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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OP, if you're still around, this is filler #1 apologizing for her tardiness: this took ages to kickstart! But here we are, and there goes our trio. I have changed the start just a smidge, since filler #2 used it as their own premise and I didn't want to feel like I was infringing on their fic. Which I hope they'll carry on.

Warning for one minor character's (pre-story) violent death.

The last house was also the first step into the woods, with the huff and puff of its chimney rising above the green fronds when you caught a day glimpse of the village from the road above. (And if the smoke looked green now and then…surely, that was a trick of light and leaves? Surely.) It was cradled by the eternal Vermont hills, in the bloom of health and grass on that first of May; and as the day let go of the daylight, it became cradled in birdsong and TV chitchat, altogether celebrating the birthdate of the Vermont Anti-Slavery Party.

Well, nearly altogether.

"...Gringotts' CEO now claims that the incident was 'largely misconstrued', and that every heirloom stored was, in Mr Gnarkles' own terms, 'safe as caves'. When asked about the missing dragon..."

The newswitch's voice perked up suddenly, morphing into bright, alert tones even as she continued to mouth her report. "Mr Scamander, did you know that seven Nifflers out of ten favour a good-luck charm for their birthday? Vulcan & Veela's offer..."

The long form walking about the room (with a cautious hand to his hip) merely waved her on. Newt Scamander bent over to pick up a woolen cardigan trailing on the floor with barely a wince when a small creature landed on the small of his back, catapulting out and atop the television set.

"Little Midas VII," Newt said over his shoulder. "is resting in peace under my silver bells. What did Gnarkles have to say?"

Mr Gnarkles, apparently, had not much to say, except that rumours had been vastly exaggerated and every measure necessary to any measurable aspect of their current predicament had been taken.

"Gobblindegook," Newt. He scowled at the screen, then turned aside to throw a few more items into the backpack lying open on the couch and sat down next to it. "Milly, Mauler! Hoppy, down!" The Kneazle turned its nose up, and Newt's eyes rolled correspondingly. "All right, all right, you infernal spacehopper. Milk? To come," he added once Hoppy had reacquainted its paws to the floor.

The Kneazle-brand dirty look was met with a grin, creasing up the speaker’s face under a tangled web of hair once reddish-brown, now a lighter marmalade on account of past years and the various tropics

"Now, you have food, four doors to come and go as you please, and Mrs – Ms – Buchanan next door will keep an eye on you. You know you can trust her. Mummy’s going for a little trip to help a…" Newt paused to reflect. "A friend in distress. Old friend, perhaps. They didn’t specify the sub-genus, but if the eyes were pink and milky – yes, Hoppy, coming up – then they must have been red in the first place, and that would infer…"

The rest of the monologue faded under his breath as he poured a carton of milk into three bowls, kneeling down to ran a light hand over each spotted back as they, in turn, petted the slim ankles. At last, he stood up, checked the cat’s-cradle of straps, flaps and buckles on the pack, hitched it across his shoulders, straightened those, shook a rogue strand of hair off his eyes, and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder on his chimney sill.

"Dorset, Scamander Hou –"

The green flames leapt before the word was over, and another voice filled the fireplace, earnest if a little veiled, as Tina’s arms shot out blindly in his direction.

"Newt, no!"

----------

"Newt, yes," said Newt, and clasped her hands gently, helping her out of the grate.

So happy that this is being filled! What a lovely start

Long ago, in what would never seem another lifetime (because Tina had always been part and parcel of his, even when they’d both stayed away and let tectonic patches of time slip by), she had looked deceptively baby-faced. And for a second’s hiatus she did again, blinking herself alert. Then came a mew and a clatter, a startled Kneazle knocking his meal over. In a new blink Tina was at Milly’s side, righting the bowl, spelling it full again, smiling over at Newt. The milk had spilt over the oaken boards, a white rivulet between their feet, and Newt felt as if it made a connection: a thread of what if, a match between milk and fire, her smile, the hour, even the wind breathing sleepily on the trees outside.

Then she said, "Not on my watch, mister", and his old friend Tina was facing him again, Ilvermorny’s First Lady.

"I knew it! The moment Percival’s Patronus rapped at my pane and said dragon, I knew you’d be kicking up Floo. Newt, you have to let the Ministry handle this. You blew one hundred candles a week ago: you’re well past the fireline."

"Nobody at the Ministry will bother. The Ministry –" Newt clutched his pack, struggling for words. He wasn’t one for Ye Ould Bureaucrats’ meetings, but it was strange, how Theseus’ anniversary had come and gone last month without even an owl Apparating at his window. The only tribute had come from – "Wait, Percival?"

