School: Horned Serpent

Care for Magical Creatures

Task #2 - Merpeople: Merpeople are sentient magical beasts that live underwater. The species as a whole rejected the 'Being' status and resorted to 'Beast' instead, to avoid being classified with Dark Creatures. They are intelligent creatures who have their own customs and habits, and live in organized communities. They have their own language and enjoy singing. Write about someone having or adopting a new custom or tradition.

[action] Cooking (Main)

[word] Curious

[event] A Celebration

WC: 1623

TW: slight allusion to past child abuse and past injury

Set in the same timeline as my 'We're All Adrift Together' fic. Not required to read beforehand :)

⁂

Newt's arm burned as he stirred the mixture — a persistent pain that only grew with every rotation of his shoulder, pressing against his bones like a ghost when he paused.

He could feel the eyes upon him.

People thought because he ducked his head, rounded his shoulders as if to ward off danger; because he wouldn't look them in the eye, that he couldn't feel it when they stared. Eyes passed over him like rain — rarely soft and gentle against his skin, more likely to be driving rain, sending him twisting away in search of shelter.

His creatures had spines that would rattle like wind chimes; teeth that could tear flesh from bone in a heartbeat; roars that would shake the earth beneath their feet. Newt had nothing. His coat was a bright and vibrant blue — danger, it proclaimed in a language only Newt spoke — but he had grown used to seeing it resting on a hook next to Percival's severe overcoat and Credence's soft jacket in a gentle gray.

"Would you like to help, Credence?" Newt asked, keeping his voice soft as the shadows curling around the edges of the room — darker for the rich golden glow of the sunlight — condensed into Credence, crouched by the doorway. Newt could see the shadows shiver for a moment out of the corner of his eye — saw the liquid darkness of Credence's eyes, too wide in his pale face — before they relaxed, and Credence took a hesitant step closer, curiosity pulling him closer despite his natural urge to flee.

"What are you doing?" he asked, straightening up just enough to peer into the bowl over Newt's shoulder, poised to run if the other man turned around, and it broke Newt's heart.

"Making flapjacks," Newt explained, tilting the bowl so Credence could see the golden brown syrup clinging to every inch of the bowl, slowly oozing out of the rough ball Newt had stirred it into. He could taste the sugar on the air, feel the heat of the oven — barely used before they all moved in together which would have been a crime in the Scamander household, but Percival didn't think he would be able to introduce that law at Newt's request — pushing against his legs; and saw Credence take another step closer, his form flickering at the edges of his vision.

"But godliness with contentment is great gain," Credence muttered, voice barely louder than whisper. His hands — fingers never fully straightening, the smallest crooked — pressed together for a moment, and Newt knew Credence wasn't seeing him as fear passed across his face like a shadow.

"Credence? Could you pass me the oven gloves please?"

Newt pitched his voice louder than normal, breath catching in his chest as Credence shuddered, blinking as if waking out of a deep sleep.

"Yes, Mr Scamander."

"I haven't baked properly for a while," Newt began, feeling the prickles of nerves at the base of his skull loosen his tongue. Knowing the right thing to say was difficult, and he tended to find himself constantly behind, lost in a myriad of tiny signs he couldn't see. But Credence was different, Percival was different. Newt felt heat bloom in his cheeks like roses, and he shook his head to try and dislodge the traitorous thoughts.

"Thank you Credence." Newt slung the oven gloves over his shoulder as he lifted the bowl. "Could you help me pour?"

The mixture clung to the spoon — golden like trapped sunlight — and clung to Credence's fingers as he tried to push it off, worry flooding him like lightning.

"Good job," Newt encouraged, grinning widely as Credence glanced at him. Warmth that had nothing to do with the oven humming against his legs or the dappled light flooding the room settled in his chest as Credence relaxed, frowning in concentration as he continued.

"So Percival, Mr Graves," he corrected himself, ignoring the curl of heat in his stomach, "He got a promotion, so I thought I would make something nice to celebrate."

Credence nodded solemnly, however Newt knew — the crease in his brow, his slight hesitation before responding, all things Newt saw himself do — that Credence didn't truly understand, not yet. He tapped the spoon against the side of the tin, and Newt saw his fingers were still sticky with syrup, pressing them together in silent curiosity and pulling them apart to feel the slight tug.

"You can eat the syrup, or you can wash it off."

