Archive of Our Own ^beta

The heat shimmered off the dusty streets of Khartoum, distorting the colonial buildings that lined the wide boulevards into wavering mirages. Newt adjusted his bow tie—a gesture more habit than necessity—and shifted his leather case from one hand to the other. The morning sun was already fierce, promising another scorching day ahead. A few early risers gave him curious glances as they passed, though whether at his distinctly British attire or the peculiar case that occasionally emitted soft growling sounds, he couldn't be sure.

The Sudanese Guild of Magical Practitioners had jurisdiction here, not the British Ministry. The magical and Muggle governments didn’t align on the Empire’s enterprises: but they didn’t exactly do much about it, either. The policy, as with the Statue, was of non-inference. Even when wixen scorned or supported or expressed apathetic distaste over Muggle prejudices and rhetorics (while, Newt thought, hardly being more enlightened themselves). 

When he’d been planning the trip in 1924, he’d mentioned considering a visit Sudan to Theseus over an awkward dinner. All ears had pricked up. How was he to know that Theseus had a years’ pass to the King’s College London lectures, partly because it was connected to the shadow magical institute that housed Leta’s fifth-stage cursebreaking course and partly because Theseus insisted it was necessary to understand theory beyond the papers? At any rate, his brother had justified it with some sprawling and very sensible reason like that. But now, he supposed, in a painful echo of the political dinner table and Ministry event discussions he’d desperately tuned out, Newt was finally well-informed. 

Theseus was obsessed with the war and its after effects on the wixen and Muggle world, not that he allowed himself to show it. Leta had joked: “Don’t you know? When he was younger, he wanted to study political science; and then he wanted to do Muggle studies. I still say Auroring was his worst option.” Theseus’s ears had gone pink; and Newt had thought about how Theseus had seen the creatures over the years. Relative terror and frustration when Theseus had been a teeenager, shifting to wary and conditional acceptance, shifting to a clear belief that they could be an alright hobby, if only Newt picked less dangerous ones. 

But never a good career. 

Then, after the 1913 expulsion, Theseus hadn’t known Newt wasn’t the one to set the Jarvey, ‘deliberately endangering the life of a fellow student’, sending them to St Mungo’s. Newt had stubbornly said nothing to the contrary. So, Theseus’s attitude had cooled and settled into something like total bureaucratic resignation. Constantly weary, frustrated, sometimes angry. Visible only when Newt wound up in the Ministry needing something; softening only when the pride at one of Newt’s achievements overcame his criticism. 

So why would he know about Theseus’s secret dreams? His brother had clearly been too busy trying to discourage Newt’s own. 

There’s an ongoing revolution, Theseus had said. They assassinated the Muggle British governor-general, last I heard. I wouldn’t travel there if I were you. It’s not like you’ll blend in. 

Good for them, Leta had said. I mean, Marcus Garvey would never let me in, and I don’t know if I’d want to leave London, but he’s right that the nations are denied their economic independence under the Empire.

After the Dragon Corps, Newt tried very hard not to take an interest in postwar politics, not wanting to be reminded of the scale of loss. 

But Albus said he’d have a contact, here. Apparently, there was a matter of some interest deep in the swampy northwest region. That would be useful. He could certainly try it alone; he often did. But even if the Guild somehow were happy with him—a wix, yes, but clearly a British one—entering the closed area of Bahr el Ghazal, Newt’s own experience with the law’s views on a researcher with few permits and a penchant for danger left him hesitant to involve any official bodies. 

The Gordon Memorial College loomed ahead. A small square of flowers was the only feature interrupting the grand stretch of stone leading to the academic institution’s sprawling facade, all grand arches. The city was awakening around him: the vendors setting up their stalls in the souk, the call to morning prayer echoing from distant minarids, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones. He stopped on the pavement by it and pretended to examine his shoes. 

His travels had taken him across multiple continents, each adding pages to his manuscript and layers to his understanding of both magical creatures and human nature. The academic circles he'd begun to move in were fascinating, if sometimes exhausting. Just last month, he'd presented his findings on Runespoor behaviour patterns at a conference in Cairo. The subsequent debate had been vigorous enough that he'd needed three cups of tea afterward to settle his nerves. 

