Though All the World is Broken
January of 1926
1 It’s been a few months, and things have started to calm down somewhat – well, for Celestia personally, at least. The whole conflict with Gellert Grindelwald is still going on, still getting worse, but Celestia’s life is getting better. Nothing is perfect, of course, but there is definitely improvement – and peace, some sort of peace.
Petronius Flint is dead.
Ares Malfoy is dead.
That…Celestia has to say, she finds herself unable to grieve for him personally, in her heart. Still, she does it outwardly, because it would be discourteous not to, because it would cause people pain who don’t deserve it. No, she doesn’t feign sorrow, but she does show respect.
Her wedding plans to Alastair will not be announced until after Ares has been dead for a year. It’s only fitting. After all, the last thing Celestia wants is to hurt Apollo and, by extension, Artemis.
That’s another positive, if not perfect consequence of the whole debacle: Apollo has agreed to let Celestia see their daughter from time to time. Artemis is a little guarded toward her mother, a little suspicious, shattering Celestia’s dreams of a tearful and loving reunion, but at least they are talking to each other.
At least now, Celestia is a part of her daughter’s life again.
Decisions have consequences. Things rarely turn out the way that people want them to.
Still, she regrets nothing. She can’t say that she’ll never regret any big decision again, or that she’s managed to cast off all the worst aspects of her personality. Real life doesn’t work like that, and neither do real people. There has been change, however, inside of her. After everything that has happened, after all that she has risked and lost and gained, she’s not afraid anymore. Now she knows that whatever else may be true, she’s been through the fire. She lost it all and managed to reclaim her life. There’s little that can still shock her anymore.
Right now, she’s sitting in the Fawleys’ living room, next to Alastair, opposite Newt.
Newt was gracious enough to accept their invitation, but he’s already made clear that he doesn’t want Alastair’s money. He’s accepted a cup of tea and some sponge cake, though – at least that much, he’ll take.
“So, when will you leave?” Alastair says, sipping his tea from the delicate china cup in his left hand, holding Celestia’s hand with his right. It’s like he’s scared to let her out of his sight.
The feeling is quite mutual, though Celestia wouldn’t really describe it as fear. No, it’s more like they’ve finally understood how precious their time together is.
Newt sets down his own cup. “Three days from now. I’ve got my trip to Tripoli booked and my bag packed.”
“Sounds really exciting,” Alastair says, and smiles. It’s a genuine sentiment, too.
Celestia knows that much. She gives her beloved’s hand a gentle squeeze, whilst smiling at Newt. “Finally, you get to do what you always wanted. I’m happy for you.”
Neither she nor Alastair will ask Newt how he’s financing his lifelong dream. It’s none of their business, and he hasn’t volunteered any information. It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that he, as well, has found something akin to happiness.
A subtle smile curves up the corners of Newt’s mouth. “Thank you. So, uh” – He leans back, presses his right fist to his lips, and discreetly clears his throat – “when’s the wedding?”
Celestia and Alastair exchange a look.
She feels her cheeks getting warm. Every time she looks at him, she finds herself completely unable to wipe that silly beam from her face. “On the nineteenth of November.”
Alastair says, “You’re invited, of course, dear chap.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be anywhere near this place in November,” Newt says, sounding apologetic, but at the same time relieved. He looks past his two hosts and out the window. It’s raining buckets out there. The wind is howling. There’s a bright fire crackling merrily away in the fireplace, though, bathing the room in warm orange light and inviting shadows.
“Weddings not being your thing, I assume,” Alastair says, amused yet not mocking. He’ll never mock Newt again – or anybody else who’s done nothing to harm him.
“Big weddings.”
Celestia re-crosses her legs, and says, “Oh, it’ll be small, all right: just us, Alley’s parents, and less than half a dozen of our friends.” Those friends who are still left, she means, and it’s understood. It’s understood.
The look on Newt’s face shows that he’s still sure he won’t attend, but he does seem pleased for the pair – his friends. “Sounds lovely. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
“Thanks, in no small part, to you,” Alastair says, leans across the small table, and heartily pats Newt’s knee. “You’re a good man, Scamander. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”
Newt nods, scratches his neck, looks away.