Percival was often better at this than Newt, well versed in a subtle kind of leadership that Credence so desperately needed — a skill honed by years working in the American Ministry with their own brand of brash secrecy. But Newt knew enough not to overwhelm him, knew only to well the paralysing freedom that too many choices could bring.

Newt smoothed the spoon over the surface of the flapjacks, letting himself relax beneath the repetitive motion as his thoughts swirled as if caught in a storm. Credence raised his hands, carefully inspecting them, before touching his tongue to the slightly tacky syrup. He snapped his hands away as if burnt, head turning towards the front door, pink striped across his cheeks; and Newt knew he had felt the wards loosening for a moment as if sighing. Percival was home.

"Credence?" Newt waited for Credence's eyes to focus on him, the younger man curled in on himself and glancing up at Newt through lowered eyelashes before glancing elsewhere. "Could you put the flapjacks in the oven?"

"I just need to remind Percival— Mr Graves about our meal tonight. It's still new for him too, so I don't want him to forget."

Newt waited — feeling the ground threatening to fall away beneath his feet — but Credence nodded, moving closer to lift the gloves from Newt's shoulder. Newt felt Credence's magic nudge against his skin, sending it burning, teeth shuddering in his jaw. For a moment, Newt was filled with the urge to run — some long dormant instinct reawakened in the face of the sheer raw power Credence possessed, like lightning trapped in a bottle — but he forced himself to remain still.

The pressure lifted as Credence moved away, and Newt found himself leaning closer before he caught himself. He grinned at Credence — his head bowed again, hair falling and curling against his cheeks but he was smiling, a tiny curl of his lips and as fragile as fresh spun glass — and darted out of the room.

Credence stood in the kitchen, bathed in the golden glow, and licked syrup from his fingers — pushing through the rising tide of guilt in his chest and dared to believe that this could work.

⁂

Newt almost flew over the bare wooden floors, bare feet silent in the vast emptiness, before he collected himself, pushing open the door to the small sitting room Percival favoured when he first came back from work.

It was darkly coloured — reminding Newt of the patched browns of a selkie's coat, causing wanderlust to pull at his heart — but the curtains were drawn and Percival was sitting in one of the chairs. His head had been tipped back, exposing the corded lines of his throat — for a moment Newt considered sinking his teeth into the unmarked skin, turning it into a rainbow of blues and purples — but Percival's gaze met his, and Newt flushed.

He couldn't jeopardise this, couldn't risk hurting Credence for his own selfish wants.

"Good day at work?" Newt asked, stepping forward, hands extended, at Percival's silent urging.

His hands were shorter than Newt's, covered with unfamiliar calluses that Newt couldn't stop himself from trailing his fingers across. Percival stumbled slightly as he rose, injured leg healing slowly as ruined flesh knitted back together encompassing shattered bone.

Newt moved to steady him, even as Percival reached for him reflexively. Percival's eyes were so dark and contained galaxies, his hands warm on Newt's hips even as his own fingers dug into the unyielding muscle of Percival's arms.

"I had a very good day at work, thank you," Percival said mildly, as if his very presence hadn't ignited a fire in Newt's chest, heat flooding his cheeks.

"Um," Newt began, eyes darting away from Percival as if burnt — tracking across the faint cluster of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the freckles hidden in his hairline, "Queenie told me."

"I'm going to guess that's why you smell sweeter than usual?"

Percival released Newt — the ghost of his touch lingering — and looked towards the door.

"Hello Credence."

"Hello," Credence whispered, his form more smoke than substance, cheeks flushed but eyes bright.

Newt twitched, snapping himself out of his daze.

"We're going to have a celebratory dinner for your promotion," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady, praying that his face wasn't as red as he feared.

"Sounds lovely," Percival nodded once and moved towards the door, his steps purposeful despite the limp he retained and would likely have for the rest of his life, "Would you like to review your lessons again before we eat, Credence?"

Credence's feet were soft on the floor, glancing once back at Newt with an unreadable expression on his face, before he moved after Percival, easily catching up with the shorter man. Newt swayed where he stood, thoughts chasing one after the other in an endless circle. Mindlessly, he began to move back towards the kitchen, forcing his mind back towards the comforting routine of cooking and ignoring the terrifying unknown he had just encountered — it wasn't meant for him, after all.