Chapter Text
Leta’s POV
“You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen
Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings
And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me
You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you
At last
And you will surely be the death of me
But how could I have known?”
- Like the Dawn by The Oh Hellos
Dizziness shot through her when her body collided with the wall. The sound of shattering glass broke the ringing in her ears apart – a harsh welcome back to reality. A brand-new ink vase gone, her books and schoolbag equally ruined. Leta groaned pushing her seemingly heavier self away from the wall, the side of her temple throbbing in what would later appear to be an injury. Laughter echoed through the hall, snickering and pointing coming from the golden, precious Gryffindors, with the cruel and pitiful Slytherin on the other end. It made her blood boil, muscles tense with flowing venom welling in her blazing eyes, waiting for the perfect moment to burst.
“What’s the matter, Lestrange?” pouted she, dark brown hair framing her face as a frame a canvas; a perfect canvas, a clean slate Leta would soon use, “Did that hurt? I’m so sorry, I never meant to-”
It was done in split a second, but Leta wished the satisfaction could last just a moment longer. Her fist was held close to her chest, throbbing lightly but not remotely as much as the Gryffindor’s face must have hurt. She couldn’t suppress the grin parting her lips when her eyes spotted the blood welling below her nose. Her friends gasped and screamed, asking for her wellbeing, while all she did was glare in shock at the Slytherin before her. Up until now, she seemed to have been well asleep in the lie that she was untouchable, a goddess that could torment mortals like Leta as a pastime endeavour. Pride bloomed in Leta’s chest. That was until the two other girls began to charge towards her.
“Colloshoo!” Leta shouted with a flick of her wand, watching with relief as her pursuers’ feet glued onto the ground, as if the sholes of their boots had melted and joined the floor.
She grabbed her bag and burst through the double doors at the end of the corridor. Students parted for her to pass, a group of first-years basically jumped out of the way, terror plastered across their faces. Leta needn’t linger on that much for she knew what it was; fear of what she would do to them. News of her family spread like a virus, to the point that – to first-years – the unfortunate Leta Lestrange might have become a bedtime story.
She ran through the school grounds with a smile on her face, the winter wind through her robes, intertwining the locks of her hair, both offering a sensation identical to flying with a broom. That very moment, Leta felt free, sprinting through the yard with nobody on her tail, her heart blossoming with her recent victory, alone and irrepressible. That was the way life was meant to be lived, in a world all hers to explore, with no prying eyes, no judging glares, disappointed sighs and frustrated scowls. Her heart tightened.
Just like that, the moment had died.
Looking over her shoulders one last time, Leta unlocked the door in front of her. Hastily, she entered the cupboard, minding locking the door behind her, unlike a certain someone. The temperature, from freezing cold, altered to a sweet warmth, one that replicated floating inside a warm mug of butterbeer; not that Leta knew what that felt like, of course. She shook her head at the childish thought, heading up the steep stairs. Ivies hung from the corners of the room, framing its walls and ceiling, and dripping down long enough to meet the floor. Few candles were scattered throughout, candles that never seemed to burn out, as well as numerous books, pieces of parchment and empty vials. Two raven chicks clumsily soared across the room, their chirping awfully weak in contrast with a diricawl’s that seemed to be announcing Leta’s arrival. When she got on the last step, it got louder.
“Settle down, now, Ember,” a gentle voice cooed from the middle of the room, “You’re not helping matters…” he muttered thoughtfully, clearly occupied. Ember seemed to notice that and let out an awfully loud caw that made Leta jump out of her skin. “Right, sorry…” – he coughed – “Would you please settle down?” The diricawl ruffled her feathers in satisfaction, winning a giggle from the boy.
Leta climbed up the last step, standing awkwardly as the surrounding beasts’ eyes seemed to land on her shortly before turning back to their caretaker.
