The dragon was adamant in declining to make sense. But since he also declined to spit fire, or re-route them to the sea with a flick of his tail, the best option was to let him carry on mistaking them. As Tina said, quoting a pet proverb of Queenie’s, "don’t cook your soup and then add honey".
" Jacob would disagree." Newt had pushed up his sleeves and was rubbing dittany oil into the beast’s rear legs, where the cuffs – now Evanesco’d – had left a history of bruises and cuts. The dragon growled soft approval. "Remember his czernina? All in the sweet’n sour, he’d say."
"Well, I don’t want to sour your sweet." Percival, now un-leathered, ran a hand in his own silver helmet. "But we’re back in Scotland, where Voldemort’s hoodlums love to bivouack, and the night won’t hold off forever. I vote we move our friend to safety."
"Ah, but where is safety?" Newt stroked the scaly flank gently. "We can’t just Side-Along him to Norwegia. For one thing he’s too large not to splinch, and then Ridgebacks are famously harsh on their own kin. Look at him – old, half-blind, no training whatsoever in self-defence. He would be the runt of the herd."
"A reserve, then?"
"There’s Romania, but… they work mostly with Horntails, not your chummiest beast. Danemark, now, that’s another story." New’s face brightened. "I could fly him to Jutland There’s an international wizard park with caves and lakes, a rehab center for mixed breeds. I was Our Man in the Ministry when it was founded, I can probably talk them into taking him in."
"Good. All settled, then." And Percival began to fiddle with his left cuff. "If you and Tina –"
The boom of sound caught them by surprise, rippling, swallowing their next startled words as Newt jumped back and Percival flicked his eyes to the horizon. Five black shapes were homing in on them, high enough for the sky to become a projectile path, wands out. The air in their backs had turned green and glittering; not the lively green of Floo flames and fireworks, but ghost-green; curdled into the shape of a skull sticking out a tongue that was a snake.
The dragon roared again, striving and failing to rear itself on wobbly rear legs.
"Here be trouble." And there be wonder: that his friend’s voice, still its quiet self, got through to him in the turmoil. "Newt. Take Tina with you and fly North."
Newt looked at him as if Percival had just suggested they open a snout-to-tail diner.
"Sir, if you think for one moment – "
"Now, Newt!"
Jinxes, already; vicious, cutting the air to the quick. But their scope was wide enough that Percival could deflect them in time. Behind him, the dragon backed abruptly; struck the hillside and bellowed. It was the fire, Newt understood too late. The red-hot Unforgivables were raising pang after terrified pang of memory. He had learnt years ago that fire meant pain, that came with the clank of soulless metal, and now all he could hear was the rattle of spells, all he could see was the flash of magic. His throat raw, he began to writhe his tail, banging it wildly to the hillside. The jutting rocks shook under each tremendous stroke.
"No!" And, in a flash, Newt was at his side. "Hush, oh, hush, sweetheart! You’re going to bury us all."
The next blind swish of tail tripped him up. He landed on his knees under a pelt of dust and grass, little stones, one of them grazing his shoulder. He searched for words, but none came. He was Parseltongue-tied.
"Newt!" It was Tina. He could not see her, but he felt her presence at the edge of his vision. She was breathless, wound with the adrenaline of strife. She wheeled, cursed, jinxed, then she spoke again. "You’ve got to stun him!"
"I can’t!" Newt yelled back. "Not when he’s like this, his heart won’t make it, I – "
The dust hit his throat, forcing his head down as he coughed. Then, there was a brusque lull in the fight. He looked up and saw Tina standing between the rock and the hard place where Percival fought. She was biting her lip and her face, at that moment, had the terrified cast of a young girl. Then she raised her arm, raised her voice, and called out in a high clear voice : "Catch!"
The next instant, her wand was flying, arrow-straight, straight into Percival’s blocking hand.
Newt couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, as if the whole scene had numbed itself to a stand-still with him still a piece of it. But she did. He saw her throat move as she inhaled, deeply, and then… and then, she moved her two hands down from her face to her chest and hips, and her two-tone, brown and beige travelling clothes melted into gold. He knew the dress from some faraway corner of his brain. She had worn it twice, once when she had taken office at Ilvermorny and once at Rollo’s wedding. Third time…
Third time was the charm. He watched her advance, heroic, scared and determined, and he knew who she was. The words came to him from the other side of the century, period words now: old-fashioned, dating back to a time of roaring cars, debauched cocktails and bob-haired heiresses. Golden girl. Our golden girl. That was who she was and who she’d ever be, moving to stroke her hands over the dragon’s eyelids as they fluttered close, oblivious to the cry and hue of battle.
"Three down!" came in Percival’s voice, its lower tones dark and exulting. He swung it in a whiplash line, and the fourth Death Eater kicked and screamed and fell, only his broom tossed back and forth above the water. It was an incredible sight. Gone was Percival of the cramps and glasses, MACUSA’s honorary geek and yesterday’s man. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of 1945, his cloak flaring with righteous heat. The sun in his back, he fought two-handedly; parried; slammed; slashed; burnt; peopled the sky with deadly Northern lights, and while his face was hidden from Newt, Newt knew what last Death Eater saw in it – knew, and was not surprised when the sea opened a man-hole and the man was swallowed, hood and all.
