For the World's More Full of Weeping
1919
1 It had been five years since Newt had been thrown out of Hogwarts for a crime he’d never committed. Crawling back home in shame hadn't been the world’s most glorious event, naturally. Leaving school had been so much worse. He hadn't felt like talking to anyone on that fateful day, but of course, there’d been no avoiding that. His friends had wanted to know what the hell had been going on. The news had spread inside of a few hours – always did, at least when it was something negative. That was just how the world worked.
Then, there’d been Leta. He’d pretended she wasn’t there the rest of the day, but even though she’d lacked the courage to say anything to him (or the teachers, for that matter), she’d stuck around in her typical passive-aggressive manner. The most painful realisation that he’d had to make had been that she would always, always look out for number one. Leta was selfish and self-centred – always had been. He’d seen the good in her – and there was good – but he’d made himself blind to her greatest and most crippling character flaw.
They hadn't said goodbye to each other.
As he’d sat in the train, brooding and staring out the window yet not consoled by the beautiful vista, he’d wondered what his own greatest character flaw was. Stubbornness? Disregard for his fellow wizards and witches in favour of magical creatures? Naiveté? Navel-gazing? All of the above, probably – most likely. No-one was perfect. He didn’t see himself as some sort of morally superior being who could lord over the lowly Slytherin peons or whatever. He’d never felt that he was better than anyone. Still, right after the fact, it had been a little difficult to not claim the moral high-ground over Leta’s backstabbing.
That remained so for a long time.
His parents hadn't been thrilled, but they’d believed him and hadn't blamed him. He didn’t tell them that he blamed himself for being so stupid and gullible, or for not ratting out Leta. It wasn’t needed. They knew their son, knew him very well. They’d pondered going to Hogwarts and telling the teachers the truth, but not only did Newt not want this, it wouldn’t have helped. Those Slytherin kids might fight amongst each other with surprising viciousness, but when challenged by outsiders, they stuck together like nobody’s business. The Malfoy brothers and Alastair Fawley had taken Leta under their wing. There was no way they or any of the others, such as Petronius Flint or Celestia Prewett, would ever fall out of line.
Therefore, the Scamanders had needed to improvise.
At least Professor Dumbledore had been on Newt’s side – still was. Thanks to his incessant intervening on Newt’s behalf, Newt hadn't become a social pariah with no hope for education and profession. Dumbledore had organised tutors for Newt, had helped him achieve at least a partial degree. Because of that, Newt had been able to become apprentice to his mother. He had a profession because of his parents’ kindness and Dumbledore’s trust in him. For that, Newt would always be grateful to them.
His contribution to the war effort had probably helped restore his reputation, as well – not that he liked to think about that time, even though he hadn't actually seen combat. The dragons he’d cared for had, though.
Five years after his expulsion, he was pretty content with his life. During his off hours, he did what he could in terms of researching magical creatures and compiling something of a care manual for them. The expulsion from Hogwarts had, in the end, been a blessing in disguise. School had been too oppressive for him; adhering to strict rules simply wasn’t in his nature. Maybe that was his greatest failing as a human being. At least Headmaster Black had felt that Newt believed himself above the rules. That wasn’t entirely accurate, but not entirely inaccurate, either.
No-one was perfect.
He didn’t go to London much, but sometimes, venturing the big city was unavoidable – for example when one needed nice robes for a business trip to Franconia. The Albenheim university housed the most extensive magical library in the world. In their possession was the only book about full moon moths in existence, which Newt had found out because he was in regular correspondence with the head librarian. She’d asked him if this subject would be something he might be interested in. When he’d enthusiastically replied that yes, he was very interested, she’d invited him to visit, as the book could not be lent.
He’d almost left on the spot, but his father had pointed out that he didn’t own any decent clothes and that he couldn’t go to a venerable institution such as Albenheim University looking like a beggar. Newt didn’t care much either way, but he didn’t want to come across as someone who didn’t take his research seriously. Therefore, he gathered what spare galleons he had and spontaneously headed to the capital. It’d be a short visit to that tailor in Diagon Alley, get fitted, and wait for the robes to be ready for pickup. That shouldn’t take longer than a fortnight – enough time for him to properly plan his trip to Franconia.
Blanche Trolldenier, his librarian friend, had in one of her letters joked that he might be the only person in the world who cared about full moon moths.
