Cycles of Sun

It’s harder than he thought it would be. It reminds him of the war. The War. The war to end all wars. People don’t linger. They scurry through the fog, through the smoke, through the cloying drizzle that clings to the skin and clothes. The very air is tense. The people even more so.

Witches and wizards of all nationality, speaking different tongues flit between tents, tending to the wounded. There is little planning for the future. Many of those dragged from the initial attack won’t make it through the night, despite the best efforts of the skilled Healers. It’s almost too much.

Newt ducks into an unassuming grey hulking mess of a tent, into the wide expanse of the main strategy tent. His eyes find his brother instantly, hunched as Theseus is over a floating, pensive like image of the terrain spreading in either direction.
He is having a low, intense conversation with his French ministerial equivalent, both Theseus and Madame Guierre with frowns etched permanently into their skin.

Theseus doesn’t notice him approaching, but Guierre does, her coal black eyes flickering to Newt briefly before continuing her argument in rapid, pointed French. Newt has the utmost respect for Guierre, had worked with her during the war, and had dined with her while Tina was writing the second volume to her magical ministries. She was a shrewd, calculating witch, one you always wanted on your side, not against it.

“Monsieur Scamander,” She nodded sharply at Theseus, ending the conversation efficiently. She turned to Newt, extended the same greeting or dismissal (he could never work out which) before striding off out of the tent and into the temporary encampment.

“Newt,” Theseus sits down heavily, rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Anything?”

Newt shook his head slowly, sinking down on the spindly chair opposite his brother, watching as the map disappeared with a wave of a hand.

“Nothing,” he confirmed. “I say Theseus, if we didn’t have confirmation from over a dozen witnesses that magical creatures had been used here, I would say it was impossible. It is impossible for no traces to be found, especially not within days of the encounter.”

“Nothing about this makes sense, Newt,” Theseus said into his hands. “It was a small encampment, barely a threat, and by all accounts they came from all sides and left barely enough to tell the tale.”

Newt didn’t know what to think. Theseus was right. Nothing about this made any sort of sense. All it had done was provide a puddle of muddy water and no amount of spells could clear it. It was like trying to understand arithmetic – just as he was starting to think he’d worked the problem out, another number or symbol was introduced and he was lost again.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Theseus muttered, quieter.

He was right. It didn’t.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Tina wasn’t sure what was worse. The not knowing or the fact Diana came to check on her hourly. Honestly, she could deal with Newt being in danger, could deal with him being gone, could deal with the coil of fear wrapping its way around each internal organ. She could deal with all of that. Newt had survived against Grindlewald before. He was a walking good-luck charm. No matter what they did, Newt tended to arrive at the other end looking a little worse for wear and usually slightly shellshocked, but alive.

It was harder not being next to him in the midst of the trouble. But Newt was good. And so was Theseus, you didn’t become head of the MLE on charm alone, although Merlin knew it helped. The best way Tina could help them, was by shaking her contacts for all they were worth and providing as much intel as she could. So that’s what she did. She got her head down, and she worked as much as she could.

Queenie reminded her about food, that even if Tina had stopped feeling hungry the baby did. It surprised her. Eating. How she’d be able to devour whatever Queenie put in front of her, as if she’d never eaten before, but not realised she was hungry up until that point.

She spent a lot of time in the garden. The creatures didn’t understand where Newt had gone, and Tina was grateful that she could do all heavy lifting with her wand as bending was harder, her waist less elastic. They didn’t understand, and Tina tried to not be worried, because it was feeding into them. Dougal and Jingyi barely left Tina’s side in the case, and only ever hovering at the edge of the Erumpet cage and steering clear of the nundu.

But Dougal could slip the latch on the door, they all knew that. He chose to spend more time in the garden because Jingyi preferred the small area of tropical rainforest and Dougal had made their nest in to the chill of the Dorset countryside. But they would come in sometimes, sit at the table, play with Aurie in front of the fire or join her chasing puffs of smoke on unsteady legs. It was adorable.

Yes, Newt had gone to fight but she wasn’t helpless. She had the ability to help, to join him in the fight even if there were miles between them. And she would help, in whatever way she could.

Diana, despite knowing that Tina was fierce and capable, was diverting her worry about both her sons being back in an active area of war onto her pregnant daughter-in-law. Tina was convinced that Diana spent her afternoons checking Tina was eating, and Hippolyta was dealing. Queenie was adamant Diana wasn’t checking on either of them as often as Tina believed.

She liked being in the case when she wasn’t at work. It was soothing. She was too uncomfortable to sleep. The bed was too cold. Her back hurt. She needed the toilet permanently.

She was worried about Newt.

Back in New York, the first weekend they’d met, Newt had handed her his case, told her to care for his creatures and then dove off a roof without any regard for his own safety to save a child. In that split second before she’d followed, she could clearly remember thinking “he’s going to get himself killed without me” and she’d jumped. It was like that with Newt. It had been jumping into the unknown, not knowing if they’d make it through.

That was what being an auror was about. It was about putting others first, jumping. It was hard, letting other do the fighting. When she needed it, she’d remind herself with the solid mass of her stomach, the squirming of the baby under her hands.

But still, she could work this side as much as she could, and it wasn’t the same as fighting. She read the same paragraph over and over again, frowning as the words in front of her continued to make no sense.

“Scamander,” someone said loudly, startling Tina from frowning at the passage. “You found something’? Only youse been starin’ at that there piece of paper for a good few minutes. Any longer and it’s gone set fire.”

The rookie looks exhausted. They all are. Tina gets forced out of the office by her bump, but they all know she doesn’t stop thinking, coming in the next morning with a pot of coffee and ideas spewing a litany of ideas or avenues to cover. She wants their people safe out there.