"Of course Percival. Emphatically Percival." Tina was laughing and frowning, her face – slightly parched, but still a face of its own, sweetly lined under the dark bob which had turned part-grey, lyard a Magizoologist would say, beautiful, like a badger’s coat of arms – volubile. "What did you expect? From the man who glared MACUSA into investing in a Whirlwind computer – poor Abernathy had to relocate in the supply closet, that thing was a humdinger – and doubled its clean-up rate? Reaping an Emeritus once everyone realized only he knew how to man it, after it sent Greenwitch Village twice into blackout." The frown was topside now. "I was expecting to find him here. Unless.... oh, that man. I bet you he deliberately forgot –"

The flames shot green again, letting in a new visitor. Tina, who had been patting her streamlined trench coat, sighed audibly.

"Sir. To think I was just praising you as a circuit surfer."

"Tina, what a pleasure. Newt. I, ah. Erm. I took a few minutes to pay my respects to Mrs Buchanan." Percival smoothed his silver cap of hair back two-handedly and strode out.

"Perce." Newt had retreated to the Kneazle line.

Tina, having fished a tiny object out of her pocket, tapped it with her wand. She waited until Graves’ bow to unfold it and slip the glasses deftly up his nose. "Don’t make me Gemino them again," she said.

"I don’t need them."

"Yes, you do. They compliment your eyes. Austere but chic, the Graves mystique. Now glare some at Newt, please, and help me ground him."

Newt watched them with a secret rustle of love at the complicity which spoke of years at each other’s side, back and call. Watched the one linger, head bent just the extra second it took for the other to show her care, and knew it was the care that grounded him, when he could have already Apparated to the other side of Vermont.

"…end up a centennarian roast for a dragon on the run."

"Not just a dragon. A Ukrainian Ironbelly! It might even be one of mine if it’s been there for ages, the Ministry was so very hush hush as to their fate post-war. I have a responsibility, Tina!"

"Never mind that war! This war’s the worst, you have no idea, you could –"

"Never mind me! He’s alone, half blind, incapable of navigating its way to a herd… Tina, he’s been kept in the dark for years, warped and tortured for years," Newt took a breath and braced himself for a low blow. "I have every idea of what was done to him, and I know that he needs guidance to a safe place. I thought that you, of all people, would understand that, even if he’s a beast."

There was a pause. Tina opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Perce?" Newt turned on stiff legs, ready to face a new challenge. "Are you going to let me do the one rescue job still within my power, or am I going to duel you for the lease of my own chimney?"

"Actually…" Percival spoke wryly, but his eyes were grave. "I’m here to tell you it wouldn’t be any use. You haven’t heard of the new measures, have you? No, I thought not. The long-distance Floo Network has been closed off for an indefinite term, and no international Portkey will be authorized in or out of the country, effective from today. We are, for lack of a better word, warlocked."

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

That last line... but this whole thing was lovely! I'm enjoying the description, and they get on so well. And Percival's glasses... this is fantastic

Thanks for your kind comments! Yeah, I'm sorta treading the line between "sentimental friendship" and "get a room, you three, it's not too late" here.:)

I have to put this on a short hiatus as I'll be travelling for work the next two days, but so expect the next part by next mid-week.

DA. It's never too late for OT3! :D

I'm loving this so far. I totally buy that they've known each other for ages, and I love that Newt feels a personal connection to the dragon.

Hope your travel is safe and pleasant!

"Well, that takes the witch cake."

Tina’s Americanisms had grown and multiplied in time, an object of ceaseless wonder to the Briton and the linguist in him. Newt would have paused to write down this one if he hadn’t been reeling under the news.

"They can’t do that!"

"Sit this one out, too? They can and will." Percival’s eyes, ever dark and broody, now magnified by the black-framed glasses, moved to him. "Have meant to since the Ghost splashed Dumbledore’s death all over its front page. They think the dam is broke, the Statute’s a goner in Europe, and now they want diplomacy a zero-sum game while they stoke up their wards. Quahog thinks if he’s very, very lucky, and keeps us all under a force field, the No-Majs will put it to a case of Old World hysteria."

"He can’t do this!" Tina was jutting up her chin and fists, a very Tina response. "We had an agreement! I gave Minerva McGonagall my personal word that Ilvermorny would take in each and every child – "

"I’m sorry," Percival said, his gaze still searching Newt’s. "I’ve done my best, Tina. But to Quahog, I’m yesterday’s man. It’s all Take in the kids, the families will want in next, and who knows what they’ll bring with them? "

"They know the answer to that. Morrigan’s sake, they pass our memorial to that, twice a day on their office days!"

"Squabbles and partisan rifts," Percival said grimly, "and a rain check with Voldemort the size of a Thunderbird storm. Can’t afford to get his eye, can we, Graves? Not when he’s been such a gent as to look the other way the last three years. It was all I could do to finagle a pass for Rolf."

"And I thanked you, then, in my brother’s name. And I’ll thank you now to give me mine." At last Newt held the somber gaze, having looked around one last time to check that he was leaving no window unlatched.

"What?"

"Tina, come on. He’s Percival-of-course. D’you really think he’d come unprepared? Or come to gloat?"