He’d replied that at least the book’s author had cared, as well. It was his ambition to make information about magical creatures readily available to and easy to consume for every witch and wizard, no matter their background. Magical creatures were living beings that needed to be understood and protected. Their study should not be an obscure academic niche. Those were nice and dandy, but useless in a practical sense. This wasn’t about theories of magic or something abstract like that. It was about living things that were as much a part of the wizarding world as wizards and witches themselves. They had as much right to live. They deserved respect and empathy. That, however, was only possible if people knew about them. One couldn’t empathise with what one didn’t understand.
On a dismally bleak and cold early spring morning, Newt walked into Madam Malkin’s and found himself face to face with a dishevelled and puffy-eyed Celestia Prewett. She didn’t see him at first and, to his shame, he nearly turned around on his heels and fled. Immediately, he felt like punching himself. For heaven’s sake. It had been five years. They were both adults. It was time to lay the past to rest. Besides, she was obviously in distress. Nobody liked to cry in public. Something awful must have happened. He needed to not be a horrible person, no matter how she’d behaved in the past.
Hm. Perhaps he really did deem himself better than his former classmates. How about that.
After telling himself to stop it, already, he made himself say something – anything – before she realised that he was just standing there, gawking. “Celestia Prewett.” Wow. Eloquent. Well, talking had never been his forte.
Slowly, as if waking up from some living nightmare, she craned her neck to look at him. She really did look horrible: eyes bloodshot and puffy, nose reddened, the rest of her face blotchy and sickly. This was one thoroughly miserable woman. “Newt Scamander.”
2 He had to admit to himself, he felt like a lousy excuse for a human being for leaving Celestia Prewett stewing in her own wretched misery, all by herself. No, he wasn’t responsible for any of her unhappiness, and yes, he still resented her for the part she’d played in his expulsion, but he didn’t wish what was happening to her on his worst enemy – well, he wouldn’t even if he had any enemies. Being pressured by one’s family to marry someone for political reasons? Awful. But that was apparently normal among these proud Pureblood families – the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight. That kind of pressure seemed unbearable to Newt. All those expectations, the social protocols, the endless rules of conduct? Not for him. If he’d felt stifled at Hogwarts, then this would be intolerable.
As he trudged on down Diagon Alley, bracing against the cold wind, hands in his pockets, he told himself to stop making it all about himself. This wasn’t his ordeal. If he was to feel sorry, then for the right reasons. Still, he couldn’t help but think about that awful Yule Ball at Malfoy Manor, over five years ago. How stuffy and la-di-da they all had been, how childish the prank that the boys had played on Leta – a prank with auspicious outcome.
Better not to think about that – about her. That never helped.
He decided to stop by Flourish and Blotts and browse a little. That always helped clear his mood. The air inside was warm and smelled of books and wood and people’s perfumes. Immediately, he relaxed. It was way too cold for this time of year, wasn’t it? The shop was fairly packed; some sensationalist tell-all, unauthorised Grindelwald biography had recently hit the shelves. Most customers were apparently here because of that.
Patiently, he wormed his way toward the stairs. The first floor housed a section on magical flaura and fauna. Most of the books were, in Newt’s opinion, out of date or woefully misguided, but one could never know for sure. Maybe something interesting would catch his eye. In any case, there was certainly much less commotion upstairs, which was always good.
He’d just picked up a thin little book about bicorns and started frowning at the table of contents, which revealed that the book was mostly about the creature’s use for potion-making, when a familiar voice called his name. He nearly dropped the book, mostly managing not to because that would be ridiculously over-the-top. Still, he tensed up. His teeth gnashed together seemingly on their own. Gripping the stupid book so tightly that his knuckles shone white through his skin, he forced himself to turn around and face the voice’s owner.
Leta hadn't changed much. She was a grown woman now rather than a girl, but that was about it. As she stood there, wearing a stylish blue dress, smiling with caution and wariness yet also no small amount of hope, it was as if no time at all had passed. She still was as radiantly beautiful as ever.
God help him. All the anger, all the resentment, all the blame-placing, and now, he couldn’t even be upset anymore. It just drained out of him like flour out of a sack. “Leta.”
“How are you?” The hopeful tone matched her expression. She remained a little beyond arm’s length, though.
“Fine. Thanks.” Suddenly, he had a frog in his throat. He couldn’t resist the impulse to stare at the book in his hands; idiotically, he was clasping it like some sort of protective shield. He made himself look at her again – all right, maybe not directly into her eyes, but at least in her general direction. “You?”
“I’m great. Thank you.” A few awkward seconds ticked by. “You look fantastic, by the way. So grown up. So handsome.”