Newt Scamander stood hunched beside the window, surrounded by herbs and multiple kinds of beast feed. He whispered unintelligible words, even hummed a tune in between, overall completely unaware of Leta’s presence. She sighed softly, slipping her bag off her robes before approaching the young wizard. Newt’s head span around, their eyes meeting for a split second before his drifted away from hers, instead meeting her shoulders.
“Hello, Leta,” he smiles; the kind of smile that reminds Leta that kind people still exist, usually in dark, secluded corners or – in this case – in cupboards inhabited by magical creatures.
“Hey,” she greets, plopping down across from him, “It’s freezing outside, better not go out there without a scarf-”
“Is everything all right?”
Leta halts in her seat, her mouth agape as she stares at him rather intently. He manages to maintain eye contact for a split second longer. Her brows furrow, gaze still locked on him, as she tries to figure out what it was about her entrance that revealed the previous events and her current state. Perhaps news travels fast in the massive school that is Hogwarts, that it even reached the abandoned cupboard where Newt spends all his time when he’s not sleeping or in class. Leta doubted that. So, what was it? The way she went up the stairs, the way she took off her bag or was it Ember’s cawing? Since when could he speak diricawl?
Hesitantly, in a way that – had Leta not known Newt for a year – would resemble a tremor, he pointed at the side of his temple. Instinctively, she reached up, hissing when the tips of her cold fingers met the torn surface of her skin. Sure, she thought unconvinced. She settled on the conclusion that Newt Scamander knows everything.
Biting her bottom lip, cheeks heating up by the bare thought of what had happened, she began unpacking her schoolbag. Book after book, the following worse than the previous one, she emptied it, now holding just a brown sack with ink splatter. With a scowl visible across her face, she took out few of the glass shards before giving up.
“Gryffindors,” she explained, “I’d just gotten it replaced! There’s no chance I’m getting a new one… Merlin’s beard, if my parents-” She had spoken too much. She pressed her lips shut, rummaging through her pile of useless books, heart racing, beating into her ears.
Warm, unsteady fingers found their place on top of her hand. Leta glanced at them in alarm. They stayed there for a moment, but as soon as she mustered the strength to look at the boy before her, they moved, leaving behind a ghost of warmth that too drowned in the frigidity that had settled in her soul since her early life.
“Not to worry,” spoke he, placing her ruined books in front of him, opened, “Take some of the ointment I made. It should help with the wound.”
Leta nodded a thanks before getting up to grab the tiny vase he’d offered her. Returning to her seat, she caught Newt in the midst of casting a spell. He flicked his wand over the pages of the book, lifting ink off of them and forming a swirl around his wand. He lifted it in the air, and Leta watched with awe as her previously smudged books looked good as new. The ink swirled, forming various shapes and flowing at different speeds, as Newt guided it toward a piece of parchment. Another flick of his wrist was all it took for the ink to gain shape on the blank page, now coming to life a detailed drawing of a phoenix – Leta’s favourite creature. Slowly, Leta sat down, eyes pinned onto the drying ink.
Newt smiled shyly as he handed her the drawing, “Worrying means you suffer twice.”
Leta scoffed, in astonishment rather than demeanour, taking the drawing in her hands. She stared it for a while as Newt shyly watched before getting up, “How did you do that?”
He shrugged, “I’ve spilled ink one too many times myself.” An awkward pause. “Of course, that’s not the same with what happened to you and- and I’m really sorry-”
“Thank you, Newt,” she interrupted him, receiving a barely hearable hum on his end.
Leta’s lips welcomed a faint smile as she collected her clean books, making sure to carefully press Newt’s drawing between the pages of one, and placing them beside her in a neat stack. Anxiety still clawed at her insides whenever she thought about how’d she’d be forced to ask her parents for another ink bottle for the second time this week. Her foot couldn’t help but bounce as she picked up the ointment, her father’s ‘advice’ about fighting back littering her thoughts, accompanied by her mother’s cruel words about her ‘getting what she deserved’. For all the money and prestige her family name carried, they could use a little more empathy. But that was the thing about her family: to be respected and appreciated, you had to earn it, and compassion wasn’t the sword her bloodline bore, but hate.
