Chapter Text
Newt Scamander’s morning started like any other. With Pickett licking his face.
Half Labrador, half wolf, the pup was getting too big for his own good. His brown paws take up most of his body and he cocks his head at Newt, silently urging his master for a walk.
“We shouldn’t let him inside,” The unamused voice of his wife echoes from the bathroom, “We’re getting too old, Newton,”
“I’m not sixty yet,” Newt calls back, gently moving Pickett aside to stretch his sore limbs.
There is some truth in Bunty’s words however. A fifty-nine he had begun to notice small changes. An annoying ache in his back that never quite seems to go away. Every time his private doctor, Dumbledore comes for a visit, he suggests new and improved medications. For his heart, his lungs, his bowels.
As if he needed them. He was half wolf for christs sakes. Plenty of spring in his step.
But no longer a young wolf, Newt thinks ruefully, looking at the bedhead of greying hair that stares back at him in the mirror.
“I’m serious,” Bunty steps into their bedroom, her own hair pinned up in neat curls, “You can no longer look after every stray that wanders into your path,”
Pickett nuzzles Newt’s pyjama leg. A sweet boy, only just weaned. A quick learner however. Newt’s tracking lessons are going to make him pack leader in no time.
“Are you off to London,” Newt replies gruffly instead of answering her. His wife is always off to London these days.
Bunty nods, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Leta asked me to help her watch the grandpups,” Bunty’s tone is more bitter than sweet.
Newt nods disjointedly, not meeting her eye as he begins pottering around to get his clothes in order. Wolves only breed with other wolves. Unless the human happens to be your mate of course. To say that a lack of a family has caused a large amount of tension in their marriage would be an understatement.
“Well, have a good time,” Newt says airily, tiredly picking up a pair of holy underwear Pickett’s clearly taken a fancy to off the floor, “Send them my love,”
There’s a quiet sound. Then Bunty’s picking her way across the room to take his hand.
"You could come with me," She says, her words soft and hopeful.
Newt frowns. He knows what she means. Not for just the day. Away from their large broken down house, with too many rooms and not enough money to lubricate things.
Pickett barks playfully, chasing a stray button that’s fallen onto the floor.
Newt turns away from his wife to glance out the open window. The woods stare back at him. He knows every badger hole, every fallen branch. Every step.
This is his home.
“It smells like rain,” He says instead, refusing to notice the disappointment in Bunty’s eyes.
Dark clouds hang over him for the rest of the day, as well as outside. More seem to crowd over the old manor house every hour.
Lucky for Newt it’s Pickett’s day off- he needs some time to be a pup- so he doesn’t have to worry about getting soaked in the middle of a run. The youngin doesn’t care about his poor chances however and Newt still has seen no sight of him by nightfall.
Not that he’s worried. Pickett’s got a nose. It’ll find it’s way home, even if the pup won’t.
All in all it’s a quiet night. Newt’s finished of his dinner- raw steak, very raw- and is watching the fire in his library flicker away to coals, by the time the door-bell rings.
Ding. Dong.
Newt immediately sits up in his chair. The Scamander manor is far out of the way of the local town. And by now not only has the rain begun to come down in buckets, but the wind is battering against the Edwardian windows, threatening to smash them in.
Newt checked his watch. It was seven o’clock at night. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? In this weather?
His muscle crack as he slowly makes his way out of his chair. His mother always warmed him of transforming too much in his youth. That it would wear on him in the future. Newt’s joints are paying for his ignorance.
He shuffles to the front door and the bell rings again, almost angrily.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Newt says loudly, his voice on the edge of annoyed.
They ring the bell a third time instead of replying and Newt’s swearing under his breath by the time his fingers have managed to get his locks undone.
He opens the door, the furious wind helping to throw it fully open slamming into the side of his house with a tremendous slam.
There on his doorstep, stands a girl. Probably a young woman, but to Newt everyone who looks younger than twenty-five is a girl.