For several reasons, the remark made him chuckle. “Thanks. You look…erm, well…happy. You look happy.”
“I am. Are you? I imagine you must be. I read that article on doxies you wrote for that nature magazine. It was really good.” Another weird silence ensued. “Reminded me of the old days.”
Here he was, shuffling his feet, trying to make small-talk with Leta Lestrange, his erstwhile…well, what had they been, really? Friends? Sweethearts? Had she only used him for her own purposes and dropped him the moment he’d become inconvenient? Was he projecting way too much of his resentment onto her? Would the awkwardness ever end? This was so silly.
Realising he had to reply something, he blurted out the first words that came into his mind: “I try not to think about the old days.”
She pressed her full lips together and looked away. Her light-brown skin was faintly flushed. “I don’t blame you. It all went so horribly wrong.” Then, she faced him again, putting on that waiting-to-catch-a-glimpse-of-Father-Christmas smile. “But it all turned out all right for you, so maybe it was for the best, really.”
This time, he had no trouble locking eyes with her. “For the best,” he echoed faintly. “Yes. It was all for the best.” He slowly shook his head and gripped the book even tighter. There was a sour taste in his mouth. He felt like breaking something.
It had been too much to expect from her, hadn't it? That she might feel sorry. That she might regret what she’d done to him, what she’d taken away. That she might actually be willing to shoulder some responsibility.
Up until now, he hadn't realised that he’d secretly hoped she might show remorse.
She either didn’t pick up on his undertone or chose to ignore it. It was probably the latter. “Yes. I’m glad you’re okay.” She nodded, probably more to herself than to him. “So…have you heard? Celestia Prewett is marrying Apollo Malfoy.”
“I know.” He wanted to tell her that this was no joyous occasion, judging by the bride-to-be’s reaction, but Leta would most likely not care.
“Are you going?”
His brows knitted together. “Going where?”
“The wedding. At Malfoy Manor. In August. It’ll be the event of the year.” This was odd, wasn’t it? Leta, all excited about some social gathering at Malfoy Manor – the wedding of Apollo Malfoy and Celestia Prewett, no less. Odd, odd, odd. Well, at least she’d found her place.
Good for her, he presumed. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh. What about the engagement party? That’s in a few weeks. I forgot the precise date, though.”
“Not going to that, either.”
A third silence ensued. It was the weirdest one yet. A couple of young witches came bouncing up the stairs, chatting and giggling. They took no heed of their awkwardly bumbling elders.
He made himself look into Leta’s eyes again. It hurt in more ways than one. “I got to go.”
Her smile wavered, but didn’t falter altogether. “All right. Maybe I’ll see you at the party? You are a Pureblood, after all. At least I think so.”
His frown steepened. Hardly even realising that he was doing it, he took a step back and nearly bumped into the bookshelf. “That’s no reason for going to a party I wasn’t invited to. I need to go. Have a good day.” Abruptly, he spun around and headed downstairs, the little book firmly in his grasp. He could feel her watching him go.
3 Apparently, this was the day of absurd coincidences. Newt had hardly fled out of Flourish and Blotts, a book he hadn't even wanted newly in his possession, when he almost crashed into the narrow frame of Alastair Fawley.
Alastair had just sort of been standing there, in the middle of the street, looking forlorn and utterly miserable.
These Pureblood supremacists and all their drama.
The moment this thought went through Newt’s head, he felt like the worst person in the world. What was wrong with him? Just because he disliked Alastair, that didn’t mean the latter deserved to have his heart broken. No-one deserved that. Also, even if they did, that didn’t give Newt the right to be equally horrid in return, did it?
“Sorry,” Newt said, and would have continued walking, but Alastair grabbed his upper arm and stopped him. “Please let me go.”
Alastair seemed not to have registered that. He, slightly shorter than Newt, looked up at him thoughtfully. “Scamander. I was just thinking about you.”
“Okay.” Something smarter would not occur to him on the spot, but that was nothing new.
“You know, we’re always so sure that the most important things in our lives can’t be taken away from us, but that’s not true. That’s not true at all.” Gone was the eternal smirk, the wit, the ceaseless sarcasm, the dumb jokes. He was almost unrecognisable like this.
Newt’s arm was starting to go numb. This wasn’t just the day for absurd coincidences, but also for awkward run-ins with former classmates – just one more reason why he didn’t like the big city. The odds of unexpected meetings were way too high. “Please let go of my arm.”