Newt dabbed the sweat from his brow and twisted around to examine the Memorial College again, his case bumping against his leg. 

"Mr Scamander?" came a voice from behind him . “As-salamu alaykum . I believe you're early.”

Newt turned back to the street to find a tall man in elegant white robes and turban regarding him with amused interest. His beard was speckled salt-and-pepper; there was a divot of a scar on his chin that hadn’t been there the last time they’d met. 

" Wa alaykum as-salam , Professor Al-Bashir," he said, recognising him from several academic conferences. "I didn't realise you would be my contact."

"Albus thought it best not to specify in his letter," Al-Bashir said, gesturing for Newt to follow him into the College. They passed through the front doors and along one of the airy balconies, climbing precisely one set of stairs before stopping to look out over Khartoum through the arch. "These are...sensitive times. The revolution last year has made many nervous, particularly those in positions of authority. And, please, call me Tamer.”

Newt nodded. The magical community's response to colonial rule was complicated—technically neutral, but with undercurrents of resistance that manifested in small, significant ways. He personally didn’t believe in positions of authority at all. But he tended to need to get really worked up to speak on such things, especially when the situation was hard to read like it was now, and he was busy trying to pick up on its social cues. 

This year traversing Africa had been harder than he had expected. Many of the zoology journals with their fascinating studies he’d read hadn’t portrayed adequately what he’d find when he arrived.

He’d always thought the human and creature worlds were separate; wasn’t that half the reason he was writing the book, to teach them that they could coexist? But a passing visit to Yaoundé in Cameroon, controlled by the French Muggle government, had made him begin to question for the first time exactly what he was doing here. Newt had never been very comfortable being around people, far more of an observer than an actor, keen not to take unnecessary sides, but even he could recognise that the brazen descriptions of what happened in the sugarcane-producing island of Fernando Po seemed utterly wrong.

But he was no actor, nor diplomat, nor trained anthropologist (as much as he enjoyed his observations). Newt was good at breaking rules and less sure about existing within them, and so, in various moments, he simply found himself both profoundly uncomfortable and profoundly unsure. A small and mean part of him whispered in a critical voice: if you were just normal, if the Healers had never diagnosed you, you’d know how to handle this. 

Tamer seemed determined to maintain the silence between them. Eventually, Newt cleared his throat and tried for a smile, sensing it emerge somewhat lopsided as he ducked his head. 

“But I assume, um, that we’re still meeting for a reason?” Newt proposed. 

“Indeed. Follow me. This still isn’t quiet enough. As you know, perhaps this is no easy year to be an Egyptian in Khartoum. The entire defence force here…well.” Tamer sucked on his teeth and shook his head. “Moving back to magical matters. Normally, we don’t need to do nearly as much creature containment as your counterparts. The wildernesses are large enough to fit and guard all manners of both evil and survival.”

Ah, Newt thought. Here came another questionable aspect of his research. Where he’d been raised, most magical creatures were seen relatively simple as separate entities to wixen communities, aside for the odd thing of myth like Auguries.

But he’d quickly uncovered that other cultures had entirely different relationships to both animals and magical creatures, leaving him a little stumped as to how to represent them in a book to be published in London. Always unable to watch creatures suffer, a trait almost compulsive, he’d intervened in one hunting session already and returned to find the community terrified of encroaching witch-spirits. 

And what was he to say then? That it wasn’t scientific—when he himself was judged at the Magical Royal Society for his lack of formal training?

A sticky situation, to be sure, he thought, having the growing suspicion that Albus might be introducing him to another one. He and his former teacher mostly communicated on a friendly basis: sharing research updates; having tea and, well, gossiping; and sending across the occasional interesting text.

For reasons he couldn’t discern, Albus seemed troubled by the increasing spate of attacks on the European continent, and so in 1924 Newt had begun to share with him any relevant information he found while travelling through. Now that he was in Africa, Albus’s interest seemed to have waned. And given everything that had happened with Theseus, even though there were rumours that his brother was to be promoted head of the hunt for a Grindelwald, Newt quailed at the thought of sharing those logs with the Ministry. 

They went through a hidden door, enchanted to be invisible to Muggles, and emerged into a courtyard shaded by ancient trees. A cooling charm shimmered almost invisibly in the air—subtle magic, expertly crafted. Newt settled onto a stone bench, keeping his case close.

