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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The dragon was adamant in declining to make sense. But since he also declined to spit fire, or re-route them to the sea with a flick of his tail, the best option was to let him carry on mistaking them. As Tina said, quoting a pet proverb of Queenie’s, "don’t cook your soup and then add honey".

" Jacob would disagree." Newt had pushed up his sleeves and was rubbing dittany oil into the beast’s rear legs, where the cuffs – now Evanesco’d – had left a history of bruises and cuts. The dragon growled soft approval. "Remember his czernina? All in the sweet’n sour, he’d say."

"Well, I don’t want to sour your sweet." Percival, now un-leathered, ran a hand in his own silver helmet. "But we’re back in Scotland, where Voldemort’s hoodlums love to bivouack, and the night won’t hold off forever. I vote we move our friend to safety."

"Ah, but where is safety?" Newt stroked the scaly flank gently. "We can’t just Side-Along him to Norwegia. For one thing he’s too large not to splinch, and then Ridgebacks are famously harsh on their own kin. Look at him – old, half-blind, no training whatsoever in self-defence. He would be the runt of the herd."

"A reserve, then?"

"There’s Romania, but… they work mostly with Horntails, not your chummiest beast. Danemark, now, that’s another story." New’s face brightened. "I could fly him to Jutland There’s an international wizard park with caves and lakes, a rehab center for mixed breeds. I was Our Man in the Ministry when it was founded, I can probably talk them into taking him in."

"Good. All settled, then." And Percival began to fiddle with his left cuff. "If you and Tina –"

The boom of sound caught them by surprise, rippling, swallowing their next startled words as Newt jumped back and Percival flicked his eyes to the horizon. Five black shapes were homing in on them, high enough for the sky to become a projectile path, wands out. The air in their backs had turned green and glittering; not the lively green of Floo flames and fireworks, but ghost-green; curdled into the shape of a skull sticking out a tongue that was a snake.

The dragon roared again, striving and failing to rear itself on wobbly rear legs.

"Here be trouble." And there be wonder: that his friend’s voice, still its quiet self, got through to him in the turmoil. "Newt. Take Tina with you and fly North."

Newt looked at him as if Percival had just suggested they open a snout-to-tail diner.

"Sir, if you think for one moment – "

"Now, Newt!"

Jinxes, already; vicious, cutting the air to the quick. But their scope was wide enough that Percival could deflect them in time. Behind him, the dragon backed abruptly; struck the hillside and bellowed. It was the fire, Newt understood too late. The red-hot Unforgivables were raising pang after terrified pang of memory. He had learnt years ago that fire meant pain, that came with the clank of soulless metal, and now all he could hear was the rattle of spells, all he could see was the flash of magic. His throat raw, he began to writhe his tail, banging it wildly to the hillside. The jutting rocks shook under each tremendous stroke.

"No!" And, in a flash, Newt was at his side. "Hush, oh, hush, sweetheart! You’re going to bury us all."

The next blind swish of tail tripped him up. He landed on his knees under a pelt of dust and grass, little stones, one of them grazing his shoulder. He searched for words, but none came. He was Parseltongue-tied.

"Newt!" It was Tina. He could not see her, but he felt her presence at the edge of his vision. She was breathless, wound with the adrenaline of strife. She wheeled, cursed, jinxed, then she spoke again. "You’ve got to stun him!"

"I can’t!" Newt yelled back. "Not when he’s like this, his heart won’t make it, I – "

The dust hit his throat, forcing his head down as he coughed. Then, there was a brusque lull in the fight. He looked up and saw Tina standing between the rock and the hard place where Percival fought. She was biting her lip and her face, at that moment, had the terrified cast of a young girl. Then she raised her arm, raised her voice, and called out in a high clear voice : "Catch!"

The next instant, her wand was flying, arrow-straight, straight into Percival’s blocking hand.

