fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme | Prompt Post #1

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Prompt Post #1

ROUND 1

FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER

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Newt sends Jacob a volume of his book after it is published. Since Jacob must not know the truth, he adds a handwritten note. The note says that this is a work of fiction/fantasy, printed at a small vanity publisher's and inspired by Jacob's stupendous pastries.

A flattered Jacob starts reading and is fascinated by Newt's prose and narrative. They inspire him with new creature-shaped delicacies, and he writes back, adding photographs and a tin of bonbons. Newt sends a thank you letter, etc. They write each other with more and more abandon, and... take it from here? Does Jacob start remembering things? Do the letters grow more intimate? Does it end in lovers meeting? Or on a more wistful note, if Jacob ends up with someone else after all? Your call!

Oh my gods- + infinity.

I will legit buy the person who does a long fill where Jacob and Newt fall in love over letters and wind up settling in as partners, like, a cup of cocoa, or if they're in the US, a pound or three of coffee or something. OH MY GOD.

this is PRECIOUS

...IF I HAVE TIME OH MY GOD.

[Giving this a try, hoping there are still readers for this post!

No triggers, but one warning. I didn't feel like handwaving too much of the movie, especially Queenie's crush on Jacob, which is part of her loveliness. So I'm working with and around it. Can safely promise no broken hearts by the end!]

« When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you,
Then the skies will seem more blue. »
From The Doughboy’s Book of Songs (1919)

New York, January 2. 1927

Dear Mr Kowalski,

Please don't be surprised when you find this book on your counter. It had to be delivered on Sunday, since I couldn’t risk being seen carrying it inside, or, as things are, gifting it to you. But I made sure everything went tiptop, and gave the bearer clear and repeated instructions to to leave the cash register jolly well alone.

(He may have made away with a chocolate coin. Bearer 2, who saw to your locks, is adamant that he did. But then, he would. Bearer 2, I’m afraid, tends to ‘grass’ on his pals when feeling underappreciated.)

Still, no pastries were harmed in the making of this delivery.

Anyway. The book. The book is a present, and, well. It’s a homage too. You’re a good man, Mr Kowalski. And these ‘critters’, as I heard a little boy tell his mother through a clear puff of breath (your New York winter is as I remember it), passing your door, all your buns and breads? They’re good, too. With no other purpose to them than to sweeten and nurture and delight. And inspire. They saw me through a year when I often found myself in one-man places, thoughts of war at my heels, and only two things to make me glad. One was to write. And the other was to picture you in your little shop, lighting your warmhearted stove at break of day, being what you wanted to be. A baker. And a maker.

I, too, have made – a book. It won’t be famous. Not in that world of yours, where ‘creature’ is an insult most of the time and Mr. Lindbergh has a monopoly on wings. But I wrote it to flash some of the same wonder that leavens and rises in your hands, Mr Kowalski. I hope – I really hope – you will like it, and won’t think me a nuisance.

I wish you all the best in this newborn year.

Yours sincerely,
Newton (‘Newt’) Scamander

------------------

Sir,

Triage just sent this down. Shall I file it for you?

P. G.

Report ID: 448-2719-5311
Report date: January 4, 1927
Issued by: S. S. S. S.
Adressed to: Director Graves, D. M. L. E.

Rogue maj presence spotted two days ago at the southwest corner of Spring Street and 6th Avenue. A cursory investigation ascertained that the Kowalski Bakery, a venue recommended by POMA for follow-up surveillance, was entered in the owner’s absence. No verbal magic used. No wand signature. No No-Maj item reported missing. A flagrante delicto-based search produced 1 (one) human hair, crinkly, Venetian blond, and 4 (four) animal hairs, short and black. We have accordingly profiled suspect as a young person of the female persuasion in a sable coat. Inquest postponed pending your decision.

For the Statute of Secrecy Supervision Section,
Arcanus Lee

Tina,

Quite. ‘Classified’, please, and initial it for good measure.

P. G.

(Tell your sister to be careful. Or I’ll wake up to a memo that I had another Goldstein thrown in at the deep end without my informed knowledge, and I won’t be happy.)

--------------------------------------------

QUEEN MABILY GOLDSTEIN, if you HAVE to call on a certain party’s day off, DON’T BREAK INTO THE PREMISES! And sables, Queenie? Sables? I did NOT raise you to accept furs from a bachelor gentleman, no matter his status! Next Sunday you’re helping me sort out the Chicago spell records, missy, AND THAT’S THAT.