Percival turned and wiped an arm across his face.
"Good thing" – his voice shaky now, but from laughter – "I had some practice today!"
Fill: There and Back (10/?)
" Jacob would disagree." Newt had pushed up his sleeves and was rubbing dittany oil into the beast’s rear legs, where the cuffs – now Evanesco’d – had left a history of bruises and cuts. The dragon growled soft approval. "Remember his czernina? All in the sweet’n sour, he’d say."
"Well, I don’t want to sour your sweet." Percival, now un-leathered, ran a hand in his own silver helmet. "But we’re back in Scotland, where Voldemort’s hoodlums love to bivouack, and the night won’t hold off forever. I vote we move our friend to safety."
"Ah, but where is safety?" Newt stroked the scaly flank gently. "We can’t just Side-Along him to Norwegia. For one thing he’s too large not to splinch, and then Ridgebacks are famously harsh on their own kin. Look at him – old, half-blind, no training whatsoever in self-defence. He would be the runt of the herd."
"A reserve, then?"
"There’s Romania, but… they work mostly with Horntails, not your chummiest beast. Danemark, now, that’s another story." New’s face brightened. "I could fly him to Jutland There’s an international wizard park with caves and lakes, a rehab center for mixed breeds. I was Our Man in the Ministry when it was founded, I can probably talk them into taking him in."
"Good. All settled, then." And Percival began to fiddle with his left cuff. "If you and Tina –"
The boom of sound caught them by surprise, rippling, swallowing their next startled words as Newt jumped back and Percival flicked his eyes to the horizon. Five black shapes were homing in on them, high enough for the sky to become a projectile path, wands out. The air in their backs had turned green and glittering; not the lively green of Floo flames and fireworks, but ghost-green; curdled into the shape of a skull sticking out a tongue that was a snake.
The dragon roared again, striving and failing to rear itself on wobbly rear legs.
"Here be trouble." And there be wonder: that his friend’s voice, still its quiet self, got through to him in the turmoil. "Newt. Take Tina with you and fly North."
Newt looked at him as if Percival had just suggested they open a snout-to-tail diner.
"Sir, if you think for one moment – "
"Now, Newt!"
Jinxes, already; vicious, cutting the air to the quick. But their scope was wide enough that Percival could deflect them in time. Behind him, the dragon backed abruptly; struck the hillside and bellowed. It was the fire, Newt understood too late. The red-hot Unforgivables were raising pang after terrified pang of memory. He had learnt years ago that fire meant pain, that came with the clank of soulless metal, and now all he could hear was the rattle of spells, all he could see was the flash of magic. His throat raw, he began to writhe his tail, banging it wildly to the hillside. The jutting rocks shook under each tremendous stroke.
"No!" And, in a flash, Newt was at his side. "Hush, oh, hush, sweetheart! You’re going to bury us all."
The next blind swish of tail tripped him up. He landed on his knees under a pelt of dust and grass, little stones, one of them grazing his shoulder. He searched for words, but none came. He was Parseltongue-tied.
"Newt!" It was Tina. He could not see her, but he felt her presence at the edge of his vision. She was breathless, wound with the adrenaline of strife. She wheeled, cursed, jinxed, then she spoke again. "You’ve got to stun him!"
"I can’t!" Newt yelled back. "Not when he’s like this, his heart won’t make it, I – "
The dust hit his throat, forcing his head down as he coughed. Then, there was a brusque lull in the fight. He looked up and saw Tina standing between the rock and the hard place where Percival fought. She was biting her lip and her face, at that moment, had the terrified cast of a young girl. Then she raised her arm, raised her voice, and called out in a high clear voice : "Catch!"
The next instant, her wand was flying, arrow-straight, straight into Percival’s blocking hand.
Newt couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, as if the whole scene had numbed itself to a stand-still with him still a piece of it. But she did. He saw her throat move as she inhaled, deeply, and then… and then, she moved her two hands down from her face to her chest and hips, and her two-tone, brown and beige travelling clothes melted into gold. He knew the dress from some faraway corner of his brain. She had worn it twice, once when she had taken office at Ilvermorny and once at Rollo’s wedding. Third time…
Third time was the charm. He watched her advance, heroic, scared and determined, and he knew who she was. The words came to him from the other side of the century, period words now: old-fashioned, dating back to a time of roaring cars, debauched cocktails and bob-haired heiresses. Golden girl. Our golden girl. That was who she was and who she’d ever be, moving to stroke her hands over the dragon’s eyelids as they fluttered close, oblivious to the cry and hue of battle.
"Three down!" came in Percival’s voice, its lower tones dark and exulting. He swung it in a whiplash line, and the fourth Death Eater kicked and screamed and fell, only his broom tossed back and forth above the water. It was an incredible sight. Gone was Percival of the cramps and glasses, MACUSA’s honorary geek and yesterday’s man. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of 1945, his cloak flaring with righteous heat. The sun in his back, he fought two-handedly; parried; slammed; slashed; burnt; peopled the sky with deadly Northern lights, and while his face was hidden from Newt, Newt knew what last Death Eater saw in it – knew, and was not surprised when the sea opened a man-hole and the man was swallowed, hood and all.
Percival turned and wiped an arm across his face.
"Good thing" – his voice shaky now, but from laughter – "I had some practice today!"