To the Stars Unchanging
Leta LeStrange did not fuss.
She did not worry. She did not get nervous, and she most certainly did not get excited. She wasn’t supposed to, not when others could be watching; and they always were, the bastards. Reporters for Le Monde Souterrain poorly disguised as les non-magiques were following her every move. Ever since she’d exited the metro that morning, they’d been on her tail.
She’d expected as much. This was her father’s domain, the veritable kingdom of the family LeStrange. Every spotlight in the city shined upon her. Upholding the family’s name, their noble lineage, necessitated nothing less than perfection.
She refastened her crystal brooch, shaped in the family crest, and crossed the River Seine.
Paris. City of love and brotherhood, of death and revolution. Not too long ago, these very streets had run red with the blood of angry men, and women for that matter, fighting for a change. Bourgeois and proletariat heads alike had filled the gutters. The haunting shinks of the guillotine and gunshots lingered in the air like a vengeful phantom, reminding them that a hundred years may have passed but the scars remained. She could still smell the smoke in the air, mixed in with the near-constant scent of piss and spilt wine.
Leta hated this place.
She hated everything that it meant, everything that it stood for. Le Bastille may have been liberated, but to her, Paris remained a prison. Every building, every bridge, every statue was just another set of bars caging her in, shackling her to society’s expectations of who she ought to be.
Perhaps that was why she preferred the countryside. Staying in their summer home, strolling through the flower-filled meadows amongst the quiet birdsong with nothing but her thoughts to accompany her, had always filled her with such… peace. Her fondest memories were out in the wilderness, or out at her step-mother’s farm. It was the only time where she could be free… where she could be Leta and not Leta LeStrange.
Maybe that’s what had drawn her to Newt. A soulmate in every sense of the word—someone who had known her heart and mind as intimately as she had known his.
Leta tripped over an upturned stone, catching herself on the fountain’s edge before committing any unseemly folly. Newt. Her darling Artemis. They hadn’t spoken in forever and Leta couldn’t deny herself the girlish excitement she felt at the prospect of seeing her closest friend again. A smile tugged at her lips and she looked up, catching the sculptured gaze of St. Michel piercing into her.
Figures. Even the Archangel judged her.
How could she dare to be excited with such a large debt hanging over her head? How could she face Newt when it was her who had ruined their friendship? How could she face him when he had taken the fall for her mistake?
It should have been her.
She should’ve been the one expelled, not Newt. Lineage be damned. Who cared who her father was? Her bloodline shouldn’t have affected the actions taken against her, the consequences that she faced, but the content of her character. She had been reckless and stupid. She should have been judged accordingly.
But Newt… he was a Scamander. By definition, he was expendable and he knew this. Leta though? She was held to different standards. She had to set an example. She had to be better. And after that, she was.
But even with wings clipped, birds still dreamed of flight. Leta must have read Newt’s letter a hundred times over when she’d first received it. Even now, the parchment burned a hole through the fabric of her pocket. To say that she missed him was an understatement. To say that she was ready to face the consequences of her youth though… now, that was tricky.
And she was facing it two-fold.
Because Leta LeStrange was a monster. A monster who would rather have the world believe that little Corvus had disappeared when his fate had been far, far more concrete.
Leta stepped away from the fountain.
It reminded her too much of the ocean. Too much of falling silk.
She passed Gibert-Jeune, her polished fingers brushing longingly across the paperbacks and hardcovers displayed atop the outdoor shelves, before stepping into the bustling epicenter of the Latin Quarter. Boisterous men flagged down bumbling tourists, speaking a mixture of French and English, advertising their discounted three course meals. Couples dared their paramours to try escargot, others gorging themselves on the macaroons they’d purchased down the street. Souvenir shops, patisseries, and more lined the alley, pulling the casual onlooker inside with a mixture of carefully calibrated sights, sounds, and smells. It was chaos, and she loved it.
Leta covered her nose and dove headfirst into the crowd.
She dared look behind only once, smirking wickedly to herself at the overwhelmed news-reporters not knowing what to do with the sudden onslaught of tourists crammed within narrow streets, and slipped unnoticed towards her destination. Leta entered the souvenir shop, tucked away in one of the more shadowy back-corners, and slipped down into the cellar entering the magical world of Yousef’s West African Cuisines.