--------------------------------------------

New York, January 3. 1927

Dear Mr Scamander,

Here’s round 3 of me trying to answer yours, and I betcha there’ll be a 4th. I’m not much of a writer, see, on account of I don’t know how to start. Usually, it’s the other end that gets me. I don’t know when to quit. With the war and the factory that came after, it took me ages to find the door. But that’s all in the past.

Okay, it’s not all true that I never write. I had a pen-pal back in ’18, and that was my Grandma Oliwia. When the word got to her that I was enlisting, she told her ‘doughboy’ two things. One was how to make potluck bread with cornmeal and mashed potatoes. And the other was that letters are like little kids: they have their own sense of time, and, sometimes, they take the wild way home.

So I ain’t the type that gets scared when a letter finds him out of the blue, because it’s happened before.

It’s happened with a gift, too. Fancy that.

So I’m gonna what I did last year with the letter that made it a year-round Thanksgiving, and the silver egg things that shone like a fairy-tale saying hey. (I kept one for me before I got Sam at the factory to cast them into ingots.) I’m not gonna call the police, and I’m not gonna ask who the heck picked my locks when I had my back turned. Mister, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say, I’ve no idea who you are, if you’re just a body that caught sight of my breads and felt like hitting the pen, or if there’s more to the tale and you’re my egg fella. In the end, it don’t matter much. It’s thank you kindly, as the case may be.

Night o’clock now, and the brittle dough set to rise. Time to leave this where I found yours. I sure hope your complicated won’t get in the way of my thanks, Mr Scamander, and if Bearer 1 finds his way in again, he’s welcome to the coin in the envelope. But the sweet roll’s for you!

Sincere New Year greetings,
Jacob Kowalski

-----------------------------------------

(deleted comment)

Thank you so much for your comment! You will certainly hear Graves's voice again - he's always a joy to write.

Work is throwing more spanners than I'd expected, so I'm writing a bit slowly these days. Will try to post the next part by the end of the week!

Weenie-Wizzies! This Is Your Book Day!

Bring Along the Grown-Ups for Tuesday’s Special Beastie Celebration!

A perfect Twelfth Night gift for any youngster with a love for fantastic pets. Get your copy of Mr Newton Scamander’s new book and, even better! get it signed by the Man With the Blueberry Coat, who has shaken paws with Hippos all over the world. Only $2.00, and free Pumpkin Cola for all!

The Thilly Thunderbird, Main Floor
Greenwitch Village

Dear Miss McDolphin,

I confirm my presence at next Tuesday’s event.

However, while I wrote my book with a general public in mind, I doubt that ‘tiny tots’ are the best target audience. The animals in my book are no toys. With many, there’s a terrible cast to their beauty and strength, and you may want to warn the parents about a few entries (see enclosed list).

Also, you do not pet, pat, least of all pit yourself against the average Hippogriff. Ever. What do they teach at that ‘’’best’’’ school of yours?

N. Scamander

--------------------------

Dear Mr Kowalski,

Please. Please, call me Newt.

Thank you for your letter and the roll. It was sweet indeed, and made up for the ban on milk, lemon and tea-leaves other than Mr Folger’s ‘instant tea-flavoured’ atrocity in my lodger’s kitchen. And Bearer 1 was quite chuffed with the coin – until it melted on him (his stash is a wee bit close to my tropical quarters), leaving him with a bad case of ‘sticky paws’. Poetic justice, if you ask me.

The book… is my alibi. I mean, I’m really supposed to be in England right now, so I talked my publishers into setting up a promoting tour in New York that I’m doing my best to do. Can’t say it’s been a hoot. I mean, everybody’s been very, loudly enthusiastic, it’s just that I’m not sure any of them actually read my work.

Once – and I know I’m courting Manhattan-size trouble, quoting past you to you, but I have to – once, you told me you liked ‘a good yarn last thing at night’. I was faking sleep, and you were reading about some fancy cat, his name Gustavus, your breath laughing a little as you did. Nothing fake about you. Not then, not ever. So I glanced along to where the light was gathering around you and the book, and, just then, I felt – impatient, I guess, because that cat wasn’t ‘the real deal’. Kneazles, now, that’s another And so I let you in on the deal. Down into my bright, live, unique underworld, and the more I shared it with you, the more that sharing dazzled me. You were so very chuffed by everything you saw, and I was chuffed up just watching your chuff, and

Sorry. Sorry, not making much sense, I know, but not long after, when you were gone and all I had were one-sided memories and a one-way passage to England, I placed my case on my lap and used it as a portable desk. To share some more. Or get one over Gustavus. Who knows. All I know is I never stopped until – well, the sum of it is in your hands.