Poor thing.
“Have you spoken with Leta?” Celestia says. She knows it’s an awkward subject, but she’s told Newt about Leta being involved with the Grindelwald supporters group in the USA, and knows that Newt told his brother, to no avail. Apparently, Celestia’s words are useless as testimony, and there’s no evidence that Leta ever did anything untoward.
Whatever.
Celestia, at least, is beyond caring.
After straightening his posture and locking eyes with her, Newt says, “I have, briefly. It’s of no consequence. She has to live her life, and I have to live mine.” Meaning that whatever friendship they’ve once shared, it’s now forever tainted.
That, Celestia can empathise with completely. “Well, both Alley and I wish you all the best, and we hope that you consider us your friends as much as we consider you ours.”
To that, Newt only smiles, but it’s a good one, a heartfelt one.
They just sit there, in comradely silence, enjoying the sound of the storm outside and the fire within.
2 Tina has returned home and has picked up where she left off. In fact, it’s strange how everything feels as if nothing has changed. The whole 1925 incident – terrorists, poison tattoos, clandestine trips to Franconia, dinner with Gellert Grindelwald – feels like little more than a fever dream.
Queenie told her that she’s happy everything’s back to normal.
In a sense, Tina agrees.
In a sense.
Still. Still.
The whole thing just didn’t have a satisfactory ending. Well, it ended, all right, with Celestia Prewett returning the frozen heart to the ice monster and Percival Graves returning to his own jurisdiction. He again reiterated that Tina would be demoted if she put another toe out of line, and she only nodded in silent acknowledgment.
Months have passed, and Tina has not gotten into trouble again.
It’s boring, though – boring, dull, and useless. There is trouble, after all – trouble everywhere. These are turbulent times. Something’s got to give at some point, of that she is absolutely sure.
It happens – at least it starts – on a drizzly January evening, when Tina’s just strolling through the streets of Manhattan, weaving in and out busy crowds of No-Majs who have no idea that they are all in danger…and that the danger is growing.
Tina is so absorbed in her gloomy ruminations, hat pulled almost down to her eyes and her hands stuffed in her coat pocket, that she almost runs into a small crowd of people who are just sort of standing there. She manages to stop just in time, blinks her confusion away, glances about, and realises that she’s come across some sort of crowd listening to a woman making a speech.
Said woman – late thirties, slim, white, nondescript – is standing in front of a red banner…
…a red banner portraying hands breaking what looks like a wand.
What?
N.S.P.S., the banner reads.
What the heck is this?
“They are among us at this very moment!” the woman cries out, wagging an accusatory finger at no-one in particular. “Witches, striving to use their filthy sorcery to corrupt us, destroy us, kill us! Citizens, we must rise up! We must be smarter than they are! We must find them and kill them all!”
Tina’s stomach cramps. An icy shiver runs down her spine. She shudders. Her gaze falls upon the three young people standing with the hatemongering woman: one pre-pubescent girl, a teenaged girl, and a boy in his late teens. The boy – skinny, slump-shouldered, stony-faced – is holding his left wrist with his right. He…
…oh, God, he has red streaks on the palm of his hand. Blood-crusted streaks. The skin is raw, open bruises atop healing ones.
This boy is being beaten.
Tina stares at the woman, at those narrowed eyes, that contorted face, at those balled fists. Bile rises up her throat. She has to actively fight the urge to reach inside her coat and get out her wand, to put a stop to this horror.
Then, she remembers what Graves said.
Then, she remembers what she’s promised herself back in Franconia.
Whether she’ll be putting her job at risk or not, she doesn’t know, but one thing is for sure: she’ll be keeping a close eye on this witch-hating No-Maj and these kids – these poor kids who are obviously the object of someone’s abuse, probably this woman’s.
Whatever this N.S.P.S. is, Tina will keep a watch on it. She won’t allow hatred and violence to be spread under her watch, especially if it’s directed against children, especially if it’s directed against her own kind.
Racist fanatics like Grindelwald do not need a further excuse to persecute No-Majs.
Tina focusses all her attention on the hatred-spewing woman. She has a feeling that whatever she might witness here, today, it will be important.