"Albus mentioned you might be interested in some unusual occurrences in Bahr el Ghazal," Tamer said without preamble, taking a seat next to Newt, steepling his fingers. "Though I should warn you, that region is restricted."

Newt hummed. “What unusual occurrences?”

"Deaths have been reported in a small cluster of villages. Slow deaths. Not violence, exactly, but..." Ibrahim's eyes grew distant. "People sicken. Butterflies gather where they shouldn't. Plants wither without cause."

“And how do I get there?”

“The region is barred to all outsiders. Travel is complicated, what with the difficulties with the north.”

"When isn't it?" Newt muttered, then flushed slightly. "Ah, um, sorry, I didn't mean—“

His colleague waved away the apology. "No, you're quite right. Though there are factions within the Guild who would take a very dim view of outside interference in what they consider internal matters."

"And yet,” Newt pointed out, “Albus thought it important enough to arrange this meeting?" 

Tamer studied Newt for a moment before continuing. "You should understand the...particular circumstances here. The British Ministry of Magic maintains its distance from Muggle colonial enterprises. They’ll be unhappy if you strike either in favour or against either administration. Not only does it potentially offend the Muggle government, but it sends the wrong message to the wixen communities in both countries. Do you understand?”

"Yes, well, most wixen prefer to avoid Muggle politics entirely," Newt said, adjusting his grip on his case. His experience with creatures had taught him enough about territory disputes to recognise the basic patterns, even if he tried to stay clear of the specifics.

"When it comes to the Continent, yes, I suppose they have the furnishings to do just that." The professor traced the edge of his ledger. "The Guild maintains its independence—we predate both British and Egyptian rule. But, as I’ve said, the Muggle administration has declared Bahr el Ghazal a closed zone—even for those of us with magical means. Given the rhetoric from this fellow Grindelwald, there are new concerns about preventing ill-meaning wixen from taking advantage. So, not only are you not to interfere, but I suspect both the Guild and Ministry will have questions should you get too close to anyone at all.”

"Oh." Newt frowned. The conversation at dinner about the revolution had only become more apparent as he journeyed in. While his bread and butter was plateaus and rainforests, he was beginning to see how people adapted and survived. “Um, advantage? What could I possibly do? I’m very careful with the creatures and specimens I relocate, but, um, of course wouldn’t want to cause offence.”

Tamer’s smile held a knowing edge. Newt wondered where that new scar marking his chin was from. "Officially, the districts are closed to prevent slavers taking advantage.”

He elaborated no further. 

Newt shifted, biting the inside of his cheek, wanting to prove suddenly that he had done some research. "The travel guides I found...the difference between the Guild's publication and the Muggle versions was rather striking."

"Ah yes." Tamer dipped his head, running a hand over his neat beard. "We believe in acknowledging reality. The Muggle guides paint pretty pictures of order and progress. We prefer to show things as they are—including the tensions between traditional magical practices and both the Christian missionaries and Islamic influences."

"And these traditional practices..." Newt leaned forward slightly, more confident when the conversation turned toward practical knowledge. "They're different from European methods?"

" The Guild maintains its own methods of magical education, its own systems of governance." 

Newt thought of his own experiences with creatures, how often local knowledge proved more valuable than textbook theory. "I've found that different approaches to magic often have their own validity, even if they don't fit neatly into Ministry categories."

“Yes.” Tamer opened his ledger and pulled out some heavy papers. “I’ve forged a permit for you.”

His brother's warning from one of their last real conversations echoed in his mind: "For once in your life, Newt, try not to make things more complicated than they already are."

That had been before their falling out, before the engagement announcement that Newt still couldn't quite think about without a tight feeling in his chest. Theseus had always been the political one, seeing the complex web of relationships and power that Newt preferred to ignore in favour of his creatures. Even now, Newt could picture his brother's exasperated expression at the idea of him wandering into such a delicate situation.

"They will satisfy both the Muggle and magical authorities," Tamer was saying, "though I suggest avoiding such encounters where possible."

His experience with magical creatures had taught him to distrust arbitrary hierarchies and restrictions—animals certainly paid no attention to human-drawn borders. But he knew his perspective was limited. His research travels had shown him enough to know that colonial policies often made little sense.