Newt couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, as if the whole scene had numbed itself to a stand-still with him still a piece of it. But she did. He saw her throat move as she inhaled, deeply, and then… and then, she moved her two hands down from her face to her chest and hips, and her two-tone, brown and beige travelling clothes melted into gold. He knew the dress from some faraway corner of his brain. She had worn it twice, once when she had taken office at Ilvermorny and once at Rollo’s wedding. Third time…

Third time was the charm. He watched her advance, heroic, scared and determined, and he knew who she was. The words came to him from the other side of the century, period words now: old-fashioned, dating back to a time of roaring cars, debauched cocktails and bob-haired heiresses. Golden girl. Our golden girl. That was who she was and who she’d ever be, moving to stroke her hands over the dragon’s eyelids as they fluttered close, oblivious to the cry and hue of battle.

"Three down!" came in Percival’s voice, its lower tones dark and exulting. He swung it in a whiplash line, and the fourth Death Eater kicked and screamed and fell, only his broom tossed back and forth above the water. It was an incredible sight. Gone was Percival of the cramps and glasses, MACUSA’s honorary geek and yesterday’s man. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of 1945, his cloak flaring with righteous heat. The sun in his back, he fought two-handedly; parried; slammed; slashed; burnt; peopled the sky with deadly Northern lights, and while his face was hidden from Newt, Newt knew what last Death Eater saw in it – knew, and was not surprised when the sea opened a man-hole and the man was swallowed, hood and all.

Percival turned and wiped an arm across his face.

"Good thing" – his voice shaky now, but from laughter – "I had some practice today!"

this was lovely - I adore how carefully Newt is planning for the dragon, and Tina's dress is a great solution. Really great :) (I also see we've snuck past ten parts! YAY!)

ayrt Haha, thanks - I couldn't help a Gold-stein pun here.:) And yes, on to part 11. We're close to the end, really, but the Return of the Death Eaters scene took a bit more space than expected. Thanks for the sweet feedback!

Nothing and nobody making sense now, but who cared? Newt was laughing too, carefree and dizzy, his heart pumping sudden truths as he threw his arms around his friend and embraced him fiercely. We are grey. We are old. But we’re a long way from dying. He felt a touch of lips to his temple and a step back: watched as Percival Graves walked over to Tina and handed her wand back to her, wrapping Tina’s hands around it and bowing his head to them as before a sceptered queen. They gazed at each other and breathed silently, the high of the fight still half-seen in their eyes. None of them felt like breaking into speech.

But speech was due, and Percival, true to self, took command of it.

"Better go now. They might have sent five men after the sad old bunch, but when they fail to return…it might be fifteen next time."

"Right." Newt prised himself loose from the high, glanced around. The dragon, still entranced, was half-grunting, half-vibrating some sort of dragon lullaby to himself. He would be pliant enough, Newt thought. "I think I can persuade him into flight – three riders may be a bit of a shock to him, but –" He looked again at Percival ‘s face and dropped sharply into silence. "No. Not three."

"Newt..." Tina’s hand was at his arm, once again clad in sensible brown.

"I should have known." He swallowed, forced the words through the aching lump in his throat. "I should have known the minute you mentioned the portkey. Two cufflinks for three of us. You never meant to go back, did you?"

"What’s there for me, back?" Percival spoke calmly, but his eyes had that familiar depth to them; pupil-dark; that blend of loss and lucidity, seen again and again since the day Newt had followed his Demiguise to a hidden cache in MACUSA’s sewers and set a captive free. "The young’uns are up and eager, thank Mercy, and they’ll have the knack of progress before I do. Here is a war. And our side is hard-pressed enough that it will take a gift horse, even an old charger, without looking it in the teeth."

"But why? Why? You’ve known about that war for two years now! Why change your mind now?"

"Because…" The dark eyes shut briefly, opened again. "Because of who they killed last summer."

"Charity Burbadge," Tina said. "She taught Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. You may have read her pamphlet in The Prophet, denouncing the… the witch hunt on Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. It was very forceful, very effective. But then, she knew about the power of words. She knew what she was doing, going public with hers."