Tina looked carefully from one man to the other. If Perce’s thin twitch of lips did not give him away, Newt thought, his right hand would, pushed deep down his right-hand pocket.

"…No," she said, the word tilting up her own mouth. "Not Percival-of-course. Okay, then. I’m going to need thicker boots and leather gloves. Oh, and a cape, too – it’s England. Can I use your plaid?"

It was Newt’s turn to pause.

"Newt." Tina was wrapping herself briskly in her new cape, which still bore a few scratches from Hoppy’s kitten trials in harpooning himself across the couch. "This dragon business beats every gig you’ve talked me into the last seventy years, uh huh, "do the Hippogriff" included, which I’m never doing again until your next hundredth birthday dance. I’m in."

Newt glanced over to where Percival stood, his face unreadable.

"But Ilvermorny –"

"Well, somebody else can give the Alpha Werewolf Frat a talking-to, for a change. Or tell young Rolf that family quirks are all well and good, but I want that Augurey out of the lockers by lunch bell. It’s making Coach jumpy."

Newt glanced again.

"Emphatically Tina," was all Percival said.

The fire had been cowering now there would be no more guests, but Newt felt its unseen light burn his cheek, his eyes, making its habitat inside his chest. He felt half his age and twice his strength as he took up his pack again. "All right then," he said, and his heart glowed up, hot and brilliant like an Ashwinder’s egg. "We're doing this. What's the trick?"

"Here." Percival took his hand out of his pocket. To Newt’s surprise, it was empty. "My cufflinks," came next. "I had them Portkeyed a month ago, when I booked a long-distance trip online. Then I paid… the site a little visit later on to update its status. Officially, I was on a health hike in Switzerland last week. Better than risk us on an unauthorized item, really: I set up the tracking protocole for those."

"Mercy Lewis." Tina had sat down abruptly. "Sir, you do realize that makes you the perpetrator of a Section 6 Breach of – and did you say last month? Why on earth would you decide, a whole month ago –"

"Of course I would." Percival smiled briskly; turned to Accio the forgotten pack. "Newt, where are we going? And how many Houdinis did you fit in here?"

"Ah, oh." Newt, who had been trying to keep with the strong underdrift of not-gonna-say, started. "Well, the Newswitch was awfully vague as to the where and when, and with a blind or near-blind animal, it gets a tad complicated to retrace a route. So I thought I’d spend the night in Dorset and then, well, put my ear to the road. Check out the Prophet, call the Ministry to check if…" Newt’s voice faltered at Tina’s snag of breath. "What? It would just be a routine inquiry, they know me there!"

"Newt, no." Percival’s voice was gravelly with more than age. "Whatever you do, keep away from the Ministry. They won’t tell you much these days, and they’ll ask far too plenty."

"Where, then?" Newt asked plaintively, but he took a step forward on seeing the green stones flare up on each of Perce’s cuffs. He caught the outstretched hand, all questions lost to the quick of departure, only trust left – that Tina was clinging to Perce’s other arm, that one or the other, or both, knew their way out. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hoppy and Mauler dash across the room and sent a fond goodbye under the couch. Then magic called, hard and pure, hurtling him across multiple planes of being as he closed his eyes and leant into the counter-grip of Percival’s hand.

oh this is gorgeous, I'm really enjoying this fic! Thank you for writing it :) I love all the details, and how hard Tina is trying - and some interesting political things going on as well.

Ooooh, thanks for the quick comment! Very encouraging! Will try to post more before Friday, and I'm really glad it (hopefully) makes sense so far.

Portkey trips still made her heart shake in her chest, but Tina fought the nausea easily enough. There were a few perks to living through nine decades, and taking things in stride was one of them. She waited until her vision had adjusted to this new-lit night to release Percival’s arm.

Hogsmeade in moonlight was very much the same as Hogsmeade at bright noon a year ago. It had been lined in black when she’d stood there in purple and blue brocade, Ilvermorny’s chief mourner for the passing of Albus Dumbledore. The difference, she thought, was in the silence. Hogsmeade had been a quiet borough, but Hogsmeade had never been dead quiet, not even in the dead of night. She felt a shiver down the runnel of her back and turned to the others.

"Bakery," she mouthed. "This way – quick."

They stayed on the shadowed side of the street, close to one another. It was a paler sky, the morning-end of night: yet no birdsong. Huh. Something new, that. She still recalled Queenie’s excited Firecalls, their first year apart: peewits and lapwings and tits, Teenie, ain’t that cute! Jacob says he’s never seen such great… okay, I’ll quit teasing you. Naughty Queenie, so happy in her newfound land.

She smiled to the memory; kept smiling as they turned a corner and came in sight of Kowalski’s Knut Kroissants, its door a glossy butterscotch brown. Only a clump of shadows between them and Queenie’s welcome – only ten steps to go – but as they drew nearer, the shadows leapt out and thickened.