What I’m trying to say, Mr Kowalski, is that if I am your egg fella, then you owe me nothing. I am in your debt. You see, you hatched my book.

Sincerely yours,
Newt Scamander

---------------------

Froglet,

All quiet on the Dorset front. Well, nearly. The mater’s got wind of your scarpering off west and owled me for your coordinates. Said she had Plans For You. Thought I should let you know, since Mother’s latest plan for me involved challenging Gellert Grindelwald to a game of gobstones, using Basilisks’ eyes. I told her you were kipping with Graves. He’s a wand-in-the-mud, but he’ll know better than to side with her. Not after she locked the two of us in Fido’s playpen on his last visit.

Have fun, and don’t do anything I would do lady-wise. Or booze-wise. Or otherwise.
Tease

-----------------------

(deleted comment)

Yay, another kind comment! I should say that Folger's "instant tea-flavoured brew" is a period abomination. It's been fun researching 1920s drinks! I'm still wavering between "pumpkin soda" and "pumpkin cola" for the tiny tots. Soda was the more popular term, I think, but I dug up a few ads for Pumpkin Soda.

(Oh, and Cassandra and Her Cat Gustavus is the book we see Jacob reading in bed at the Goldsteins'.)

Poor Newt is in for a ride with the American book stores, yes, and poor Graves has plenty coming his way. Trying to post next part tomorrow night...

SA *for Orange Cola (my subconscious mind is made up, it seems)

Send at once for our fresh-from-the-press selection of curiosa! For mature readers and collectors of wizarding amatory lore. Owl-order only, discretion guaranteed.

Fifty Shades of Greyback by Ana Froddis-Yak. An Ilvermorny good girl learns the art of savage love after she meets the tycoon of Were Incorporated.

Fatal Sticks and ‘Dying a Little’: A Glossary of Grindelwaldian Innuendoes by Sigmund Silberbaum. The true – and taboo – story behind G.G.’s irresistible charisma.

Voodoo-Voo, Mam’selle by Mimi Delacour. A sizzling war romance between an undercover Creole warlock and a Belgian farm maiden. You’ll never look at a haystack in the same way again!

Fantastic Babes and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander. The perfect terrain map for the cosmopolitan gay dog!

Contact MM. Booklegger & Smutelf, Tin Man Alley, Brooklyn.

Mr ‘Smutelf’,

I’m afraid there has been some misunderstanding.

N. Scamander

--------------------------------

Hot socks, Newt! Thanks for Tuesday night! It was swell seeing you again – once they’d peeled the kiddies off your legs and arms, aww. You looked spiffy! Tina thought you did, and she’s real proud of you for making good on the book. Just saying. But, honey, can you do a girl a favour?

It’s Jacob. See, Teen doesn’t want me to visit him too often on account of it’s still no go, even if Mr Graves has been a big sweetheart, looking the other way. But he – Jacob, I mean – has set up that Koffeeski Happy Hour, eleven to noon. That’s when he’ll give you a cup of coffee across the counter, free gratis for nothing, and talk a bit more with you. I went once, but… the gents at the counter, see, they want to talk to me. It’s not practical. So I been thinking, if I bring Newt along, he can keep the gents off and I can have a word with Jacob – no spilling, promise – honor bright!

Can you? Please? When you’re not too busy with the book and the beasties?

Work’s calling – gotta run!

Queenie

---------------------

Dear Newt,

Ever been to Coney Island at the peak of July?

It was the one time for me, long before the War. Coney was still quiet, private like, with only four or five rides on the Bowery. Not like these days when every good must be cranked up to a hundred an hour to bring the nickels home, and the joes are packed like beach sardins on Coney. Back then, the beach was off reservation. But Grandma had saved for a treat, and she and I had a bet that if I kept my wits and my tummy about me on the Red Devil, she’d buy me a frankfurter. I loved frankfurters best after Grandma, Grandma’s donuts and Jesus (who could produce five thousand of them and turn down the nickels), and I rode that coaster out. But when I got my land legs back, I couldn’t speak at first. Baba Liwia asked how it was, but my head was like a jackpot of sky and sun and bits of colour, and I could only smile.