"I’m—ah, before I go, I just want to admit that I’m sorry. I'm afraid I don't fully understand all the..." Newt gestured vaguely, "complications. The political situation is rather beyond my expertise. But I will really try my best. The way they separate families from their grazing lands, restrict movement—it seems needlessly cruel. It’s rather like what we do to magical creatures, actually. Arbitrary rules about where things can and can't exist. Not that it's the same, of course. I just...I, um, I focus on my creatures. Perhaps too much, sometimes."

“Then focus.” Tamer handed him the documents. “On what needs to be done.”

Newt nodded, tucking them carefully into his pocket. "I understand. And, um, thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Tamer’s smile didn't quite reach his eyes. 

He had to focus on the practical steps ahead. Newt couldn't quite suppress a shiver, despite the heat. They fell into step together, heading toward the station where Newt would catch his connection. 

"I meant to ask," Tamer said, his tone lightening, "did you ever publish your findings on the Nile serpent's breeding patterns? The thesis you presented at the Cairo conference was quite promising. Although you’re carrying your entire menagerie, I see. You caused quite a stir with that escaped Murtlap."

"That was hardly my fault. Professor Kareem's cat startled him."  Newt brightened slightly, more comfortable with this academic exchange. "Well, I did manage publication, but the journal editors required rather extensive revisions. Apparently, my approach to field observation was considered too...unorthodox."

Tamer chuckled. "I faced similar criticism when I published my work on desert-dwelling ashwinders. The European journals seem to prefer their research conducted from library chairs."

"I read that paper!" Newt said. "Your observations about their adaptation to sand temperatures were fascinating. I've actually incorporated some of your findings into my book's chapter on magical reptiles, if you don't mind the reference?"

"I'd be honoured." Tamer produced a small brass compass from his white robes as they reached the platform. "Your Portkey. Oh, and Newton? Whatever you find, remember that sometimes the kindest solution is not always the most obvious one."

After making his farewells, feeling marginally more settled, Newt stepped onto the train. As it lurched into motion, he settled into the cramped compartment, his case secure between his feet. The desert landscape began to scroll past the window, shimmering in the heat. He pulled out his notebook, more for comfort than any real need to write.

The familiar leather binding was worn smooth from handling, its pages crowded with observations and sketches. Looking up with a sigh, Newt caught his own reflection in the glass: tired eyes, sweat-dishevelled hair, bow tie slightly askew. 

He wasn’t running away, was he? He was moving towards something—his research, his book, his growing understanding of magical creatures, his academic career. The fact that it took him further from London, from engagement parties and Ministry politics and the sight of his best friend wearing his brother's ring?

That was just a coincidence. 

Five years ago, he would have been a nervous wreck at the prospect of such a mission. Even two years ago, perhaps. But his research had taken him to enough remote corners of the world that the travel itself no longer fazed him. He'd built a reputation in magizoological circles, earned respect for his practical approaches and detailed observations.

His book was coming along well, even if the thought of actually publishing still made his stomach twist. He was good at his work. The growing stack of correspondence from fellow researchers proved that—requests for his insights, invitations to contribute to academic journals, notes from colleagues like Tamer who respected his expertise.

Even Albus trusted him enough to guide him here, though that thought wasn't entirely comforting.

And yet.

And yet.

Leta would have loved to hear about some of these travels. But that would have been if he were talking to her. Perhaps remembering what had happened after his expulsion—his chain of letters, her lack of answer; her final letter on the day of his father’s funeral, his lack of answer, the letter unopened—she didn’t write. Theseus did, of course. Newt skimmed those letters. It was different when it was your difficult, estranged older brother. There was something comfortable enough in their distance. But with Leta, they’d once been so close, and yet she’d only reappeared in his life a little over three years ago. It was too difficult: felt like pressing a rusty nail into his hand. 

Pickett climbed onto his shoulder, pressing close in what felt like concern. "I'm fine," Newt assured him, though his voice wasn't entirely steady. "Really. We've managed perfectly well on our own these past months."

The Bowtruckle made a skeptical sound.

"Yes, well, your opinion has been noted." Newt checked his pocket watch, calculating the time until he needed to get off and use the Portkey to reach the border. "But we have more important things to worry about now."