"Who are you and what’s your business here?"

"Dragons," said Newt before any of them else could stop him.

Tina caught Percival’s quick curse of breath, saw his arm rise between Newt and the man, half warning, half warding. "Let me," he mouthed to her before he took a step out of the shadows, letting the moonlight sharpen his features.

"Do you know me?" he said, and where the other voice had been pitch and frost, his was the Graves voice, still devoid of any American drawl, its lower tones deadly soft. "Your master does, or I wouldn’t be here."

The Deatheaters stood still. Tina watched them watch Percival, his dark eyes, his proud carriage of head, the dilacerated map of scars that had left their white marks across his brow and cheekbones.

"What’s yer name, then? And why weren’t we told about ye?"

"What, you think Lord Voldemort makes it his duty to proclaim his every ally? To his every footman? Perhaps he relies upon their memories." Two wands were raised as Percival dipped a hand under his cloak. They were lowered when he held out a piece of newspaper, yellowed and wrinkled, but still legible under its preservation charm. Tina knew what it was. She’d seen it have pride of place on his desk, a flagrant go to hell to MACUSA’s least said soonest mended. "Or does Gellert Grindelwald’s name no longer ring a spell?"

She’d never known who among their small group had let his memory of the arrest be drawn out and fixed into a photograph. When the Ghost has released its scoop – the impostor kneeling, his face warped by rage, a moment before it was stripped of the mask, she had been angry at the leak, felt it a betrayal among the ranks. But it had helped soothe Percival’s reintegration into a service left in near chaos by his Doppelgagner. And it was helping even now.

"But he’s in jail!" – from the better-informed footman.

"No longer," Percival said, and Tina was struck at how true the lie sounded. "Your master saw to that. Why don’t you call him, if you doubt my word? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to leave his present business and vouch for me." He threw his head back and laughed, his lower tones darker, unforgiving.

The laughter, it seemed, did the trick. There was a shuffling and a coughing, and then a bright pop as both Death Eaters Disapparated.

"Merlin’s beard," Newt said, eyes still popping green and startled, while Tina gave the door three quick raps. "You really did come prepared!"

The door opened wide and they filed in, straight into a world of warm scents and lights. Five a.m. in Hogsmeade meant baking hour, and Queenie all but tumbled into their arms in a cloud of flour and welcome.

So glad Queenie is there... and oh. Clever boy Percival. So clever, and good plan. I love this so much

Yes, they're getting a break at Queenie's to catch up their breaths and enjoy a snack! And do some dragon tracking. More to come...

"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.

So gorgeous. I love that they quote the book, and the pastry niffler stealing gumdrops is genuinely the cutest image I've seen for months.

(Ack, it's spelled in one word! Thanks for the tip, kind commenter.:))

We're officially crossing into the second half, and I promise this fic does come with a dragon. More tomorrow...

(Here we go again. And here's hoping my favorite commenter is still around.:))

It still lacked an hour to the dawn and she spent it mostly dozing, her frame abandoned to the plump armchair. When day called, and Tina struggled up the muzzy depths of sleep, she was met by a hum of voices. Close, gentle, low, often too low, but coming now and then within earshot, like the ups and downs of the fire.

"...never could hide anything from you. " (Percival.) "When did you first suspect? Back in July?"

"No, not then. I was shocked, yes, but not entirely so. She was always been so independent-minded, I thought..." Too low again, until her sister's soft American burr resurfaced. "...tragedy... couldn't tell Tina..." Sharper now. "Did you? Is that why -"

"No! I swear to you..." Rash tones, urgent, gloved in a… plea? Then the voices plummeted again. "….best for her…. a remedy, a comfort, knowing at least she'd helped rescue another…. I know Tina like the back of my soul. Selfish of me, no doubt, but -"

"Oh, honey. You're a very generous man."

"Hardly that." (Speaking from a closed throat now, with more emotion she’d heard from him in the last year.)

"I say you are. And anyone can judge from example…"

"I know, Mrs Kowalski. Still. Right now, I ought to... only, I wanted a, a, a day in the sun. Old man’s dream, one final romp, shared and shared alike."

"Hum." Tina risked a chink of sight and there was Queenie, bending forward to retrieve a tray of gold-glazed pastries, her back turned to the chairs. "Can I speak my mind?"

"As an alternative to reading mine? By all means."

"Well... I always wondered, all these years, if the reason you didn't make a go of it was, you couldn't make a choice."

The words, shared and shared alike, slipped from Percival's ear into hers; eddying down her memories. Where to start? Newt coming back to lay his book down at her feet; finding Modesty still with her, eight, prickling with child magic and the orphan's desperate hunger for things to last, to stay the same. Packing up not an option, neither then nor later; not after Picquery's midnight visit: Percival will say yes, but mine is a perilous seat. Not because it is powerful, but because it is lonely. I need you to stay, Miss Goldstein..

