So. Uh. Hi there. I exist! And this thing continues! For now, at least. I'm working on it- and I think I'm winning the writing fight, but it's always tricky. Um. Hope you enjoy?
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Newt spends most of his time on the ship to New York trying to avoid thinking about Theseus’s letter. Worrying about it won’t do him any good- forewarned is forearmed but no amount of thinking about it will change the circumstances he’ll find in America. Despite having banished the ashes of it into the ocean, however, Newt keeps coming back to it and going over the text in his memory.
The letter stays with him as he works with the swooping evil (he’s taken to calling her Hannah, though he’s not sure the name fits her yet), training her to listen to his whistling commands and to eat a diet that doesn’t consist of human brains but keeps her nourished. It stays with him when he watches Frank flying, confident and strong in the air once again. It stays with him, in part, because a day into their voyage, Dougal begins to continuously open the drawer which houses Mr. Graves’s photograph and he’s getting tired of having to put it back
“Dougal, again?” Newt asks when he finds Dougal with the photograph the tenth time in two hours.
He starts to reach for it, but there’s something in Dougal’s face that makes him pause. About three weeks- an embarrassingly long time, really- after Dougal found him in the mountains, Newt learned that the stories of a demiguise’s ability to see the future were not just stories. Dougal is selective about what he imparts and when, so Newt’s never been able to test exactly how far into the future it is that Dougal can see. But he knows that look by now.
Newt kneels before Dougal and holds his arms out. “What did you see?”
Dougal looks mournfully at Newt as he climbs into Newt’s arms, pressing the photograph to his chest. Newt wraps his arms around the demiguise and tries not to shudder. He’s never exactly been able to forget its existence; he’s been holding onto his anger at Theseus over it for so long that knowing it remains in his possession is always burning in the back of his mind.
“What you saw... it wasn’t a good vision, was it?” Dougal shakes his head and burrows closer. Newt blows out a long breath and closes his eyes. “Was it to do with Mr. Graves?”
Dougal nods. Figures. Newt does a valiant job of ignoring the cold that stabs down his spine. Then Dougal presses his free hand to Newt’s cheek.
“Wha- oh, me?” Newt asks after a pause, “Your vision was also to do with me?”
Dougal nods again. Newt combs his fingers through Dougal’s fur looking at the far wall but seeing nothing.
“Okay, then,” he murmurs. “Does he try to hurt me?”
Dougal nods. Newt stops himself from asking if it has to do with their engagement- he thinks it’s unlikely Dougal saw something quite that specific, and he’s not entirely sure Dougal would understand what an engagement is, anyway.
Worrying means you suffer twice, he reminds himself. Between Dougal’s vision and Theseus’s letter, well. Some warning is better than none.
After that Newt decides to leave the photograph with the copy of the Daily Prophet International, side by side on his desk in the suitcase shack. It’s still hard to look at Mr. Graves’s face, with kind eyes and a fond smile for his younger sister. It’s just that now it’s less because of his anger that he’d been sold to the newest bidder and more because all he knows is that Mr. Graves is a danger to him now, exactly as Newt feared he would be. But Dougal’s only going to keep grabbing the photo out of the drawer, so he concentrates on memorizing Mr. Graves’s features, trying to learn his fear in order to face it.
With the faces of Mr. Graves and Grindlewald staring at him from where they’re pinned, Newt attempts to start a letter to Theseus repeatedly during the crossing to New York. Each time guilt starts to weigh his hand and he banishes the ink before he's gotten past three words.
Theseus’s letter means that his brother and mother haven’t yet given up on him, even though he stormed away in the dead of night and has since given them very little reason to. In theory, he still has five months before the contract stipulates his next wedding must happen. Theseus’s letter gave him proof that his family is apparently not inclined to rush his new marriage, and apparently, Mr. Graves was willing to wait, but no matter what Theseus says, Newt can't be sure how Mr. Graves will deal with an unfit husband.
Worse, if he pushes too far, he’s likely to learn sooner rather than later exactly what the American laws are regarding unfit husbands (he knows the Ministry can make the lives of those younger sons and daughters who do not obey in England very unpleasant and he has no desire to find out if America does indeed to everything bigger).
