"Teenie darling – and Newt – and, oh, Mr Graves, too! Come right inside. What in Mercy’s name were y’all doing outside?"
"Poetic justice," Percival said, his lips amused.
"Past curfew? It’s a miracle you didn’t get caught!"
"Er," said Newt, still enveloped in her arms, and gave her a summary of their spat while Graves and Tina Accioed a few chairs near to the glowing oven. "I’m not even sure we should be here, Queenie. If these people find out about us, they’ll – "
"Look up the resident Muggle-lover? Well, honey, they might. But I’m the resident baker, don’t forget. Number one provider of Hogwarts’ locally-sourced bread, and at least half of them have school-age Heirs. If they haven’t tarred and feathered me yet, I doubt they will any time soon."
No more they would, Tina knew. It would take a force of nature to keep Queenie away from Hogwarts, where she had ‘four grandkids and counting’, all of them no doubt engaged in the family business of resisting whoever decreed how and whom they should love.
She let herself fall in one of the solid chairs and breathed deeply. Cocoa and choux batter, merging with the earthier tang of coffee and the rising of bread loaves; present reaching out to past; to coming home and seeing Queenie cook their blue-plate dinners with unflappable joy, no, conduct them like a jazz tune at the tap of her wand. Then as now, although she’d given up on finger waves for her hair, white from more than flour, and her life "buttered up on both sides, Teenie!" had left her a plumper Queenie.
And Jacob was, if anything, a plumpest Jacob. Barely a lick of grey in his hair, waving a hand to them as Newt stepped up to the photograph and brushed it with his fingertips, saying, "Hullo, Hardy."
(Newt had been Laurel, Jacob’s favorite joke in the few months before he and Queenie left for England and they’d gone to see a string of No-Maj pictures featuring the antics of a lanky Brit and his portly sidekick.)
"I’m here to catch a dragon," Newt told him. "And see him safely home." He paused, and Tina almost heard Jacob’s answering chuckle. "I wish you were here with us. Remember our ‘58 hols in Peru, busting that Vipertooth organ traffic for Perce? You looked good in a serape."
"Dragon? Oh, corking!" Queenie beamed approval while she encouraged them to catch at the various pastries floating in the air or frisking along the shelves. A brioche Niffler scuttled past, pushing a gum drop down his pouch.
"Yes, well." Tina sipped at her cocoa. "We’re talking Ukrainian Ironbelly here. You know, big brawny number, capable of crushing dwellings on which it lands…"
"Don’t forget," Percival murmured, "its particularly long and vicious talons."
Newt paused abruptly from his one-man dialogue with Jacob. When he turned, the fireglow from the oven’s square opening lit up his eyes and their own glimmer. "Are you two…quoting from my book?"
Queenie laughed. "Honey, Tina had her Sophomores read it back and front in Defence for, how did she put it? Tips from Mother Nature. Can’t speak for Mr Graves, though."
"I can." Tina waited until Newt’s eyes were on Percival. "We’re lucky he grabbed the right picture to show these Death Eaters."
Percival did not flush up – the likes of Percival never did, unless there was a Confringo involved – but looked a little hot under the collar. They both knew, as did Newt, that the other picture on his desk featured a very flustered Newt squinting down at the golden medal round his neck.
"The point is," Percival said with would-be Percival rigor, "that Target flew up and away ten hours ago and we have no idea where."
"North." When they all stared at her, Queenie said "Potterwatch" and "I keep up with my time, sweeties. Your dragon was spotted above Leeds at five yesterday, flying on a course north ho."
"Good!" Newt had jumped to his feet, all energetic limbs and hopeful gaze. "A Norwegian Ridgeback, then. It’s making for the Lake District – next best to the fjords – genetic drive – like salmons, y’know, only not quite."
"Unless it took a turn left for Wales. Or the Irish coast."
"Oh. Right." Newt, who had deflated a bit, brightened up. "It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, really. But it’s a start. And the thing with dragons, if they’re close enough to water, their heartstring starts to vibrate – strong silent vibe – and it can be picked up by any – by any - oh, snap. Forgot to leave a note in the revised edition."