Buddy, that book of yours – it’s the ride. The jackpot. All over again.

I read it yesterday night and today first thing, waiting for the milk, and again at lunch. Some places, it wasn’t reading. It was like I saw right through the page and what was behind looked back at me. And I knew them. The little black guy and Old Man Whiskers, with his silver coat of hair, I knew them! And, next thing I knew, I was seeing me on the ice, hooking it like I was still Private Kowalski of the 8th Division and this was Siberia,1920. But… the air was pure. Didn’t smell of mud and iron.

And there was somebody there that made it all right, the cold and the bolting, like he was a friend. Real close, like his face a breath away, lying right next to me on the ice even if I can’t make out any of his face. And he cheering me. Newt, I was never a thin child and today I’m on the roly-poly side, but in that vision? I felt like my heart was a big guy on its own.

So I have to ask. Newt…was it the War? Were you there, too, when it was so bad half the lads were splitting their brains and keeping half for what wasn’t there, so the other could hold? Like, an underworld, no humans allowed, only creatures that were good and clever and bolted for fun and not dear life? Because if you did, and it kinda vaporized on me, then it’s okay. It’s okay, pal. A body does what a body gotta do to see himself over to the safe side, and if it ends in a book or a bread that will make people glad, who ain’t got a clue about the other side, that’s the okayest thing.

Just wish I could see that friend’s face.

Jacob

For a cleaned-up version of the whole chapter on AO3:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10931328

(deleted comment)

Jacob's section was the hardest to write so I'm really glad it worked for you!

Rowling is terribly, delightfully heavy-handed with Queenie's period lingo (and Newt's Briticisms). I'm keeping three tabs open for 1920s slang!

Booklegger & Smutelf is a variation on "Bookleggers and Smuthounds", a fascinating essay on the circulation of "gallant" (read: smutty) books during the Prohibition era. The author mentions at one point that some retailers didn't look into the books, just snatched whatever title sounded titillating, and so I just had to write poor Newt spotting his darling book on a naughty flyer. Mr Smutelf should buy himself some glasses!

Mr Scamander,

Your mother is indulging the misguided notion that I have taken you under my wing. Somehow, I doubt that the man who saw through my Doppelganger captor while everyone else let him chat up young unfortunates and order bretzel with his coffee breaks needs a minder. Tell her so, and feel free to call on me otherwise. Case-free, if possible.

Since her brief to me included a note to you, I have asked Miss Goldstein to pass it on.

Truly yours (and self),
Percival Graves

-------------------------

Newt,

I’m sending this care of the Delta Hotel, where you said you were a boarder. Why I have no idea. I only saw the place once, after it went all-out Ragnarok on poor Mr. Kowalski, and it looked gloomier than a troll’s Christmas list. Why don’t you room with us? We’ll pass you off as our southern brother.*

Your book is great. And it’s great that kids are loving it. Who knows, perhaps they’ll make it a school book some day?

All good things,
Tina

*I can be a sister to you, Newt. Comes with the territory, when it comes to me.

----------------------------------

Newton dear,

I wish you’d tell me when and where you’re leaving. It is highly inconvenient, having to ask Theseus for your whereabouts when most days there is no saying where he might be. That Herr Grindelwald could have waited another decade for his hoity-toity crusade. All it’s done so far has been to keep your brother away and bring in those beastly taxes. Yes, Newt, I’m using the b-word. I have every reason to. Two nests down with the foot-and-beak disease, and Balin is moulting again, poor darling. Your father too, but that’s par for the course.

And to top it all, Abraxias Malfoy has just unplaced his order for a Blue-Fledged yearling, saying that he ‘favours peacocks’ all in all. Peacocks. Unbelievable. And asking for his deposit back. The gall of that flaxen-haired ninny!

Which brings me to my point. Since you are in wizarding America, I expect you to make the most of it. They have girls over there, Newton. In case this slipped your notice (much does). Perfectly nice girls with fathers in the broom business and the corporate Patronus business, who would love nothing more than a son-in-law with an Old World pedigree. (V. sensible of them. Look where inbreeding left the Malfoys.) And it’s not as if the estate couldn’t do with a little remodeling, which I certainly cannot afford, not with the Ministry pinching my best mounts for the war effort and Certain People favouring honking featherdusters for their lawns.