Newt could feel the unspoken weight behind Tina’s own words, as if she was using some sort of double-speak. But he couldn’t parse them. Not yet.

"Then, back in July, we learnt that she had taken early retirement. I thought she was taking shelter, really – and so I did not write to her, did not make a fuss. Neither did Percival. We both thought her undercover. She’d always been good at…hiding who she really was."

"Who was she?" Newt asked. He couldn't bear the grief in her voice any longer.

It was Percival who answered. "Before she changed her name, she was known as Modesty Barebone."

The name raised a long-lost echo in Newt’s mind. Modesty. A young girl with blond plaits coiled round her head, hanging at Tina’s side but refusing to hold hands with the stubborn vulnerability of children who have learnt too soon to be on their own. Tina’s protégée, brought to her by Percival after he’d been told about Credence and the whole poignant Obscurus fiasco. It had taken years for Percival to let go of his vicarious guilt and for Tina to let go of the little girl. At Ilvermorny, when she was eleven, and from school into the wide free world. And now…

"No! " Tina’s voice was vibrant. She had a long life and she lived every day, every day of it as she chose. This is what I’ll remember when it’s remembrance time. And if you fight her executioners, Percival, then so will I. Don’t you dare see me safely home."

"Oh, and I am to be safe?" Newt asked harshly. "No. No sodding way. Where you two go, I’ll go."

"Absolutely not." Percival’s eyes once again on him, a warmer dark, pleading, pitting half a century of complicity against Newt’s furious scowl. "You’re a wanted man, Newt Scamander. Milly, Mauler, Rolf, they all need you at home. And right now, there’s a dragon waiting to get safe conduct into a bright new world. So you get on his back, and – wait, what’s this?"

Once again they turned to look at the sky, now a deeper blue. But where there’d been five shapes there was only one: a gleam of silver against the evening light. It rode the crest of a wave, took off again, soared above their heads. When the plover opened its beak, they heard Queenie’s voice :

"Trouble at Hogwarts, honeys – looks like You-Know-Who might be planning an assault. Ain’t gonna be a quiet night. So don’t look me up on your way back, willya? And look after y’all."

[One final part coming up! Probably shorter, so I'll try to have it posted by tonight.]

This is so sad...im proud of what Modesty did! And oh. they all need so many hugs

ayrt I'm sorry if I made you sad! But there was always an angst factor hovering by and now we have it. Don't worry, I promise it ends on a happy note for our trio.

Ack, I should have remembered endings take twice as long to write properly! Will do my best to update tomorrow.

Well, that was it, then. We this way and you that way – he to Jutland, Percival’s cufflinks jiggling against his heart, in his shirt pocket. And Tina and Percival to the Hogwarts and History’s rehearsal scene. Dark clouds to be stopped, children to be saved. Newt mustered everything he had and smiled into their eyes.

"Here," Tina said, handing him her cape. It had been Transfigured back into a plaid and folded into a makeshift saddle. She now wore Percival ‘s coat, Percival crowing all the whiile about his two layers and cashmere waistcoat. "And here’s your map. Keep the sunset on your right, and when you’re done – home and bed, Newt."

"What, no battlecry for me?" Newt grinned, resolved to ease their parting by turning on the mischief. "No Come back above your dragon or don’t come back??"

"You come back on this dragon, I’m jinxing you myself." Tina stroked the dragon’s snout and turned away, but Newt caught her elbow, mischief forgotten.

"Tina. Just – this. Percival, come here."

He waited until he could feel their warmth at each side. "My true home is in Dorset. Fires in winter, a garden in bloom. Rooms, lots of them, goose-feather beds and fat armchairs, and honey for tea everyday. And a Kneazle for each of us. Tell me I’ll see you there when you’re done." He turned and touched his forehead to Percival’s. "Tell me."

"I promise, Newt."