Picked up by a strong silent heart, Tina thought for herself, gazing at the red-rose glow.
Fill: There and Back (5/?)
"Poetic justice," Percival said, his lips amused.
"Past curfew? It’s a miracle you didn’t get caught!"
"Er," said Newt, still enveloped in her arms, and gave her a summary of their spat while Graves and Tina Accioed a few chairs near to the glowing oven. "I’m not even sure we should be here, Queenie. If these people find out about us, they’ll – "
"Look up the resident Muggle-lover? Well, honey, they might. But I’m the resident baker, don’t forget. Number one provider of Hogwarts’ locally-sourced bread, and at least half of them have school-age Heirs. If they haven’t tarred and feathered me yet, I doubt they will any time soon."
No more they would, Tina knew. It would take a force of nature to keep Queenie away from Hogwarts, where she had ‘four grandkids and counting’, all of them no doubt engaged in the family business of resisting whoever decreed how and whom they should love.
She let herself fall in one of the solid chairs and breathed deeply. Cocoa and choux batter, merging with the earthier tang of coffee and the rising of bread loaves; present reaching out to past; to coming home and seeing Queenie cook their blue-plate dinners with unflappable joy, no, conduct them like a jazz tune at the tap of her wand. Then as now, although she’d given up on finger waves for her hair, white from more than flour, and her life "buttered up on both sides, Teenie!" had left her a plumper Queenie.
And Jacob was, if anything, a plumpest Jacob. Barely a lick of grey in his hair, waving a hand to them as Newt stepped up to the photograph and brushed it with his fingertips, saying, "Hullo, Hardy."
(Newt had been Laurel, Jacob’s favorite joke in the few months before he and Queenie left for England and they’d gone to see a string of No-Maj pictures featuring the antics of a lanky Brit and his portly sidekick.)
"I’m here to catch a dragon," Newt told him. "And see him safely home." He paused, and Tina almost heard Jacob’s answering chuckle. "I wish you were here with us. Remember our ‘58 hols in Peru, busting that Vipertooth organ traffic for Perce? You looked good in a serape."
"Dragon? Oh, corking!" Queenie beamed approval while she encouraged them to catch at the various pastries floating in the air or frisking along the shelves. A brioche Niffler scuttled past, pushing a gum drop down his pouch.
"Yes, well." Tina sipped at her cocoa. "We’re talking Ukrainian Ironbelly here. You know, big brawny number, capable of crushing dwellings on which it lands…"
"Don’t forget," Percival murmured, "its particularly long and vicious talons."
Newt paused abruptly from his one-man dialogue with Jacob. When he turned, the fireglow from the oven’s square opening lit up his eyes and their own glimmer. "Are you two…quoting from my book?"
Queenie laughed. "Honey, Tina had her Sophomores read it back and front in Defence for, how did she put it? Tips from Mother Nature. Can’t speak for Mr Graves, though."
"I can." Tina waited until Newt’s eyes were on Percival. "We’re lucky he grabbed the right picture to show these Death Eaters."
Percival did not flush up – the likes of Percival never did, unless there was a Confringo involved – but looked a little hot under the collar. They both knew, as did Newt, that the other picture on his desk featured a very flustered Newt squinting down at the golden medal round his neck.
"The point is," Percival said with would-be Percival rigor, "that Target flew up and away ten hours ago and we have no idea where."
"North." When they all stared at her, Queenie said "Potterwatch" and "I keep up with my time, sweeties. Your dragon was spotted above Leeds at five yesterday, flying on a course north ho."
"Good!" Newt had jumped to his feet, all energetic limbs and hopeful gaze. "A Norwegian Ridgeback, then. It’s making for the Lake District – next best to the fjords – genetic drive – like salmons, y’know, only not quite."
"Unless it took a turn left for Wales. Or the Irish coast."
"Oh. Right." Newt, who had deflated a bit, brightened up. "It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, really. But it’s a start. And the thing with dragons, if they’re close enough to water, their heartstring starts to vibrate – strong silent vibe – and it can be picked up by any – by any - oh, snap. Forgot to leave a note in the revised edition."
Picked up by a strong silent heart, Tina thought for herself, gazing at the red-rose glow.