Years of President Graves becoming Percival; war years, hard upon one another, although the war had taken a gapyear now and then: a respite, spent abroad. Newt's face, gaunter, invincibly boyish, lit up with laughter after that wild Fwooper chase in Africa, the three of them covered in pink feathers like a burlesque trio : yes, Percival too.

But it hadn't been enough. In the course of these years, something had leavened in her, a seed, not of motherhood (Newt's stronger suit), but memory – of a child's open-lipped smile at magic. She had told Percival once, '45, their one and only drunken party, adding "But I don't want to marry!" (Queenie's suit). The gigglewater had swirled her head, blurring the sight of his too-silent eyes, all dilated pupils like she'd gone and closed a door between them, leaving him in the dark. Gone over to Ilvermony; pat when Newt had come, shaking the Ministry dust off his feet, and their three-cornered game had taken a new spin: Newt a consultant now, when he wasn't away being an uncle. For, yes, Theseus had surprised the world and its wife by taking one himself in his prime: May to December, the tongues harshed, to Newt's impatient shrug: if Bowtruckles mated at mid-life (Pickett had seen the light in ’31), why shouldn’t humans take a leaf out of their home tree?

She had seen pictures, the Dorset home now half-nursery, half-savannah for Newt’s charges (the suitcase, sadly, hadn’t made it through the war). Rollo had come once on a visit to America, a freckled, corn-haired, jolly little fellow bonding with her over pop-tarts (pop-tarts!) and fighting the good fight, preferably with tickles. And then… and then, twenty years on, that heart-stopping flinch at unfolding the Ghost’s centerpage and reading his and Theseus’ names – in their death they were not parted, an echo of older teachings, unconsoling. (It was war again in England. When would it not be war?) She’d kept her grief to herself and agonized at the thought of Newt doing the very same; pictured to herself the Dorset house, banked to the roof with charms and wards and Keepers, but empty on the inside, only Theseus’ widow and Rollo’s baby boy pacing its halls; made up her mind and owl-bombed Percival, only to find that he’d finally staked his claim for half a lifetime’s days off and flown over to help Newt start a human family.

It was strange, how she’d never felt even a twinge of jealousy, not then, nor in the first summers of peace, when she’d left her own charges to reconnect with them. They were just – Newt and Percival, swinging young Rolf between their hands over dandelion fields; taking turns at bedtime stories over fantastic beasts and where they could be found; when they did not taunt each each other gravely, merrily, over whose teeth were up to that last krowki (not Jacob’s – gone in peace and Queenie’s arms by now– but Queenie carried on the tradition in style).

She had basked in the warmth of reunion, and they had spread it out for her, again and again, so that even now, a grey-haired Madam Principal, she felt calm and secure. None of them had made a choice, because all three had known that choosing one meant losing the –

" – trail, but I still say Lakeland as a start. "

She opened her eyes to find Newt folding up a map and Percival, arms crossed, watching him.

"So be it. But if we go gallivantin’, then I go ahead and check the path. You follow with Tina."

"Right you are. Lead the way, Daddy-o."

"Daddy-O." Percival shook his head in pointed disbelief. "What are you, fifty-five?"

But he smiled, the way he always did when Newt was at his irreverent zenith. A day in the light, Tina recalled, and rose to meet it full front.

(hehe I hope the favourite commenter is me! I've been squealing at this fic)
This was gorgeous - I love what we see of their lives between the film and now - President Graves! Poor Suitcase... but AGH this whole fic is so beautiful. They just need to talk and be happy. I really hope this is going to be OT3 endgame because they've had a whole life time of not being happy when they could be. And this is so cute. Daddy-O. Dear God Newt, xD Thank you for a wonderful chapter

Aw, and now I'm squealing at the comment! Thanks, it really keeps me going. I have this fear I'm babbling the fic away in FEELS instead of "eyes on the dragon, you!".:)

I think they've each had moments of very great happiness and self-achievement. But yes, they got caught between the Grindelwald and Voldemort years, poor dears. (Killing off Theseus & son was the worst. I'm never doing it again!) Definitely targeting a hopeful end, though. More to come...

(Sorry for the delay, fic exchange deadline called dibs! Here we go again. Fic might total ten parts, give or take, and I'm not pausing until it's done.)

Here was the thing with the British weather, Percival Graves reminded himself. It wasn’t always British. It could be whimsy, unstolid, undisciplined, a thing of fits and starts, not to be talked into proper behaviour. A grey zone if there ever was one. And, just when you least expected it, it could turn tautological: it got sunny in May. While the sun had been pillowed on the clouds at their departure, it had risen during the stretch of morning, and was now skinny-dipping through the waves as they, too, rose and shone along the Cumbrian coast.

Still, he did not rue his choice of wearing two layers under his waistcoat.

"I need a break," Tina said, and threw a cushioning charm on a bed of pebbles.