Somebody has to do the honourable thing, Newton.

(And we both know about your brother’s life motto. ‘Bit of whoopee in the gunroom’ probably sums it best.)

Now, Mrs Wanderbell – a dear friend of your godmother’s, and quite the hostess in New York – has agreed to give a little party for your book. She has three daughters, and they all have friends. I want you to go there and look your best, and I want you to write back and report on the young ladies, chapter and verse. Do buy a new coat, dear, and do try not to mention the dung beetles at meal.

Yours affectionately,
Mother

------------------------------

Queenie,

Saturday, eleven, bakery. I’m in.

Resolutely,
Newt

----------------------------------

Hey chickadee,

Look, it’s not my fault I was late at the show yesterday. I know I’d said 5, what with the tickets selling like hot cakes, but Mr K. was on the slow track. Sorta dopey. You’d not of thought he’d downed five cups of joe with that guy and that doll in the a.m. (Guy was shifty. Spoke like Stan Laurel and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Made me suspishous that he’d he’d put a Mickey Finn in Mr K’s cup as himself would drink none of it, and a fresh strong brew it was. Doll was all right.) They all kept talking and not talking. More like, Guy would start and stop, and Mr K. would say ‘Oh’, like he’d just won the ball pool, and then Doll would say something very fast, all dimples. At first. Then no dimples. It’s a phony world.

Mr K. couldn’t string two and two together after that. Baked the cinammon rolls at sponge temp and these babies came out all gooey, So who had to do another batch? And the inventory? Yours truly, that’s right. Boss just pawed at his neck and beamed. (Could of been a poisoned dart, then, like in that Capone gang story you and I read in the Mirror.) But he did say I could have all of next Sat afternoon. Meaning, we could have a stroll and supper before that jazz talkie. Eh, chick?

I hope you like the orkid. It cost me a pretty dime.

Yours,
Henry

(deleted comment)

Wow, thanks for the adorable long comment! Working on part 5, will try to post it on Thursday or Friday.

It's a good warning about young Henry's letter: I know I can get carried away with the "period voice" thing. I'll tone it down/smooth it out. Henry's not quite an OC by the way - we see him all of two seconds at the end of the film, when Jacob directs him to the storage room.:)

Mrs Scamander is a precipitate of all my Wodehouse, Mitford, etc. readings - strong, no-nonsense county woman with a love for hounds and horses hippos and an eye to practical matchmaking. Her sons love her - but have found it to their benefit not to haunt the family estate!

Dear Newt,

I made a thunderbird tonight,

It came to me right after you’d left. It had been such bright fun, meeting with you again, I was fit to burst with it and I didn’t want to let it get by again. But I’m not a thinking man, Newt. I’m not big-knuckled up there like you. My craft is in my hands, and they were itching for a shape to bake that brightness in in as a keepsake, come what may. (More of that may to come.) And so I softened my butter and took a measure of flour and spices, and the dark brown sugar I’d meant to cook with tonight’s sausage, and I made a giant ginger bird. A thunderbread!

I stayed long after Henry and I had closed shop, waiting for the bread to rise, like the bird the last time I saw magic. My face ached from smiling, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t, Newt. Just the shock of you here, you hauling that blessed case up and onto my marble slab right next to my own glass case. I kept figuring that some little guy or other had scarpered again and was lost under a shelf, and once, I think, I said: ‘C’mon, buddy. Warmth and comfort for two over here.’ All the way loud. But there was nothing.

I wish you’d stayed longer, you and Queenie. But I get that she gotta be careful. She’s a real nice girl and I sure as hell hope they didn’t give her what for at that crazy capitol place where she works.

Speaking of. It’s been eating on me, that you’ve gone and taken a room at the Delta. By God, that joint! Been there myself when I knew and had no better. Heck, it’s where you and Miss G. – the sister – tracked me again, am I right? That how you got the address? But, Newt, it ain’t for you. They need to treat you better, whoever it is that got you here, you a man of letters and all. Or you need to shake that dirt off your feet and rest them here.

I mean it, Newt. Plenty of room upstairs where I live. And I could help with your folks like I did that night, feeding them and all. I’d love that. You didn’t say how long you’re staying but, long or short, you got an open voucher at Kowalski’s. Think on it?