But Newt, his presence and this rather beautiful image he’d created using her pain as the paintbrush for creating serenity, had made today just a little more bearable. No, not just today. Her past months. And, sometimes, his company felt like all she’d ever needed.
With a dropper, she applied the remaining ointment onto her wound. She’d done it dozens of times, so it didn’t come as a shock when the beaten flesh spasmed and stung before returning to its original form. Placing the empty bottle beside her, she turned her attention to Newt, mixing different herbs and horklump juice in a small vial.
Intrigued, Leta inquired “What are you making?”
“Oh, uh,” he fumbled over his words, eventually clearing his throat, “We may or may not have a new addition to the family.”
Leta was about to laugh at his choice of words when a squeak broke the silence between them. Leta turned to her left, just to see a tiny, brown ball of fur bundled up in a nest made from Newt’s house scarf. The newborn – as it seemed – puffskein whined, looking around anxiously, producing a sound that resembled crying.
“Mum’s here!” exclaimed Newt, hastily dropping onto his knees before the beast, “You’re all right, Igor, you’re all right.”
Leta leaned closer, watching with great interest as he applied the freshly made ointment on the tiny creature.
“I found him in the forest, just south of beasts class,” explained he, as if having heard her thoughts, “A group of older students found messing with the poor creature as the most suitable pastime activity. I managed to save him from those- those-”
“Brutes?” offered Leta.
“That works,” he replied before continuing, “H-He’s been having trouble calming down. He can’t be more than two weeks old, he’s supposed to be with his mother, he’s just- he’s just a newborn. My guess is that he stumbled too far from his cave and then they…”
Leta kept quiet, allowing Newt to find the best way to phrase his words. Soon after first meeting him, Leta realised that Newt Scamander wasn’t the best with words... nor eye-contact. It’d seemed weird to her, at first, a part of her fearing that she had sparked that ‘odd’ behaviour. It didn’t take her long to find out that that was just how Newt Scamander was; awkward, shy and more than often underestimated. But soon, Leta realised that she preferred his evading gaze to the steady hatred in her classmates’ eyes that sparked a flame strong enough to burn her down.
“They-” he shook, gently petting Igor’s pelt with his fingers to distract himself, “They almost cast bombarda o-on him.”
Leta stared at him. There was something in his tone, an edge to it she’d never heard escape from his mouth. There was anger in it; a type of anger he only reserved for people like those students.
“‘Almost’?” she repeated with a raised brow, “How’d you get out of that in one piece?” She eyed his face, looking for any signs left carved on his skin by the explosion.
“I didn’t,” he admitted, eyeing the ground. In the quiet that persevered, he unwrapped a dirty piece of cloth from his left palm Leta hadn’t noticed, He held out his hand, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips.
Leta’s mouth dropped as she was met with the nasty wound plastered across Newt’s palm. His flesh was torn, hollow and visibly still bleeding while certain areas seemed cauterized by the spell’s produced warmth.
“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?” she exclaimed, catching Igor’s confused gaze from the corner of her eyes.
“I-” Newt mumbled as she frantically searched for the ointment he’d just offered her, “I wasn’t,” he admitted, no sign of regret present in his tone. Leta jumped to her feet, searching the nearby chest for another bottle of the medicine. Unsuccessful, she paused; he’d kept the remaining ointment for her despite being hurt – arguably worse – himself. “I had to help him.”
She grabbed some spare bandages and sat next to him, “I’m pretty sure you could’ve found a better way to do that, Scamander,” she clicked her tongue, grabbing his injured hand and wrapping the cloth around it, “There were a million better option than jumping in front of an explosion spell! I swear, trying to save every beast is going to bring you your death one day.”
Newt chuckled quietly.
“What? Are you finding this amusing?”
“No, uh,” his throat closed up, “You just reminded me of my brother.”