The irony of the name wasn’t lost on her.
She took her usual seat in the back, and breathed.
In and out.
She could do this. She could face the past. She could face her mistakes. And maybe… just maybe… she could make things right.
“Leta?”
She froze.
Newt set down the menu from the table next to her and stood up. Myrddin, Leta was losing her touch. Next thing she’ll know, the reporters from Le Monde Souterrain will be walking straight through that door taking a million photos, slamming their faces across the front-page spinning stories about her hidden affair with her childhood beau.
Okay, maybe not quite that.
But how could she have not seen him sitting there when she’d walked in? And, more importantly, since when was Newt Scamander, of all people, punctual?
She checked her wristwatch.
And five minutes early?
“Is—” he gestured to the empty table, “Is this seat taken?”
Oh, Newt. Two could play at that game.
“Well, well, well…”’ Leta purred, leaning forward and crossing her arms over the table, “Now, what’s this? Do my ears deceive me or did a Hufflepuff just ask to sit with the Slytherins? What will your friends think?”
Newt smiled, just as he always did.
“I don’t have any friends.”
“A Hufflepuff without friends?” she snorted, “Next you’ll claim you’ve found a cowardly Gryffindor.”
“Now that you mention it—”
“Why’re you really here?”
“You looked lonely.”
Myrddin, every time. No matter how many times they replayed this same scenario over and over again, no matter how many times they reintroduced themselves, those three words still slammed hard into her gut with the same intensity as they had back when she was a first-year.
“I don’t know,” Leta drummed her fingers across the table, “Aren’t you scared I might bite?”
Newt suddenly beamed.
“No creature in this world bites unprovoked.”
“Alright, alright sit down,” she laughed and finally gestured at the empty seat in front of her, “It’s good to see you, Newt.”
“It’s good to see you too, Leta,” he pulled out the chair, “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know… same old, same old. You were lucky to get out of the Ministry when you did. M. Durand implemented an entirely new set of forms and regulations for us to hurdle through before we can do anything in my department. Get this: I have to fill out a Section 6-2 before getting a paper clip—a paper clip! I’m supposed to be out there keeping the peace and I’ve just been stuck behind a desk. It’s just—ugh,” Leta leaned back in her seat, rubbing her hands over her face, “I swear, I’m going to stab someone in the eye if that means I never have to stare at another file again.”
“Have you considered putting in a transfer request?”
“Already handed in my application to Jeffers,” a strained smile crossed her lips, “I’ve just been waiting on approval.”
Newt frowned.
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Waiting.”
“Not everyone has the freedom to do whatever they want, Newt,” Leta straightened, “I can’t just pick up and move like you did.”
“Oh, I—erm, sorry,” he quickly became flustered, waving his hands in front of his face, “I didn’t mean anything by it—”
“I know you didn’t,” she sighed, decidingly changing the topic because, considering the grand scheme of things, her troubles weren’t all that important. Not really. “How’ve you been? Heard you were kicking up quite the stir.”
“Could say that,” Newt said, twirling his hair around his finger, “Could say the opposite too. Being on house arrest isn’t exactly all that exciting. Good thing is that I’ve been able to catch up on my book though. A few more tweaks and I think it’d be ready to be off to the publishers.”
“That’s fantastic,” and she meant it, “I have a former colleague working over at Obscurus Books. Might be able to get you an appointment.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course,” she said, “Friends have each other’s backs, no matter what.”
Awkward silence filled the room.
Newt coughed.
“So…”
“So,” Leta repeated.
“Speaking of Obscuri—”
“Where is he?”
“In the kitchen,” Newt answered, “I—I wanted to see you first if… if that’s alright.”
Leta raised a brow.
“You’d trust an Obscurial to be all by themself?”
“No,” he said, “But I trust Credence.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She closed her eyes and breathed out her nose.