Newt starts his letter a fourth time. This time he’s gotten as far as Dear Theseus before he stops writing and drops his head into his hands. The sound Pickett makes is rather irritated and Newt almost laughs. He turns to glance at the bowtruckle from one squinted eye.
“Yes, I know, I know. I'm rather a mess at writing on a good day, let alone now.”
Pickett stomps on the letter, right on top of Theseus’s name.
“Well I can't just not write- not after this. He's my brother; like your tree-mates. If he turns out to be right and New York is ablaze because of some sort of take over at MACUSA…” Newt shrugs a shoulder, “And, well, he clearly could have had me brought back, but he didn’t. I should at least give him the courtesy of a reply.”
Pickett pauses in the middle of another stomp. He sets his leg down and folds his arms, considering the parchment. Then he nods and wanders onto Newt’s shoulder. He settles down and points at the pen almost impatiently when Newt doesn’t do anything.
Newt realizes that Pickett has decided to watch him write a letter. “Did... did you actually understand all that?”
Newt and all his creatures communicate in some fashion or other. Mostly Newt talks at them and assumes they’re agreeing or disagreeing based on their reactions. Body language tells him when they’re hurt or ill.
His family of bowtruckles have always given the impression that they understand a bit more than the rest- much like Dougal. (It helps that he’s never really had to worry about whether or not they agree with a proposal, because the raspberries they blow are loud and plentiful if they don’t like something.) Even so it’s not like they talk back to him.
Pickett pinches Newt’s cheek and chitters the clearest “yes” a bowtruckle can manage without speaking English. In fact, Newt has the distinct impression that he’s being chastised for not noticing sooner.
+
Seraphina Picquery does not normally greet delegations coming into MACUSA at the network fireplace. Protocols of international meetings dictate that meetings should occur between counterparts in lower positions first and she has staff to take care of greetings directly after travel. For this particular conference she doesn’t much give a damn for protocol, particularly when it comes to the party from the British Empire. If there is anybody she should be able to whisk away for an immediate talk, it should be America’s closest wizarding community ally.
“Undersecretary Abbott,” she says as soon as the man steps through, “It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you for having us to this international forum, Madam President,” says Abbott, reaching to shake her hand. “The Minister sends his regrets but has several very high priority meetings and situations to attend to.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Seraphina says graciously.
They step out of the way of the fireplace so the rest of the delegation can come through unimpeded.
“We’ve been hearing about attacks on New York the last few days,” the Undersecretary says slowly, as though he’s unsure that he’s allowed to bring up the subject. “But so far no deaths?”
“So far,” Seraphina agrees, “And few injuries. We count ourselves lucky.”
“And the Muggles?”
“‘Muggles’... oh, yes, yes, of course. The non-magical are startled, but we’ve had our Aurors on the case from the shadows. They’ve kept damage to a minimum and worked overtime to make sure they stay Obliviated. The head of our DMLE is personally involved.”
Undersecretary Abbott nods slowly, “Yes, we’ve often heard great things about your Mr. Graves. Mr. Scamander has spoken very highly of their collaborative efforts in the past.”
He smiles and claps his hands as the last of his party comes through the fireplace. The woman pats down her hair and brushes her skirt off. She bobs the sort of tiny, automatic curtsy that a person would give to a figure of royalty when she catches Seraphina’s eyes on her. Seraphina bites back a smile. She knows that Britain has not quite developed to the same acceptance of dark skin that American wizarding society has, and she appreciates the gesture.
“May I please present my secretary, Ms. Warbeck,” Abbott says, gesturing to the other woman in the party, and then to everyone else in turn. “This is Basil Carter, who heads the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and this is Ms. Helene Carteret, secretary to Theseus Scamander.”
Well, at least that’s something. Though, really, Seraphina’s fairly sure the Minister of Magic of the British Empire could have found a way to attend. The secretary to the head of British DMLE instead of Theseus Scamander himself she can understand, but America deserves a bit more consideration than just the Undersecretary.
“A pleasure, of course. Thank you for attending. You may not have met Randall Suess, my Secretary of Domestic Affairs,” Seraphina says, gesturing the man forward. He obliges her. “He’s taken care of the details of your accommodations and setting up the forum.”