Now, I’m gonna glaze that bread, just the beak and the tip of the wings, and I’m gonna stick a nip of candied orange for the eye. And then I’m gonna wrap it in waxed paper and keep it for you. Careful! Gingerbread’s fickle quick to dry up, and it spoils past a fortnight.

Top of the day to you, pal.

Jacob

----------------------------------

Queenie,

Is your head better? Is it something I did? I have this knack for talking too much – talk the hind legs off a ‘griff, Tease’s words – v. annoying – but you said you wanted the other fellows gone, and so did I. All of them. And Jacob was ever so chuffed! Nothing can keep him away from the sunny memories, Queenie, no rain, no drug of any sort. Not our Jacob. And they made his face so warm and excited – lit up by the gold inside, like Niffty’s treasure cave. Did you see it? I know I did.

But I saw you too. Saw you wipe your eyes, Queenie, with that paper bag you Accioed on the sly. Don’t think I didn’t.

I only have a fortnight left on my leave. Please, let us not part two sad people. Let me know what I can do.

Newt

-----------------------------------

Mr Graves, sir,

If I may respectfully bring the enclosed to your attention…

Pompey Abernathy
Head Supervisor and Clerk-in-Command
Wand Permit Office
Magical Congress of the United States

Dear Mr Abernathy,

Please to note that I ain’t showing up at work today and won’t be all of the week, since my health requires a change of scene. I’ll be at Cagliostro’s Café, Chicago. Only don’t write me there, seeing that I’ll be undercover as a cigarette girl.

My best thanks for your understanding,
Queenie Goldstein

--------------------------

Mrs A. J. Wanderbell
and
Miss Louella Wanderbell
request the pleasure of your company on January the Twentieth, One Thousand Twenty-Seven,
to honor Mr Newt Scamander ‘s poetic suite, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Opening Talk by Mr Carlos Williams Carlos

A Themed Buffet Will Be Served At 7PM

Wanderbell Chateau, 660 Fifth Avenue, New York - RSVP

--------------------------

Hey Newt,

Excuse the choppy writing, as I’m doing the same on a train. Head’s better. I swear. Just, it got a bit of a bang from all the reading there I’d never planned on. Silly me, forgetting that minds can be loudest when happy too.

What can you do, honey? Well, here’s me telling you.

Don’t go back to England. Go back to Jacob’s. And when you see him, take him on the offer he’s gonna make you. Trust me on this. You were his first Portkey into magic, Newt. You still are. ~~And I’m not a taker.~~

Love,
Queenie

Okay, not only did my htlm skills fail me once more, but the opening speech at Mrs Wanderbell's launch party for Newt is by William Carlos Williams. Gdi, brain.

(I find his works so magic, I had to make him a wizard here!)

(deleted comment)

Oh my god, don't apologize! If anyone can vouch for the manicness of work, it's me. It's lovely to see a new comment from you, but I don't want commenting to turn into a chore!

I'm glad the latest part pleased you! Yes, Queenie was hard hit, poor sweet. But she is plucky too. She is taking her own path, but she's not taking it quite alone: see below...

Yup, next part coming up! It concludes chapter 2, so I'll post the cleaned-up version on AO3 later tonight or tomorrow.

Miss Goldstein,

Whatever you think you’re doing, you will cease, desist and proceed directly to my office for a cup of coffee. Your sister is in no small degree of concern.

P. G.

Dear Mr Graves,

Can’t. Your owl is fast, but the 20th Century Limited won’t stop for love or money.

Please don’t blame this on Tina. I was just helping sort out the spell records, and it’s not like they was classified stuff or something. Besides, your folks got it wrong.

Q. G.

Miss Goldstein,

You have no brief, no training, no partner, and – I pray to Oz – no idea of the hazards a young unattached witch will face at Cagliostro’s. My ‘people’, as you say, have spent five weeks month tracing back Mr De Soto’s Transfiguration spells. What could they have got wrong?

You will use the return ticket herewith, Queenie, or there’ll be hell to pay.

Percival Gregory Saturnus Graves

Mr Graves,

Oh no! The full-name signature! Gee, what’s a girI to do?

Sure they got it wrong. Turning gigglewater into sloe gin, to pump into the No Maj black market? Nah. Only works if you chase it with a shot of Felix Felicis. Not worth the production cost. Now, the way I dig it, your Mr D. is into distribution, and he’s using an Extension charm to make portable speakeasies. Like, a matchbox. You know. So when the No Maj please pops up, it can be slipped into that cute basket thing that’s held by a vapid blonde. You know. Like me.