The humid air clung to Newt's skin. It being June, it was incredibly rainy, and he constantly was using umbrella charms to avoid picking up another nasty skin condition. He crouched in the tall elephant grass beyond the village, wand between his ink-stained fingers, directing the focus of his binoculars. The disillusionment charm he'd cast made his outline waver like rising heat: good enough to avoid casual notice but far from perfect. 

Three days of covert observation of the cluster of huts on stilts, surrounded by needs of cattle with immense horns. Crops of millet swayed around the outskirts, the landscape flat and green, dotted with both swamps and iron-coloured stone. He wasn’t the first wix from Europe to travel across Africa.

Nor was he the first researcher, in general, given the number of British and European and Egyptian outposts netting the continent. Having spent much of his life avoiding society, the boats were a shock, with their Muggles wearing either starched suits or rags, the hierarchy confusing and almost scary to him. That was a further issue—many of his insights into the care and understanding of magical creatures required reading Muggle ecological and zoological research of the time, too. 

It being rumoured to not be entirely safe (in the Muggle research sphere, as wixen had their own ways of navigating and an entirely different permit system, sometimes aligning and sometimes not with local governance and conflict) had never disconcerted Newt in the slightest; he had gone toe to toe with poachers and traders of all kinds, before. Even that could be difficult. It was too easy, as a wix, to overpower Muggles—and equally easy for the tables to turn, and become utterly vulnerable in a single heartbeat. 

Human or creature.

As in, having to choose between the lives of the two.

Newt tried his hardest not to take on that responsibility. It wasn’t his place. He was only here to learn and later share, with the best intentions. Perhaps he was not a brave man. But he was a very stubborn, idealistic one. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead from the wavering heat. 

Nyaring was sitting outside her mother’s luak, grinding sorghum with slow, methodical movements. She was tall for her age, perhaps a head shorter than Newt—although most people here were taller than Newt—with soft round features and eyes that seemed too old for her face. Like many of the other girls and women, she wore a beaded corset, and couldn’t have been older than around eight. She had none of the scars a few others had.

Her skirt, which looked as though it was made of goatskin, was noticeably faded and tattered, as if she was marginally accepted by the community, but had few resources within it. Some women, Newt noticed, wore shells. Not many people wore clothes other than the adult women; that she was, as a girl, felt significant somehow. He didn’t balk at nudity like most of his British counterparts, seeing it as a natural thing, and it didn’t perturb him here, either. It barely came to his notice. 

Small things fluttered around her, catching the last light of day on their delicate wings. It had taken Newt a while to identify them: caper white butterflies, drawn to whatever power emanated from her. Every now and then, one would land too close and fall, its wings blackening from the body outwards.

"Just...observing. For now. Though that doesn't make it much better, does it?" he murmured, mostly to Pickett. He had a pocket automatic Kodak, but having read some anthropological research and also generally considering himself a fairly polite man, he thought it best to eventually introduce himself before taking any pictures. 

His notebook lay at his side like a guilty conscience. His experience with magical creatures had taught him the importance of observation before interaction, but this was different. The methodical approach that had served him so well with his beasts felt almost offensive here. Still, he had mapped the area with his characteristic focus. There was plentiful water here, with floodplains turned into pastures for the humpback cattle. The cattle seemed to have an immense cultural importance; the men slept in the cattle pens while the women and children stayed in the rounded huts. The day before, three men with topknots had walked into the settlement in the middle of the night, presumably nomads of some kind, and stolen two cattle, causing uproar the next day. 

That cattle-culture was easier to parse than the growing question of Nyaring. She wasn't a creature—or was she hosting one in the form of the Obscurus parasite? Yet she was also a child, playing on the outskirts, rejected like the others. That alone made him endlessly sympathetic; he knew what it was like, to be rejected from every game; to feel so different. Yes, she was potentially deadly, but still fundamentally human, and in need of help.

Pickett poked him. 

“But I need to understand before I can...well.” Newt grimaced. “Before I make things worse, probably."

The Bowtruckle gave him what could only be described as a judgmental look. 