She wants Newt safe.

……………………………………………….

There’s something about all of this that’s nagging at Newt. He feels like he’s missing the obvious. Tina would have spotted it by now. She was good at that. Spotting patterns.

It just…didn’t make sense. Why randomly attack a party of aurors, and despite having superior numbers, leave some breathing? Why use magical creatures that left a magical infection that burnt through bodies? Newt didn’t even know what magical creature it could be. Nothing he’d seen, nothing in folklore.

Newt ran a hand over his face, barely registering the dirt of his hand being smeared further across his face, into his hair. He let out an exasperated puff of air, leaning forward over what they understood of the attack.

It was dusk.

Barely two dozen aurors. They were examining an abandoned warehouse. It hadn’t been an attack, it had been a slaughter. But… it hadn’t been a slaughter. There had been people who’d been able to stumble away, alert the Ministry in Marseille, bring a whole battalion of Aurors that had sent Grindlewald’s followers scattering.

It was too easy flashed across Newt’s mind.

And there it was. That was it. That was the missing piece. It was like walking into a river, the cold starting slowly and then all at once, the realisation crashing over him.

“It’s a trap” he whispered to himself, repeated it louder, causing people to look over at him.

They had been there three days. Three days in this foggy, murky valley in Britannia healing men and waiting for some sort of indication as to why this group, where the attackers had gone. And what had it got them?

It had got them the head of the MLE in both Britain and France served to them on a silver plate.

It was trap. It was a buggering bloody trap and they’d all ran right into it.

Newt slammed his hand against the table, tore out of the tent in a flurry of arms and legs and shouting warnings and for his brother.

Maybe they were just waiting for the right moment, for the moment where the entire camp froze to stop and look at the crazy Englishman shouting about traps. Just as Newt crashed into Theseus and Madame Guierre, doing his best to explain in a voice that caught from his harebrained run.

Theseus understood first. His face blanching more than Newt thought possible. He swore, loudly, looking around wildly casting orders into the air like wishes. Wishes that spurned bystanders into action too late to counteract the whizzing and crackling of the air.

And suddenly Newt has his wand in his hand and his heart in his throat, his back to his brother like they’re teenagers again. But they aren’t teenagers. Not anymore. And today they might die.

In the end. It’s over quickly.

……………………………………………………….

The word comes in after the fact. They make her sit down. Tell her of the casualties. That they don’t know who survived.

They’re shocked. They all are. It was a mercy mission. But it wasn’t. So many of their friends. Gone.

And no-one knows who made it.

……………………………………………………….

This is harder. At least before there was almost hourly communications between the aurors in the office and those in the field. Updates. Information. Fear. All being exchanged by hurried hands and swirls of cloaks.

At least then there was news.

Now it’s just waiting for the list of the dead.

Hippolyta hasn’t spoken in over an hour, her back straighter than a poker, her eyes dry and glazed. She could easily pass as a statute in a garden. Tina can’t sit still, the room not big enough for her restless feet. Diana provides tea, Queenie holds tight to Hippolyta’s hands, both their knuckles white. Perseus keeps puffing on a pipe that had gone out, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flickering across the skyline. Jacob had staid upstairs with Aurie, the atmosphere and her still developing gift unsettling her more than the little girl could deal with.

It was almost more than any of them could deal with.

They were all people of action. And waiting was the worst kind of inaction possible. The fire had gone out hours ago, but no one had moved to re-light it, content with the lingering warmth or perhaps just not noticing. Apart from the shuffling of Tina’s feet as she paces, chewing her nail and cursing herself for not just going too, the house is quiet.

Quiet enough that they hear the door open, heads all snapping towards the door, breath being held. They survived. If they hadn’t it would be a ministry official standing on their doorstep, telling them that they were so sorry, that they had died in service of their country, sympathetic looks and a list of families they would have to go to next.

A shadow appears in the doorway, movements slow, hampered by exhaustion. Then, a tall, gangly frame shuffles into the doorway, and Tina nearly collapses from the pressure of her relief, a choked sob escaping her mouth, and having to lean against the sofa as her legs suddenly remember how tired they were.

But Newt doesn’t move across the room to his wife. His gaze lingers on her for a moment, before sliding over to Hippolyta, his mouth slightly open as if he was hoping the right words would fill in the silence.

The space at his shoulder is larger than it should ever be. And without having to say a word, just looking at the lost tilt to Newt’s frame, to the heavy swallow as he looks at Hippolyta, they all know.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Hippolyta said quietly, her voice raw from disuse.

Newt shakes his head slowly, tracks of pink highlighting the grime and the blood on his face. Tracks where he had cried.

“I couldn’t save him,” his voice is broken. Slow. Amazed. He can barely stand, slumped against the doorframe, eyes empty and full and haunted. “I tried … but…”

Hippolyta nodded stiffly, disentangling Queenie’s hand and flinching when Queenie tries to place her hand against her friends back. She hurries out of the room, somehow managing to look so graceful. Seconds later, they hear a voice that should never come from a human, should never be heard by another human. A voice of raw pain that cannot be soothed.

Newt staggers over to Tina, his eyes haunted and seeking relief in the only pair of arms that have ever welcomed him without judgement. He needed to feel she was alive and she needed to feel him.

Diana hadn’t moved. Couldn’t seem to, even as Hippolyta fell silent in the room beyond, even as Perseus sank into the chair next to her having aged twenty years.

Theseus Scamander wasn’t just behind at the ministry, tying up loose ends after an unsuccessful raid. He wasn’t coming back.

Theseus Scamander was dead.

And Grindlewald’s followers had killed him.