Q. G.

Queenie,

You’re not vapid. You’re anything but – not the woman who kept her wits about, smuggled three Most Wanted out of MACUSA and heard my all-but-last breath across three walls. Or I wouldn’t have offered you a job.

The offer stands. But I can’t let you turn it into an off-and-on escapade, when the stakes involved go way beyond your needs or my pride. This I was taught last year. I am trusting you to dig it today.

P. G.

Mr Graves,

You know why I turned it down. I had other prospects at the time, and I made no secret of them – to you and Teen. (Also, the dragonhide coats. They itch. My family has, like, a case history with dragons.) But I appreciated it.

Look, I get it. Me not telling you to mind your own yard when I have both feet it. But I ain’t coming back. Not yet. Not when I gotta do something I can bank against all the empty in me – you know? But I’ll tell you what.

I’m at the Hotel Blake, same block as Cagliostro’s. and the groom there has a chum who knows a bookie whose sister is necking with Mr D.’s right hand. I’m only two eyebats away from a job. So I’ll stick it here today, and you can find me a booze Auror to work with. Deal? I gotta buy an undercover camiknicker, anyhow.

Queenie

-----------------------------

Percy, you slacker. Yes, permission to skip the Imbolc Security Detail meeting. But you’d better be back next week, so I don’t have to suffer alone through the actual gala.

Seraphina

---------------------------

Wanderbell Chateau
January 21rst

Bathilda dearest,

So good to hear from you! I’m all agog about the new book – Omen, Oracles & the Goat sounds like an absolute eyecatcher – goat’s milk baths are back in trend, did I tell you? So it’s bound to be every bit as successful as A History of Hogwarts. Are you sure you don’t want to winter here? We’d be all fluttery to have you! I’ve just had Jeanne Beauvais re-do the guest suite in a natty peacock blue pattern. Peacocks are the dernier cri in England, I hear!

Speaking of goats and suites, we had young Newton over yesterday. Don’t thank me, dear! It is my pride and pleasure to oblige you. And your godson is a fine young buck. A teeny bit shy, maybe? He seemed to have trouble remembering names. Called my poor Lou ‘Miss Lobelia’ all evening – the girl was ever so mortified. But he’s very bright, I’m sure.

I was hoping for a juicy debate between him and Mr Carlos Williams, who gave us a devastatingly clever analysis of his book. Newton, I regret to say, looked unimpressed. He answered my query about collage with ‘Well, it’s a glossary, so it tends to follow alphabetical order’, ~~which I thought the teeniest wee bit rude~~. And while we all cheered Mr C. W.’s exquisite tribute poem

I have stolen
the coins
that were
in the cuss box

he objected that Nifflers, as a species, are not given to apologizing. But then, he might have been distracted by the buffet. I noticed that he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

It was a nice buffet, mind you– quite plain, as befits a literary soirée - all French cheese and those funny, animal-shaped breads from Kowalski. I’m not sure who or what Kowalski is, but they make these dandy little breads that Lou and her friends keep raving about, so I had her order two dozens for the cheese. They were actually quite good. Newton certainly seemed to think so – he Disapparated half-way through the evening, just when poor Lou was spelling up the phonograph, and where do you think I found him? In the kitchen. Clasping hands with the caterer, no less. I guess he was congratulating the man, which was very nice and democratic of him, except I wish he’d congratulated poor Mr C. W. first.

Anyway, he told me ‘I’ll come tomorrow, first thing’, which I found a teeny bit odd, since we’d only just had him. But he was looking past my shoulder, so it was a lit-tle hard to offer him the suite, especially as he then shook my hand, still beaming, and said ‘Goodbye and thanks awfully, and, and, goodbye’. Ah, the Art of the British Paradox.

Anyway, it was quite a successful evening. Even the caterer seemed to think so: he refused my tip.

All the very best to you, darlingr, and do tell me about the new book. I can’t wait to patronize it here!

Yours,
Eleanor Wanderbell III

Cleaned-up chapter 2: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10931328/chapters/24551592

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Jacob/Newt, post-film, epistolary romance

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Re: Jacob/Newt, post-film, epistolary romance

Re: Jacob/Newt, post-film, epistolary romance

Fill - When the Clouds Roll By (1/?), epistolary romance

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