“Do you know why Ministry work has become so unbearable lately? Why there’s been so many new rules and restrictions implemented in such a short amount of time,” Leta leaned forward, “Because Grindelwald fooled us. He used good people to do his dirty work for him, played us like a game of chess. Durand doesn’t want his followers to infiltrate us again. And now we can’t get a paper clip without prior authorization.”
Newt grew quiet.
“I knew people in your fight. People who came back… changed. Some who didn’t come back at all,” she continued, “When I heard you were in France… when I heard about that incident on the train… I didn’t know what to think. I was left in the dark, Newt. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know if you were okay, if you needed help or—I knew nothing except that you called a rally, but you didn’t call for me.”
“Leta, I—”
She held up a hand.
“Rosalie was there. She told me everything.”
Leta turned over her palm.
“May I?”
Newt shifted uncomfortably, but slipped his hand into hers regardless.
“They’re, erm—they’re not as bad as they look,” he said quietly as Leta flipped over his palm, “They don’t even hurt. Well… not as much, uhm, anymore.”
She traced down the silver scars, mapping out a path of endless suffering, mostly in silence. At first glance, she could hardly believe them there. The scars were so small and unassuming. They were almost like a spider’s web, easy to miss unless illuminated by a certain slant of light.
Newt had died.
He had died, and she’d hadn’t been there to protect him.
“…you have a noble heart, Newt. Always did,” she murmured and dropped his hand, folding her own in front of her, “I want to meet him.”
“I—erm, what?”
“The Obscurial,” Leta said, straightening herself, “I want to get this over with. Bring him in before I change my mind.”
“I—okay, okay,” Newt fumbled over his words, much like he always did when overwhelmed. Glad to see that much hadn’t changed since they were kids. He stood up, perhaps faster than he’d intended given by how harshly he bumped his knee into the table, and waved his hands in front of him. “Just—Just wait right here and—”
He smiled awkwardly.
“Don’t bite.”
Leta couldn’t help herself.
“Don’t you know?” she quipped, “No creature bites unprovoked.”
Newt’s smile lost its awkwardness, transforming into a beautiful jewel that somehow always managed to lift her spirits no matter how down she felt. Because that smile was rare and precious, much like a diamond in the desert or an orchid in winter. It was a smile that he only gave to her.
Leta started fiddling with her brooch when he left for the kitchen.
Newt meant well.
She knew he did and, by her own admission, he had lasted far longer than anyone else she knew. Long enough that she was indulging in this little meeting of his despite knowing the futility of the outcome. Even before they’d become friends, he never once pushed her on Corvus. He never even mentioned his name unless she brought it up first. Myrrdin, he hadn’t even brought it up in his letter! Reading between the lines had been far too easy.
But everyone cracked eventually… it was about time that Newt finally did.
A few moments later, the Obscurial entered.
Leta rose to her feet.
Considering that she’d only ever seen his face in pictures, the Obscurial somehow managed to look both exactly the same and drastically different from the man she’d been expecting. Ghostly white skin with dark hair and even darker eyes, however that was where the resemblance ended. This wasn’t the frightened boy or unstable monster that the papers had painted him out to be. This… this was a man. A man who had seen the worst humanity had to offer, and came out triumphant.
She could see now how Newt could’ve been fooled. If she hadn’t already known the truth, Leta probably would’ve thought him a LeStrange too. Those sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, those were all her father. That thick curly hair and kind eyes, Corvus’ mother.
But this wasn’t Corvus. It couldn’t be.
Not after what she had done.
Monster.
“Are you…” the Obscurial swallowed, “Leta?”
“Yes.”
Leta braced herself.
Here it comes.
Just let the Obscurial claim to be Corvus and get this over with already. The sooner she could shoot him down, the sooner she could get back to her life. Maybe she could even manage to do so gently? Yeah, she owed Newt as much.
“I think—”
Breathe, Leta, breathe.
It’s almost over.
“I think—I think I might be your brother,” he finally said, “Hermes.”
Her blood chilled.
Leta quickly rounded the table and grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. He flinched back a bit, yes, but didn’t pull away allowing her to take a good, long look into his eyes. There were no signs of deception within them. Perhaps hesitation and worry, but nothing resembling the lying gaze of all the other scam artists trying to scrounge a claim at the family name. This was genuine. Damn.