"I promise." Tina’s sweet-creased brow nuzzled his. "Dibs on Milly."

Newt smiled, and was still smiling at them when the dragon took off. He gave the bridle some slack; pressed his toecap gently into the soft secret gap between two scales, his own war reflexes revived. "Huisipisi," he said, bending over his charge’s neck to whisper in his ear, which perked to the ancient sibilants. The dragon’s wings flapped quicker, stronger, as he kept the sunset to his right.

Newt turned his head back, but the island had already been squeezed to pebble size under him. Only the wind now, above and beneath and around, bracing and carefree, and he threw the two of them into it.

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

In the early hours, in the fireline, Minerva McGonagall’s tartans looked almost flamboyant: a sunset before sunset. She and Tina stood on the battlement, doing their best to Headmistress a battle which ebbed and flowed without any discipline. Not unlike the Werewolf Frat on a spree, Tina thought wildly, but so much more lethal.

"Two naps a day," Minerva said, watching her fire a strafing round at a knot of Snatchers surrounding a lone Centaurs. "I could certainly do with one these days. You look – JORDAN! NO SALLY INTO THE WOODS UNTIL I SPEAK THE WORD! – quite tireless, Porpentina."

Tina nodded. "I feel tireless."

"And yet, planning to retire." Minerva gave her a sharp-eyed look. "Winning a war is only half the job, Porpentina."

"Yes, that’s experience taught me." Together, they kindled a new energy field in the main quad. "It’s also taught me about faith. And wanting. And winning your own peace."

"Hmm." Minerva still looked stern, but there was a wry, humorous glint in her eye in the next lull of fight. "Anything to do with the very dashing gentleman who relieved me of command in the Quad Courtyard?"

Before Tina could answer, there were cries and whoops further below, and a great slash of gold in the sky. Tina looked up and gasped. Minerva, while keeping clear of anything so undignified as a gasp, rasped her throat. "Tina, is this a –"

"Tina! Perce!" Newt’s voice, amplified, cascaded down the stone walls as he swept a wide half-circle. He sounded positively ebullient. "You said not above this dragon – but that one’s a Hungarian Horntail! He’s a champ!"

"Merlin in Avalon," Minerva muttered. She turned to Tina, lost to the warmth of reunion, and rasped her throat. "Gentleman friends, Tina?"

The Horntail dove snout first into the fray, ploughing fire as it did. The fire kindled a light, and the light struck a new perspective. She wasn’t a Seer. And neither was Percival down below, an unseen presence linked to her by that radiant trail. But at that moment, it was as if Tina had been granted night vision. She saw what she didn’t know yet would be the morning-end of night – she saw daylight in Dorset and a house with its windows flung open to it, she heard the sound of bees and Rolf’s laughter in the bloom of Spring, and indoors, talking over old times and a cup of tea, she saw the three of them sitting close together with a Kneazle on each lap.

Yet feet that wandering have gone

Turn at last to home afar.

It would be the end of the journey, their unexpected, incredible journey.

And it would be nothing like an end.

[Thanks to my meme commenters! I'll be back to link to the cleaned-up version on AO3]

SA Ack, got my Roman saying wrong: Newt should have told Tina, "What, no battle cry for me? No Come back with your dragon, or on it?" (// "Come back with your shield, or on it"). Edited on the AO3 version.

such a beautiful ending. and oh dear. Newt. Of course, they possibly meant "not on any dragon", but this was lovely xD and go him! What a spectacular end :D I'm happy for them and loved this fic throughout

Trust Newt to hear exactly what he wanted to hear!

Thanks for your comment/s: they did help me wrap this up (my most ambitious FBaWtFT fic as of yet!). The cleaned-up version has been posted on AO3, link below.

Link to the cleaned-up version on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9585830/chapters/21671834

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Prompt Post #1

Fill: There and Back (10/?)

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Fill: There and Back (11/12)

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Fill: There and Back (12/12)

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