“Are we the last to arrive?” Abbott asks.
Seraphina looks to Suess and crooks her eyebrow just so.
“No, no,” Suess says, looking through his papers, “We’re still waiting on a few more delegations to join us. We’ve received ambassadors from the Soviet Union and our Western European allies for the most part- we are still hoping Italy, Germany and Austria-Hungary will send ambassadors to join us but so far they have declined. Our representatives from across the country have mostly arrived. We are still waiting on some from the western states- they should be arriving within the hour. The East African Alliance’s delegation is scheduled to arrive this evening.”
The Undersecretary opens his mouth to make a reply, but he is interrupted by rapid footsteps down the hall and a brusque voice. “Madam president!”
Seraphina looks over and watches Percival Graves striding purposefully towards them.
“Mr. Graves,” she says. She looks back to the Undersecretary. “May I introduce Percival Graves, director of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
Abbott nods in greeting. “A pleasure, Mr. Graves.”
“Undersecretary Abbott,” Graves says, returning the nod.
Seraphina blinks- she was unaware of Graves having dealings with the Undersecretary before. But then Graves reaches her and leans in. His voice is low and steady, but she can see the anxiety on his face.
“We’ve just had reports. There’s been another incident. No injuries that we know of, but it’s the first time an attack has happened in daylight. The creature may be getting desperate.”
Seraphina frowns deeply, turning just slightly away from the British delegates so they don’t see it. Graves follows her movement. “Instructions, ma’am?”
“Go investigate. Find out what was seen before Obliviations are performed. Return to report your findings as soon as you can.”
Graves nods shortly and disappears back down the hall. Seraphina turns back to her company. The British delegates look appropriately solemn, but not surprised, which means the reports she ordered sent out have at least been disseminated appropriately.
Seraphina keeps her head high and smiles as graciously as she can. “I’ll leave you to get settled before tomorrow’s forum. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course, Madam President.”
As Seraphina turns away, Suess steps forward and gestures. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the Apparition point where you can sidealong to the delegate accommodations.”
FILL [12/?]: Newt/other, eventual Gramander; arranged marriage, abuse, h/c, learning to trust
------
Newt spends most of his time on the ship to New York trying to avoid thinking about Theseus’s letter. Worrying about it won’t do him any good- forewarned is forearmed but no amount of thinking about it will change the circumstances he’ll find in America. Despite having banished the ashes of it into the ocean, however, Newt keeps coming back to it and going over the text in his memory.
The letter stays with him as he works with the swooping evil (he’s taken to calling her Hannah, though he’s not sure the name fits her yet), training her to listen to his whistling commands and to eat a diet that doesn’t consist of human brains but keeps her nourished. It stays with him when he watches Frank flying, confident and strong in the air once again. It stays with him, in part, because a day into their voyage, Dougal begins to continuously open the drawer which houses Mr. Graves’s photograph and he’s getting tired of having to put it back
“Dougal, again?” Newt asks when he finds Dougal with the photograph the tenth time in two hours.
He starts to reach for it, but there’s something in Dougal’s face that makes him pause. About three weeks- an embarrassingly long time, really- after Dougal found him in the mountains, Newt learned that the stories of a demiguise’s ability to see the future were not just stories. Dougal is selective about what he imparts and when, so Newt’s never been able to test exactly how far into the future it is that Dougal can see. But he knows that look by now.
Newt kneels before Dougal and holds his arms out. “What did you see?”
Dougal looks mournfully at Newt as he climbs into Newt’s arms, pressing the photograph to his chest. Newt wraps his arms around the demiguise and tries not to shudder. He’s never exactly been able to forget its existence; he’s been holding onto his anger at Theseus over it for so long that knowing it remains in his possession is always burning in the back of his mind.
“What you saw... it wasn’t a good vision, was it?” Dougal shakes his head and burrows closer. Newt blows out a long breath and closes his eyes. “Was it to do with Mr. Graves?”
Dougal nods. Figures. Newt does a valiant job of ignoring the cold that stabs down his spine. Then Dougal presses his free hand to Newt’s cheek.