“How do you know that name?” she asked, stern and unwavering.
“It—” the Obscurial’s eyes darted back and forth, uncertain, “It was written on the back of a photo—”
“Did you bring it with you?”
“Well, no…”
“Doesn’t matter,” Leta squared her shoulders, “Any photo, government-approved identification photos excluded, of Corvus as a child does not prove that he grew up to be you. You’re the Obscurial that terrorized New York City, weren’t you? Where are your adoption records?”
“I don’t—” he seemed nervous now, doubled from before, “I think they were… destroyed.”
“What did Corvus used to call me then? Where did we travel together?” Leta shot off question after question, rapid-fire, “What was his favorite thing to do here? Where was his favorite place to go? What was his favorite color?”
“I—I don’t… F—Fizzlewhiskers.”
Newt stepped between them.
“Leta, you’re overwhelming him.”
“My brother is gone, Newt,” she snapped, “Do you know how many people have claimed to be the long lost Corvus LeStrange? Do you know how many people have pitied me or tried to slink their way into my family, trying to gain their influence? Their power? If I am to claim someone as my brother, I need to be absolutely certain that it’s him. A good guess, a feeling isn’t enough. I need proof.”
She headed towards the door.
“And I’m not convinced.”
Because Corvus was dead.
And she was the one who’d killed him.
Leta was right.
Newt walked silently beside Credence, shoulders drooped and legs stiff—almost in some sort of puppet-mockery of how normal people walked except this was real. This entire thing had been a disaster. What had he been thinking? Bringing Leta in and making wild accusations without anything to support it except for the inkling of a memory and far too many coincidences to be anything but truth. Newt had his confirmation on who Credence really was. Leta didn’t have hers.
And even if she did, she had still brought up an important point that Newt had overlooked: what would it take to convince the world?
“…I’m sorry.”
Credence glanced at him.
“For what?”
“I forced you into an unpleasant situation. Both you and Leta,” Newt fiddled with his scarf, “I should’ve thought this over more. I should’ve waited. But I—I was selfish. I’ve never been so blinkered. I wanted to see Leta again, more than I thought I would, and I wanted to reunite you with her. This—this wasn’t the happy ending I was looking for.”
“Newt—"
“Instead, I just about managed to hurt everyone that I care about,” he continued, shame eating away at his insides and throttling his heart. Leta had to have been so disappointed in him. “I’ve messed things up again. I can’t do that. Especially now that you’re here—”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“It’s not just me. I’m not on my own anymore. Whatever I do, it affects you too.”
“Newt,” Credence cut off his path, forcing him to stop, “Can you look at me?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Okay,” he said, soft as always, “Can I hold your hand then?”
Newt nodded and Credence clasped them between his. No matter where they were or what they were doing, Credence’s scars always gave Newt such… comfort. They felt like something akin to a childhood security blanket, rediscovered in a dust-covered box shoved into the furthest recesses of an attic, or like flying on the back of a Hippogriff at the crack of dawn, right before the world awoke and went about their day. It calmed him. It kept him grounded, even as the world fell apart.
He wondered what his scars felt like to him.
“What have you told me about worrying?” Credence asked.
Newt snorted.
“Using my own words against me, are you?”
Even though he couldn’t see it, he could feel Credence’s smile.
“Indulge me.”
Newt breathed.
“It—All it does is make you suffer.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“…suffering.”
“There you go,” Credence squeezed his hands, “Newt, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you and I—This isn’t your burden to bear, but I’m glad you’re shouldering it with me. That doesn’t mean you have to shoulder it for me.”
“I suppose I tend to do that,” he admitted, begrudgingly.
“Y’know… it’s always one or the other with you,” Credence teased, “Overthinking or not thinking at all.”
“Well, I never!” Newt looked up only to find Credence laughing, “I take offense to that.”
“I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation though, I find it endearing,” he continued to tease, “If not ridiculously insufferable.”
“You’re insufferable,” Newt pouted, slipping his hands back into his pockets whilst his ears burned, “Any other qualities of mine that you’d like to comment on while we’re on the subject? It’s a long walk home. You could probably find a couple more to tease me about.”