"Yes, I know," Newt sighed. "But I can't exactly walk up and introduce myself, can I? 'Hello, I'm a foreign wizard who's not supposed to be here, and I think your daughter might be being preyed upon by a destructive magical force that's killing people.' That would go brilliantly."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the village. Women moved between the luaks, carrying water and preparing the evening meal. Children played nearby, their laughter carrying across the distance. 

But none of them went near Nyaring.

Nyaring. It had taken him time to figure out her name, but once, she’d been chased out right out to the village edge. She’d pressed herself against a tree for several hours until her parents had searched for her, her father arguing with the man in the headdress for nearly two hours. 

One word seemed to follow Nyaring. Apeth. Was it a name attached to her personally? Was this how the community considered what they dimly recognised as an Obscurus? 

Whatever it was, Newt had an uneasy sense that the girl was blamed for the shroud of darkness that hung over her. The quiet girl who sat apart from the others, who seemed to draw shadows to herself even in bright sunlight. The other children still called her name, still occasionally chattered to her, but she didn’t always sleep in her luak, and spent time hiding from the man wearing a headdress. The village’s witch doctor, Newt suspected. 

What could be passed off in other countries sometimes took on more significance in the smaller, more rural villages. And an Obscurial—not that he’d seen one to this level, not that he knew much about them beyond myth picked up on his journeys and Albus’s surprisingly knowledgeable research about their manifestations—would surely be a clear outlier in a superstitious community. 

Her family clearly loved her, but there was fear there too. At least, that was how Newt judged the situation. It was hard to tell. If he used only his own experiences of family, and childhood, he’d never be able to come to a clear conclusion on what was normal and what was not. 

For example, th e woman taking care of her—possibly her mother—performed subtle protective gestures when she walked close to give the girl her evening meal. Not all of them magical, but all of them carrying intent. Newt recognised some from his research into local magical traditions; the magical theory here might not have aligned with the European academies Newt published his work in, but their practical applications seemed effective. There was leakage here between the wixen and Muggle worlds: including Muggle practices that channelled spiritual beliefs that weren’t precisely magic , but weren’t precisely not, either. 

A bird cawed, and, abruptly, he felt as though he’d been yanked from his warm pool of intense focus. The air was thick with insects, but a quick charm kept them at bay as he stood and picked his way carefully along the firmer ground between pools of standing water. Half by instinct, Newt pulled out the letter from Dumbledore again, though he'd practically memorised it by now, the ink smudged. The political situation was delicate, his former teacher had written, but information about Obscurials could prove invaluable.

From this vantage point, he could see the whole village spread out before him, cooking fires beginning to flicker to life in the gathering darkness. The cattle’s lowing carried across the evening air. The horned beasts were more than just livestock. They were wealth, status, connection to ancestors. It was beautiful, Newt thought, to value living creatures so much.

Teddy chose that moment to make another escape attempt, rattling the latches of his case. Newt quickly checked the locks, reinforced with every charm he knew but somehow never quite enough to contain his most persistent troublemaker. The last thing he needed was to explain why a magical creature was stealing shiny objects from the village.

"No, absolutely not," Newt muttered, catching the case just as it started to wobble. "Their ceremonial beads are not yours to collect, and I really can't afford another international incident. We're meant to be inconspicuous." 

A pause, then he added fondly: "Though there’s nothing inconspicuous about hiding in swamps watching people. Rather hypocritical of me.”

The more he heard the rumours of this nighttime spirit, this entity called an apeth, the more curious Newt became. But his magic was weak, always had been. There were no inquiries he could make from this distance, and his tracking spells and various magical powders could register with any potential wixen in the village. 

So, when night fell, the stars impossibly bright and the air humming with the sound of insects, Newt emerged from his camp and padded towards the village. He kept his wand holstered and hidden, his notebook tucked into one of his waistcoat pockets. It was far too hot for the blue coat he’d purchased on a whim when he’d resigned from the Ministry.

Holding his breath, he made his way towards the circular cattle pens ringing the village, constructed from wooden branches to form fences that reminded him of barbed wire. It was only once he saw the smoky fire burning at the centre of the huts did he pause and reconsider what he was doing. From here, he could actually hear life. Breathing, rustling, cattle lowing. And—

Footsteps. Two men emerged from around the side of the pen: tall, slim, and holding thin wooden clubs. The bright beads around their necks glinted in the low light, their eyes wide. Oh. Oh, yes .