“Wha- oh, me?” Newt asks after a pause, “Your vision was also to do with me?”
Dougal nods again. Newt combs his fingers through Dougal’s fur looking at the far wall but seeing nothing.
“Okay, then,” he murmurs. “Does he try to hurt me?”
Dougal nods. Newt stops himself from asking if it has to do with their engagement- he thinks it’s unlikely Dougal saw something quite that specific, and he’s not entirely sure Dougal would understand what an engagement is, anyway.
Worrying means you suffer twice, he reminds himself. Between Dougal’s vision and Theseus’s letter, well. Some warning is better than none.
After that Newt decides to leave the photograph with the copy of the Daily Prophet International, side by side on his desk in the suitcase shack. It’s still hard to look at Mr. Graves’s face, with kind eyes and a fond smile for his younger sister. It’s just that now it’s less because of his anger that he’d been sold to the newest bidder and more because all he knows is that Mr. Graves is a danger to him now, exactly as Newt feared he would be. But Dougal’s only going to keep grabbing the photo out of the drawer, so he concentrates on memorizing Mr. Graves’s features, trying to learn his fear in order to face it.
With the faces of Mr. Graves and Grindlewald staring at him from where they’re pinned, Newt attempts to start a letter to Theseus repeatedly during the crossing to New York. Each time guilt starts to weigh his hand and he banishes the ink before he's gotten past three words.
Theseus’s letter means that his brother and mother haven’t yet given up on him, even though he stormed away in the dead of night and has since given them very little reason to. In theory, he still has five months before the contract stipulates his next wedding must happen. Theseus’s letter gave him proof that his family is apparently not inclined to rush his new marriage, and apparently, Mr. Graves was willing to wait, but no matter what Theseus says, Newt can't be sure how Mr. Graves will deal with an unfit husband.
Worse, if he pushes too far, he’s likely to learn sooner rather than later exactly what the American laws are regarding unfit husbands (he knows the Ministry can make the lives of those younger sons and daughters who do not obey in England very unpleasant and he has no desire to find out if America does indeed to everything bigger).
Newt starts his letter a fourth time. This time he’s gotten as far as Dear Theseus before he stops writing and drops his head into his hands. The sound Pickett makes is rather irritated and Newt almost laughs. He turns to glance at the bowtruckle from one squinted eye.
“Yes, I know, I know. I'm rather a mess at writing on a good day, let alone now.”
Pickett stomps on the letter, right on top of Theseus’s name.
“Well I can't just not write- not after this. He's my brother; like your tree-mates. If he turns out to be right and New York is ablaze because of some sort of take over at MACUSA…” Newt shrugs a shoulder, “And, well, he clearly could have had me brought back, but he didn’t. I should at least give him the courtesy of a reply.”
Pickett pauses in the middle of another stomp. He sets his leg down and folds his arms, considering the parchment. Then he nods and wanders onto Newt’s shoulder. He settles down and points at the pen almost impatiently when Newt doesn’t do anything.
Newt realizes that Pickett has decided to watch him write a letter. “Did... did you actually understand all that?”
Newt and all his creatures communicate in some fashion or other. Mostly Newt talks at them and assumes they’re agreeing or disagreeing based on their reactions. Body language tells him when they’re hurt or ill.
His family of bowtruckles have always given the impression that they understand a bit more than the rest- much like Dougal. (It helps that he’s never really had to worry about whether or not they agree with a proposal, because the raspberries they blow are loud and plentiful if they don’t like something.) Even so it’s not like they talk back to him.
Pickett pinches Newt’s cheek and chitters the clearest “yes” a bowtruckle can manage without speaking English. In fact, Newt has the distinct impression that he’s being chastised for not noticing sooner.
+
Seraphina Picquery does not normally greet delegations coming into MACUSA at the network fireplace. Protocols of international meetings dictate that meetings should occur between counterparts in lower positions first and she has staff to take care of greetings directly after travel. For this particular conference she doesn’t much give a damn for protocol, particularly when it comes to the party from the British Empire. If there is anybody she should be able to whisk away for an immediate talk, it should be America’s closest wizarding community ally.
