he was alone.

He slumped down onto the cold concrete and pressed his forehead against the metal rails.

Newt hated how weak he was. He hated seeing Grindelwald’s face everywhere, how even after an entire year that he was still haunted by the memory of that place. He felt isolated. No one could possibly understand what he’d been through and what he was still going through. Which was ridiculous, he knew. His friends were veterans. Hortencia still couldn’t work late-nights at the shop. Credence still flinched at the word ‘miracle’ and Graves sneered at every instance of peas appearing on his plate.

Everyone around him had suffered, so Newt couldn’t let himself be defeated by his stupid, little Hufflepuff heart. He didn’t need to be taken care of. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t weak. He was Newt Scamander: dragon tamer and magizoologist, the man who had gone against Gellert Grindelwald and lived, with the scars to prove it.

He wasn’t supposed to be afraid.

A crow cawed, making Newt flinch.

Was it Munin? Or maybe Hugin… but that was impossible. Weren’t they supposed to be in custody too?

The crow landed on the balcony, letter clasped in its beak. Animal, not animagi.

Newt’s breath stopped.

He slowly reached forward and scratched the bird behind its neck, watching the ink-black feathers fluff up in response. Honestly, Newt should’ve realized Credence’s lineage sooner. His eyes were as black as his family’s crest, carrying a legacy of corvids and crows.

Newt took the letter from its beak and tore it open, tossing the envelope to the ground.

Lunch at the Latin Quarter, 11 o’clock. Tomorrow.

Bring him.

—L. L.

His hands shook.

Leta.