"But…"

"Newt, darling. It’s nearly two. I’d hex for a snack, and your dragon is probably snoring off his latest… roast on the go. How many did we count between () and here?"

"Six." Percival took off his glasses to rub at his nose. Goddamn thing pinched like anything. "Including the actual Muggle mechoui. Where they called that nursing home, asking if it was quite safe to let the elderlies laugh unsupervised in this day and age."

"LARP, I think it was." Newt had opened his pack and was handing out pies and sandwiches, Queenie’s godspeed gift to them. "They tend to say that when I mention dragons."

Percival glanced over at him. Newt looked as fresh as a daisy, well, an over-the-hill daisy, but as full of single-minded stamina as if he hadn’t spent the last eight hours Apparating all over the north of England. They had found dragon prints, sun-dried by now, on the mud bank of Grasmere Lake, and roamed the upper county for clues – dung piles, wood fires, fields and hedges trampled just this way – Newt whooping ecstatically the whole time. Percival had kept a bespectacled eye around in case they were being trailed, though both sky and land had given the clear out on Death Eaters. Perhaps his lie had caught on, after all. However hard he looked, only charred casualty on their path to Cumbria had been a dragon-lit clump of trees, quickly put out of their misery the local fire brigade.

"Boss! Catch! "

A bacon sarnie was tossed his way; was caught – pitching was still Tina’s strong point – though not before he’d conjured up a pristine handkerchief. Newt said Not bad, old boy, and Percival mock-gnarled his face at him.

"At least I don’t dress behind my times."

For Newt had always been fashionably late. When Percival had first met him, Newt had worn a blue coat with lapels, yes, but an endearingly frock-coatish look about it. Now, in 1997, he was leapfrogging across England in bell-bottom trousers, their colours matching his tangerine hair. He would probably – no. No. Probably was right out. Newt would greet the 21rst century in a Hawaii shirt and a pink Fwooper crest if it was the last thing Percival ensured in his life.

"Less bickering, more beast tracking, you two." Tina gave St. Bees Beach the once-over, prompted a trickle of Aguamenti into their waiting glasses. "Where next, Newt? He must have crossed the sea at this stage."

"Shouldn’t we, you know, be looking for gold? A dragon does not live on sheep and freshwater alone. I mean, there’s a reason why Gringotts –"

"No." Newt’s voice was strained, clipped by that note Percival knew only too well : the rare, but not entirely infrequent note of anger both at the world for sinning and at himself for letting others be sinned against. "No, you’re thinking backwards. You’re thinking that dragons crave gold, that they’re, they’re greedy, miserly creatures. They’re not. We are."

"Newt …"

"I’m sorry." Newt sighed, pushing his errant lock back over his ear. "I didn’t mean to snap at Perce. But this matter of dragons and gold – I gave it a whole page, only the editor scratched it. Something about libel issues and the new goblin lobby, blah, bleh, blah. Truth is, gold soothes dragon. It’s like – you know that sensation, last thing at night, when your bed feels soft and safe around you and nothing bad can find you in it? Well, that’s how a dragon feels if you show him gold. They don’t need it. But they cherish the sight of it, because it warms their eyes and breath. Like a fireglow, only it’s out of them." Newt’s lips tightened. "And then we come and warp that love. We twist their hearts with fire and Clankers until we’ve made them covet our gold for our sake, oh yes, and we spread the word that they’re the great hoarders, not us. Clever us."

There was a silence, heeded and endured until Newt looked up again with a smile. "So no Irish gold mines, Perce. Nice try at decoying us to ye olde homeland, though. Tina, what’s your advice?"

"Keep our eyes peeled for informants. Wherever there’s mayhem, there’s always a mouth eager to tell of it."

"Is that the auror or the school principal talking?"

"Both – and the lady about to take a nap." Tina leant back against her invisible air mattress and drew her cape up to her shoulders. "Wake me up if there’s any action."

"Will do," Percival said briefly, while Newt, barefoot and sunfreckled, went to say hullo to the waves. They rose and broke, broke and rose again, their white horses seemingly tireless, and it took some effort not to be lulled into the peace of repetition. But there was Tina, sleeping at his side; and Newt, intent on rescue; and he knew better than to close his eyes now. Head high, bushy white eyebrows to the shore, he took the first watch.

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

*between Dover and here

So glad you're continuing this! I'd missed it. Tina is adorable and comfy, and they are all so lovely - Newt's impassioned little speech about dragons was really touching, and lovely detail. I love Newt's fashion(?) sense as well

It's lovely to see you again, too! Posting the next part right now.

Newt's frock-coatish coat was a stroke of genius. Here's hoping it gets an Oscar!

(LMAO, Captcha wants to know what "the colour of a blue cheese is". It's not a cheesy coat, Captcha!)