She’s completely saturated- head to toe. Her raven black hair sticks to her forehead and her slim frame seems to bend in the rough wind.
“Hi,” She says, her American accent crisp and curt.
Newt stares. Something deep in his hut has clenched.
Mine.
“What?” Is all Newt finds he’s able to say. Whether he’s talking to her or his wolf, Newt cannot be certain.
She’s frowning at him. Her dark eyes seem to reflect the lightning cracking behind her.
“I found him,” She looks down, her face softening at Pickett, whose squirming in her arms. Her head flicks towards the scattering of lights wavering in the soggy distance.
“And you walked all the way out here?” It’s Newt’s turn to scowl at her.
Not only was that highly unnecessary- Pickett could survive in the woods for longer than Newt could, let alone a helpless girl on her own. The wolf pup certainly needs guide home. But she’s put herself in terribly danger coming out in this weather. The woods are full of all sorts of creatures- not to mention she could have slipped in the dark and cracked her head open.
“He is clearly a pet,” She points unashamed at the collar and address Bunty insisted of tying around Pickett’s neck, “I wasn’t about to leave him out in the dark all alone,”
Newt watches as Pickett wiggles deeper into her arms, his tongue kissing her hand lovingly.
Her face, previously stony, cracks into a smile. Newt feels everything in his heart constrict.
She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.
Mine. The voice comes again, louder this time, and more insistent.
“Right,” Newt says, a splash of rain dampening his face by the wild wind.
He’s ever been a particularly articulate person. But in his older age he has found he’s become better at holding conversations. This girl makes him just as tongue-tied as he was in his twenties.
She watches him distrustfully, preferring to linger in the down pour than to step closer under the balcony where it’s dry.
Luckily Pickett does the job for them. Using her chest as a jumping off point, he leaps to the ground, and leads the way into the house. His big paws leave wet prints in his wake as he pads towards the kitchen.
“Please, come in,” Newt finally remembers his manners, standing back a little.
The girl bites her juicy bottom lip, looking unsure. Newt does his best not to salivate, forcing himself to focus on her eye-line.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” She says, taking a step backwards.
Don’t let her leave.
Newt takes two giant steps forward. Rain begins pelting on top of him, running down his freckled neck.
“I can’t let you walk back in this weather all alone,” Newt says, the sky grumbling above him as if it agrees.
She looks skywards, arms crossed. He can’t help but notice her clothes have begun to run see-through.
“I have a guest room, clean, with a warm fire,” Newt says, hoping he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels. Something in him tells him he just can’t let her go, “I know I’m an old man, and probably not the best for company,” He smiles at her sheepishly.
Her gaze flits over him immediately, blinking. Her eyelashes are stuck together, wet. A stray one in stuck on her pearly cheek, only a quarter inch from her pink lips.
“You’re not that old,” She says carefully, wrapping her arms around herself, “You don’t seem it anyway,”
She’s stepping closer, clearly taking his invitation. Newt’s inner wolf is more than smug.
So sweet. Thinks we’re still young.
It’s dark enough she probably can’t see a foot in front of her, poor pet, Newt reasonably argues back.
Mine. His wolf says resolutely.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Newt replies to Tina amiably, ignoring his inner wolf.
He leads her inside making sure not to touch her. She’s dripping onto his carpet, looking up at the ancient paintings that fill his hall with interest.
“Newton Scamander,” Newt introduces himself, taking off his now wet dressing gown and nodding for her to do the same with her flimsy coat.
“Tina Goldstein,” The girl sticks out her hand instead.
Newt stares at her white clear skin, entirely untarnished by wrinkles. He clasps it with his wizened ones, wrinkled from age and sun.
Immediately something in his core jolts. Inside him, a light flickers on. It’s like he’s been living without half a lung, half a heart his whole life, and suddenly he’s whole again. Newt’s eyes widen and his mouth grows dry as he realises what his wolf was trying to tell him the whole time.
Mate.