At that, she perked up, “The quidditch champion, right?” He offered her a half-hearted nod. All Leta had heard of him was from other quidditch players, specifically Hufflepuffs, singing his praise. Newt wasn’t the type to talk about his family more than the obvious things, often choosing listening over speaking, “What’s he like?”
All knowledge of the English vocabulary appeared to have evaporated from his mind that very moment, “Like, uh, every older brother, I suppose? Smart, brave, well-liked.” He hesitated, “Perhaps overprotective.”
Leta tied the last knot to secure his bandage, “That’s barely a replica of an answer.”
Newt nodded a silent ‘thank you’ before standing up. He tucked in nearly asleep Igor and moved to the closest workbench. Pulling out ingredients and papers on the table, buried in deep thought, searching for the best way to construct his answer. Often, his preparation is no use.
“He’s, um, a good brother,” he starts. “He cares about me, about my safety and well-being… all the things family is supposed to care for. But,” he hesitates, playing with a dark blue stone in his hands, “I am not quite certain whether he approves or, uh, rather agrees with the way I spend my time at Hogwarts.”
“Would he rather you partook in Quidditch?”
Newt sucks in a breath, “I can’t be sure… But it’s probably not this. He’s an Auror, you see. And that... that’s got to mean something,” he grabs his wand as if it’s the last thing keeping him steady, “Something more than this.”
Silence.
A spell being cast.
Leta breaths, a new question having sprung in her mind.
“I’d prefer not to, uh, talk about this,” he says, the discomfort at his refusal of continuing the conversation visible, “I-If that’s all right.”
Her brows furrow, “Of course.”
Another sharp breath in, “He’s a good brother,” he repeats, and Leta can’t tell if it’s spoken towards her or his own self.
Desperate to escape this profound awkwardness spread between them, she gets up meaning to tidy the mess in their little sanctuary. That’s when Newt approached her, gaze unsure and hands unsteadily cupping an object between them. Leta eyes him before returning her attention to the object he so carefully held between his scarred hands. She feels her heart drop at the realization, but the hopefulness and warmth like sunrise shining on his face, across his countless freckles, makes her feel like she’s flying.
“I- I found some spare Moonstone while I was outside, thought I’d save it just in case,” he spoke, voice barely over a whisper, shoulders hunched, “I hope y-you like it.”
Leta stares at the ink bottle Newt had just conjured, overwhelmed with a sensation drowning her heart that she can’t quite pinpoint. It chokes her but also wells her eyes with tears. She takes it slowly, afraid not to break it; she’s prone to accidentally breaking things. Or people.
A question for a long time lingering in her mind roars, demanding to be spoken. She flinches at its might, but before she had time to dwell on it, it’s out in the open:
“Why do you like me…?” she whispers.
It came out effortlessly, without a second of hesitation, but plastered with a hopelessness that tasted of the sallowness of her soul. She was in the deep, but the smallness of the question battled with the importance of its carried weight, and it brought her closer to the surface.
“How- How come you still... stick with me?” After everything I’ve done?
There was a glint his blue-green eyes; Leta always found them to bear a likeness to a gemstone. Sometimes she desired to look deeply into them, but she was afraid of the effect they’d have on her and the vagueness she’d have to break apart.
“You’re a good person, Leta,” he answers simply, “What’s not to like?” Its simplicity makes her break.
Leta wasn't any good with words; Newt wasn't much better either. They were an odd pair; two misfits, two kids that seemed so different yet in each other found all that they lacked in this castle - this castle that despite its size never seemed to have enough space for the two of them. So, they stood by each other any way they could: Newt rambled on about his creatures, showed her sketches and books, became a shoulder to lean on whenever Leta got in trouble, whereas Leta brought him food from the Great Hall whenever he forgot to eat or just preferred time to himself, brought him books on beasts from the forbidden section and reminded him to take care of himself more.
They were little things, almost invisible to anyone else. But to them, it meant everything. A quick brush of their fingers, a short meeting of their eyes, a subtle exchange of smiles… those were their ways of saying:
I love you.