He was fighting Grindelwald to the give-and-crash of spells around him, at quarters close enough that he could see eye to that pale blue eye, so pale it could barely be told apart from the sickly white encompassing it. For some reason, he had misled his wand and was conjuring up new and deadly weapons from his open palms. Grindelwald roared, and the sky filled up with smoke; but Percival only dealt him a whistling blow on the head with his teapot. That was what pots were for – and a few other things, such as providing a home for uprooted tea leaves and warming one’s hands at wintertime, and…

Wait, what?

He opened his eyes with a gasp of annoyance. They felt gummy, and he had to rub them before he could take in the scene : the four o’clock sky, hurried clouds over steadfast blue, the louder tide, Tina kneeling before a small bonfire. Flotsam wood, it was, carefully ring-fenced by a trench carved all around in the wet sand.

"And an invisibility charm, " Tina said, reading his mind. She handed him a steaming mug. " Good thing Newt remembered to pack his old campfire kettle along with his old whistle."

Percival, wrenching his thoughts away from Constant vigilance, phooey and a blue streak of self-admonition, blinked. "His…"

"Call whistle. Twelve-tone, orichalcum, coming-of-age present from Theseus. Newt’s been trying it on the rising tide."

"Any results?" His nose duly rubbed, Percival set his glasses back to perpendicular rectitude. He could make out Newt further along on the beach, strolling, hands shoved in his trousers pockets. He appeared to be scanning the waves.

"Four Hippocubs, one baffled lifeguard. Nothing worth cutting off your forty winks."

"But you were the one…"

"Hush, Percival. I needed the waking time too." Tina sat down again, her body a neat zigzag as she drew her legs carefully under her. "So I could think things through."

The verb rang a bell, a red bell above the water, an alarm bell. Fully awake, he set the mug down. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I’ve figured it out – why you sent me your owl. Why you wanted me in England today, saving an innocent. I mean" – Tina now spoke with full-frontal clarity, her face transfixed with that determination he had fallen hard and fast for that first time, aeons ago – his office, her voice, young then, shaking with nerves and will, sir, she beat him under my eyes, she beats all of her children - now saying, "that I know who was killed last July".

He moved his eyes to the waves.

"And I dont know if I love you or hate you for keeping it from me."

The white horses were rearing higher, their mother-of-pearl manes scattering in a froth at each new crash of waves. He could see a new one loom up, tall, taller as it inched forward, its long hair matted with brine and dripping kelp as it cantered towards…

"Newt!" He was on his feet and running out before he knew. "Newt!"

"It’s all right!" Newt didn’t turn, but his voice held quiet reassurance. He lowered it. "Just hand me my… ah, yes, thank you, Tina. A sea Kelpie, now that’s unheard of. They’re mostly river bound."

Where they made a business of luring mindless humans on their backs for a ride on the nice horsie before diving underwater and eating up the rider, save for the entrails which they kindly allowed to resurface. Percival grabbed the next elbow within reach. "Behind me. Both of you."

"No, no, I’ve got this. I’ll have her eating out of my hand in a jiffy. Just…" Newt had finished rummaging in his pack and was now standing, one hand in his back, doing his best impersonation of a Magizoologist doing his best impersonation of a casual idler. The other two watched as he sidestepped his way to the Kelpie.

"Oh, please," the Kelpie said. She had transformed into a cross-armed young woman in a one-piece bathing suit, and her tone was distinctly unimpressed. "If you insist on pony play, at least pick a partner of your age. And species."

Newt stopped to drop the bridle at his feet. "I…can offer a hairbrush?" he said hopefully, hurrying to add "for your mane! It gets tangly!" when she raised an eyebrow.

"Takes one to know one," the Kelpie said, glancing at the wind-tousled mop. "You can keep the pressies, Gramps. I’m here because word’s got around in the deep blue sea you’re looking for a worm."

"A Norwegian Ridgeback," Newt said firmly. "Slur-calling is beneath your dignity as a fellow creature."

"Yeah, whatever." The Kelpie turned her head to spit out a chunk of seaweed. "Anyway, I spotted his new stomping ground only an hour ago. Thought you might want to know."

"We do." Tina had stepped forward. "What’s your deal?"

"Ah. Now we’re talking." The Kelpie’s eyes lit up under her strong fringe of eyelashes. "Well, talking’s one word for it. I’m not gonna tell you anything. But I can change back and take you there, all three of you, if this one –" she jutted her chin at Newt - "will put in a good word for me."

"To the lifeguard?" Now it was Newt's turn to look baffled.

"Oh, for Hengist’s – " The Kelpie let out a high-pitched whinny of frustration. "In your books! You went all yadda-yadda on that berk, Nessie, and all he ever does is pop his head out of his tail when there’s a whiff of fog and a cruise boat splashing by. World’s largest kelpie, my rump. You book me a spotlight in your next Pulitzer, mister, and I’ll row you three out straight to Wormboy."