“No, that’s it,” Credence grinned, indicating the complete opposite, “Unless you wanna talk about the snoring for an hour.”
“I don’t—I don’t snore!” he spluttered, the heat spreading down to his cheeks, “I mean—sure, I’ve been known to, on occasion, to talk just the teensiest bit in my slumber, but I certainly don’t snore!”
Credence raised a brow.
“I don’t!”
“If you say so,” he shrugged, “Should probably tell that to the Erumpent though.”
“How is that relevant—” Newt’s eyes widened in horror, “No.”
“Turns out you don’t need special pheromones or a complicated courting dance to simulate an Erumpent’s mating call,” Credence drawled, “Or to be even remotely nearby for her to hear it.”
Newt’s entire face burned.
“Credence.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed, nudging his shoulder, “You’re just so cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Just like how you don’t snore?”
“And you say I’m the insufferable one.”
“I never said that I wasn’t too,” Credence offered him his hand again, which Newt gladly accepted as they resumed walking, “Modesty wanted me to firecall her tonight.”
“I’ll set up the cabin fireplace.”
“She wanted you to join us.”
That caught Newt off guard.
“Is that so?”
“She wanted it to be right before bed so…” Credence tried to hide his smile, “I’d say to bring out your impeccable Erumpent impression—”
“Credence.”
“But she really wants you do a dragon this time, since you’re the expert and all,” he merely continued, “Ever since you two cooked breakfast for us over Christmas, that’s all that she ever wants to talk about now.”
“I’ll be sure to bring my best Hungarian Horntail impersonation then,” Newt beamed, honored, “I’ve been to ask, how did this tradition start between you two anyways?”
“Well… her second week with us, Modesty ended up locked in the Punishment Room for trying to escape one too many times. She looked so upset and I wanted to cheer her up… so, I snuck in. She tried to ignore me at first, but when I started singing…” Credence trailed off for a moment, presumably lost in the memory, “It was the first time I saw her smile.”
“You two are very close,” he said, “Sometimes I wish Theseus and I could be like that.”
“It’s the age difference, really. Sometimes I swear she feels more like a daughter than a sister,” Credence hummed fondly, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“I know,” Newt squeezed his hand, “So, where did you learn how to do that? The song, I mean. Was it something you just made up on the spot, or did you read it somewhere?”
“It’s something Ma used to sing to me.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been that.
“She sang to you?”
“Mmm-hmm. Strangely enough, she never sang or mentioned it again after Chastity was adopted. But it’s the only good memory I have of her. Unless…” Credence suddenly stopped.
“Newt, I need to send a letter.”
Leta flopped backwards into bed and grabbed a pillow, pressing it against her face with a loud groan. It had been far too long of a day and, to make matters worse, she hadn’t gotten any work done. Well, any important work that was. Her transfer request was held up in processing and no new cases had really popped up for her to work on since everyone was bustling over the Grindelwald trial. Not like she didn’t understand, of course. She was just losing her mind, was all.
She needed to get out of here and fast.
Leta pulled the decorative diamond clip from her hair and tossed it to the floor, rummaging blindly through the nightstand for her silk bonnet. Maybe tomorrow she could talk to the Department Head and rush the request—
Plink!
Leta looked over the pillow and groaned.
“What does he want now?” she complained to the messenger owl as she forced herself from bed, “No, wait. Let me guess: My mother isn’t really dead and she’s been masquerading as an amnesiatic circus performer that has affinity for elephants.”
No, don’t be mean.
Leta sighed and opened the window.
“Sorry,” she accepted the letter, scritching underneath the owl’s neck for good measure, “Thank you.”
Leta seated herself at her mother’s secretary desk, passed down to her on her fifteenth birthday, and unlocked the top. As much as she wanted nothing more than to toss the letter into the garbage and go to bed, something… strange told her otherwise. So, she slid the letter opener through the top of the envelope and unfolded the parchment inside.
A single sentence.
Legible and neat. Certainly not Newt’s handwriting.
Miss Leta,
Would you like to swing on a star?
Leta dropped the letter, covering her mouth.
Corvus was alive.