“Undersecretary Abbott,” she says as soon as the man steps through, “It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you for having us to this international forum, Madam President,” says Abbott, reaching to shake her hand. “The Minister sends his regrets but has several very high priority meetings and situations to attend to.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Seraphina says graciously.
They step out of the way of the fireplace so the rest of the delegation can come through unimpeded.
“We’ve been hearing about attacks on New York the last few days,” the Undersecretary says slowly, as though he’s unsure that he’s allowed to bring up the subject. “But so far no deaths?”
“So far,” Seraphina agrees, “And few injuries. We count ourselves lucky.”
“And the Muggles?”
“‘Muggles’... oh, yes, yes, of course. The non-magical are startled, but we’ve had our Aurors on the case from the shadows. They’ve kept damage to a minimum and worked overtime to make sure they stay Obliviated. The head of our DMLE is personally involved.”
Undersecretary Abbott nods slowly, “Yes, we’ve often heard great things about your Mr. Graves. Mr. Scamander has spoken very highly of their collaborative efforts in the past.”
He smiles and claps his hands as the last of his party comes through the fireplace. The woman pats down her hair and brushes her skirt off. She bobs the sort of tiny, automatic curtsy that a person would give to a figure of royalty when she catches Seraphina’s eyes on her. Seraphina bites back a smile. She knows that Britain has not quite developed to the same acceptance of dark skin that American wizarding society has, and she appreciates the gesture.
“May I please present my secretary, Ms. Warbeck,” Abbott says, gesturing to the other woman in the party, and then to everyone else in turn. “This is Basil Carter, who heads the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and this is Ms. Helene Carteret, secretary to Theseus Scamander.”
Well, at least that’s something. Though, really, Seraphina’s fairly sure the Minister of Magic of the British Empire could have found a way to attend. The secretary to the head of British DMLE instead of Theseus Scamander himself she can understand, but America deserves a bit more consideration than just the Undersecretary.
“A pleasure, of course. Thank you for attending. You may not have met Randall Suess, my Secretary of Domestic Affairs,” Seraphina says, gesturing the man forward. He obliges her. “He’s taken care of the details of your accommodations and setting up the forum.”
“Are we the last to arrive?” Abbott asks.
Seraphina looks to Suess and crooks her eyebrow just so.
“No, no,” Suess says, looking through his papers, “We’re still waiting on a few more delegations to join us. We’ve received ambassadors from the Soviet Union and our Western European allies for the most part- we are still hoping Italy, Germany and Austria-Hungary will send ambassadors to join us but so far they have declined. Our representatives from across the country have mostly arrived. We are still waiting on some from the western states- they should be arriving within the hour. The East African Alliance’s delegation is scheduled to arrive this evening.”
The Undersecretary opens his mouth to make a reply, but he is interrupted by rapid footsteps down the hall and a brusque voice. “Madam president!”
Seraphina looks over and watches Percival Graves striding purposefully towards them.
“Mr. Graves,” she says. She looks back to the Undersecretary. “May I introduce Percival Graves, director of our Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
Abbott nods in greeting. “A pleasure, Mr. Graves.”
“Undersecretary Abbott,” Graves says, returning the nod.
Seraphina blinks- she was unaware of Graves having dealings with the Undersecretary before. But then Graves reaches her and leans in. His voice is low and steady, but she can see the anxiety on his face.
“We’ve just had reports. There’s been another incident. No injuries that we know of, but it’s the first time an attack has happened in daylight. The creature may be getting desperate.”
Seraphina frowns deeply, turning just slightly away from the British delegates so they don’t see it. Graves follows her movement. “Instructions, ma’am?”
“Go investigate. Find out what was seen before Obliviations are performed. Return to report your findings as soon as you can.”
Graves nods shortly and disappears back down the hall. Seraphina turns back to her company. The British delegates look appropriately solemn, but not surprised, which means the reports she ordered sent out have at least been disseminated appropriately.
Seraphina keeps her head high and smiles as graciously as she can. “I’ll leave you to get settled before tomorrow’s forum. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course, Madam President.”
As Seraphina turns away, Suess steps forward and gestures. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the Apparition point where you can sidealong to the delegate accommodations.”