"Newt, be careful." Percival was not going to let the wool slip over his eyes twice over. "It could be all a – "

"Oh, please. None of you are exactly spring chickens." The Kelpie snorted and turned her back, toeing the wet sand under her soles. "Going once…"

And this was how they found themselves riding a flesh-eating horse, whose back could apparently extend to the length of a beam, far into the deep blue sea. At least, Percival philosophized to himself, they’d had their tea first.

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

Their aquatic jaunt may have lasted an hour, two hours – to Newt, it seemed that time and the sea had united in stillness, the only motion the Kelpie’s vigorous thrash of hooves underwater. The Impervius charm made the trip pleasant enough, although Tina’s grip on his waist never faltered and he could hear Percival’s saturnine mutter about cramps. But to Newt the journey was pure bliss. Once coaxed into small talk, their ride proved a mine of information (when not griping about brine and hair barrettes, and kids getting so overcaloric these days, and that Houynhnhmus thinks he’s such a hotcolt but she could outrace him any day). They glimpsed a selkie once, singing above the waves, and as they neared their destination the sun pierced through the clouds and bathed them in its strong late warmth.

The island was mostly bare, abandoned by its Scottish dwellers since 1912. Newt could see the ruins of a church with a few feral goats around it, halfway up a hill that rose into a steep slope, hiding the view to the island’s south side. As he peered up, the hill was covered by a sudden shadow. Tina’s thumbs dug into his ribs, and Newt’s mouth opened in awe at the vast dark shape flying over the slope to land further away.

"You’re on your own," the Kelpie said hastily.

"Oh, right-ho. Um, I’ll make sure your name is correctly spelled –" but she was already cutting a fast breastroke away. They were left to wade to the shore. Then, the hill.

"Normally, I’d say we colour-camouflage and proceed by stealth." Newt took a quick survey of the open grass "This habitat, however. Is not stealth-friendly."

Percival’s chuckle was unexpected, but a booster. "Yes, I’d say a covert march is no go."

"Up to a point." His pack was once more at the ready, delivering various items of dragon leather into his hands. He held one out to Perce. "Put that on, and that. Yes, the helmet too. And you, Tina. We’ll get within sight and see how he reacts. Only don’t shout, please? Or draw fire of any sort. Or clank. Clanking is right out."

"Really, Newt. I don’t normally make a habit of emitting sharp metallic sounds."

He felt a jolt of love at her faux-stern voice, at the silver peeping from under the helmet on the nape of Percival’s neck. They were here, they were doing this, for him, with him, their faith and folly one. And now they were smiling at one another and starting on the climb – Newt first, a senior adventurer, Tina and Percival deployed on each side. The ocean swell in their backs did not fade away, but became a many-voiced pep talk as they clambered on, slowly, in the beautiful warm light.

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

And yes, he’d been right all along. A Norwegian Ridgeback!

In its youth, it must have been black, but comely. Now the ridges along his back were pale and flaky from his enforced stay underground, and it hovered uncertainly on its foot. Right stomp, left stomp, testing the grassy knoll under his feet. It was making for the edge of the hill, where it dropped sharply into a cliff of jagged rocks projecting out of the hillside. Newt signaled for the others to follow him back and round, down the path that led to its foot, where a short beach stretched out into the sea. As they did, the dragon

"He’s an Old One," he whispered to Tina as they padded down the trail.

"Join the club" her gaze said, before it turned interrogative.

"He might speak the norse variant of Parseltongue: dragons did, long before it became known as serpent-speak. I learnt it – some – when nusring my Occamies. Bit rusty now, but…"

His last words were flown away by a gust of seabreeze, just as they turned the last bend onto the shore. The dragon had taken the shortcut down the cliff and, with a flap of his great spiked wings, was landing – if not at their feet, then close to. It stretched its neck out and gave a loud bellow.

"Stupe –"

"No, no, wait – hold on!" He’d grabbed Perce’s arm and begged the ebony wand down before the stunning could take effect. "He’s not angry! He’s – surprised, that’s all. See? No flames."

"Hmm." Percival patted his hand noncommitally, but kept his own arm at the ready.

The dragon, his neck still lowered, was blinking his milky pink eyes. He took another cautious step forward. Slowly, carefully, he moved his snout to Newt’s hair and sniffed the pale red locks. The neck swiveled; the snout followed, investigating Percival’s glasses. Percival held himself very stiff and, with admirable self-restrained, refrained from wiping off the mist. But it was Tina’s bob – she had dropped the helmet at his cue, offering her naked face as a token of peace - that appeared most puzzling. The dragon gave it a gentle poke or two. Then he lifted his nose and uttered a series of dismayed barks.

Newt blinked in synch, his own face lost in confusion. "He says…"

"What?" and "Merlin's longjohns, what?" came from the other two.

"I’m so sorry," Newt told Tina. "I must really be rusty, because it doesn’t make a shred of sense. He says: ‘You three have aged up awfully quick.’ "

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