Slowly, Alastair’s gaze wandered down to his hand right above Newt’s elbow. “Oh. Sorry.” He let go. “Something precious was taken away from me. That got me thinking – thinking about you, about what we did to you.” He snorted humourlessly. “Celestia was opposed to it, you know, but Apollo and I, we talked her into staying silent. Well, I talked, he threatened. That’s what he does. He always does that to people, like he’s entitled to it.” He locked eyes with Newt. “But getting Leta to shut up about it, getting all of them to shut up, that was my idea. My fault. I’m sorry.”
It was too little, too late, but at least it was something. Newt had told Celestia that it was never meaningless to apologise. Also, at least Alastair was apologising. That was something Leta hadn't managed.
Like he had in the bookshop, Newt gnashed his teeth together. He took a deep, soothing breath of the chilly air and forced himself to relax. “Thanks.”
A wry little smile curved up the corners of Alastair’s mouth. He scratched his aquiline nose. The wind was blowing his pitch-black hair into his pasty forehead. “You’re a decent fellow, Scamander. Not that you give a fig about my opinion, but that doesn’t make it any less true. For what it’s worth, I really am sorry about what I’ve done to you. It was horrible. I knew it then, but I did it anyway. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect anything.”
“Then why are you even talking to me?” The words were out before Newt could stop himself. Inwardly, he whacked himself upside the head.
Alastair’s smile broadened a bit. It was a faint echo of his usual smug smirk. The smugness was lacking, though. “I don’t know. I suppose that with my world crashing down all around me, I felt it was time to confess my sins.”
All of a sudden, Newt felt heavy and as old as time. All tension drained from his body. The wind was blowing through all the layers of his clothes. He was shivering. “I saw her earlier. She’s just as heartbroken.”
“Yes, I know.” Alastair’s eyes reddened. He mopped at them, shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, and looked down at his shoes. “I suppose you’d say ‘screw it all’ to the family politics and machinations and elope with her, were you me.”
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do.”
“No, indeed. But it’s what you’d do. I can’t, though. It would hurt her even more.”
“Honestly, I don’t think so.”
Alastair snorted a dry, bitter chuckle. “Like I said, you’re a decent fellow: gallant and honest and brave. Maybe that’s why I hated you at school. I’m sorry for that, too, by the way. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
“It’s all right.” To be honest, he simply didn’t have the energy for anger anymore. It was so draining, so exhausting. “I forgive you: you and Celestia and Petronius Flint.”
“But not Leta?” Alastair cocked an eyebrow. “Never mind Apollo. He can jump down a pit for all I care, and I used to be his friend.”
“You do what you need to do, Alastair. I can’t be mad at you anymore.” Without waiting for a reply, he marched away. This had got to be the weirdest day he’d had in years, maybe even since he’d left Hogwarts.
4 Three days later, he was feeding the Hippogriffs when the family owl fluttered up to him and dropped an envelope on his head. Sighing inwardly, he threw the last five ferrets into the pen, wiped his hands on his coat, and bent down to pick up the envelope. Frowning, he looked at the sender’s name, written in elegant calligraphy:
Celestia Prewett
Ninfield, East Sussex
Leta came to mind, as she often did when he had the least use for it – Leta, wearing a stylish blue dress, smiling and telling him that her backstabbing had been for the best, because he was clearly doing well for himself.
Feeling like an incorrigible idiot, he ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter within. It wasn’t very long.
Dear Newt,
on the 29th of March, Apollo Malfoy and I will be celebrating our engagement at Malfoy Manor. It would mean so much to me if you would honour this special event with your presence. I understand that you most likely do not feel inclined to attend, but I urge you to do so, anyway. I wish to begin making amends to you, if you will but give me the chance. Please accept my invitation; it would give me reason to believe that even things that have been thoroughly shattered can somehow still be mended.
I thank you for your time.
Kindest regards,
your friend Celestia
Friend? Seriously? Since when? He just stared at the words until they started to swim before his eyes. So Celestia had decided to do the right thing to ease her conscience because her life was miserable. It was not Newt’s responsibility to cater to that particular whim, was it? No, it wasn’t.
He closed his eyes and blew out a heavy breath.
Damn it.
He’d go.
Of course he’d go.
After all, he didn’t want to slap away a hand held out in an attempt at reconciliation. How could he contribute to the unhappiness of someone who clearly needed help, who was explicitly asking him for support?
So yes, he’d go. Of course he’d go. He wouldn’t be able to look himself in the mirror if he didn’t.