“Actually,” Newt said hurriedly. “Actually, yes, I really should go. So sorry—“

One slowly began to circle around behind him, tapping the club against his thigh. Newt looked out across the village at the distant trees and considered running; but if he ran, then he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to return in an honest form.

And the knowledge the wixen world had about Obscurials was limited, yes—tragic aberrations that shouldn’t exist; what more was there to know?—but Newt didn’t believe in trying to treat any creature without first communicating with it. His translation device, which he’d haggled for in northern Italy on one of those summer expeditions at the Ministry, was in his coat pocket back in the canvas tent. 

“Um, no. No. Never mind.” Newt shook his head, beginning to tremble slightly. He always got a little stuck negotiating these parts. Several bad experiences had landed him hurt or cast under suspicion for his unusual mannerisms, poorly tolerated in British society, but equally dubious or accepted in places where he was a visible outsider. “I—I surrender. I’m not here to take anything, I promise. I’m only here to learn.”

Two firm hands took his and held them behind his back. Seeing that Newt wasn’t struggling, the man before him raised both eyebrows and made a comment to his friend. It reminded Newt of the way the Quidditch teams would congratulate one another on a quality goal, in the few painfully noisy games he’d suffered through at Hogwarts for Leta’s sake. 

The man holding Newt's arms spoke quietly to his companion, who nodded and disappeared into the darkness. Newt stood as still as possible, trying to project harmlessness. 

"I really am just here to learn," he said softly, knowing they likely couldn't understand him but hoping his tone might communicate something. "Though I suppose skulking around at night rather undermines that claim."

It didn’t take long for three more men to emerge. They spoke rapidly, gesturing between Newt and the cattle pen. He shook his head vigorously.

"No, no—not stealing. Just, um, observing. Rather poorly, admittedly."

One of the men—older than the others, with intricate scarification patterns on his forehead—studied Newt with shrewd eyes. After a moment, he said something that made the others straighten. The grip on Newt's arms loosened slightly, though didn't release entirely.

They led him through the village, past the luaks. A few women peered out at the commotion, quickly disappearing when Newt glanced their way. He noticed how carefully even his captors avoided certain areas: including the hut where he'd seen Nyaring earlier. The butterflies were still there, hovering at the doorway, their white wings ghostly in the darkness.

They reached a luak at the centre of the village, this one seeming a little grander than the others. When Newt was pressed inside, the firelight from outside revealed what he thought might have been the local leader’s residence. 

The man himself sat sedately on a large log. The walls were smoother than in the others, trailing with beautiful beadwork, the space clearly large enough to host. If he’d been woken up in the middle of the night, he didn’t show it, holding onto a large fishing spear loosely with one hand. Newt kept still, fighting his instinct to explain or defend himself. 

Sometimes, with nervous creatures, silence was better than hasty movements.

They began to speak, the language rhythmic and fluid. Multiple times, Newt was examined or pointed to, possibly to explain himself. Which he couldn’t. Not this specific dialect.

After the first few times of miming writing on a notebook, Newt realised how presumptuous he’d been to think he could take a quick look into the village without bringing any means of communication. all he caught was the word "alei" repeated several times: foreigner, he thought, though he wasn't certain. They seemed to address the leader as beny bith, and he listened silently, his dark eyes evaluating Newt with careful consideration.

"I don't suppose anyone speaks English?" Newt tried, then immediately felt foolish. 

The spear was slowly lowered towards him, pointing at his chest. He’d spoken now. He had to do something more. 

"I'm a researcher," he said carefully, meeting the older man's eyes for a moment before looking down. "I study...unusual occurrences. Things that need understanding." He gestured vaguely with his bound hands. "I'm not here to interfere or cause trouble."

Whether it was his tone or something in his manner, the beny bith seemed to consider his words carefully. He spoke again, this time to one of the men, who produced a length of woven rope. Newt's heart sank slightly, but he didn't resist as he stretched out his hands for them to bind his wrists.

"Yes, well, I suppose I deserve that," he muttered. "Though it will make taking notes rather difficult."

To his surprise, this earned him a slight smile from the beny bith . The leader said something else, gesturing with a flap of his hand for them to go, and Newt found himself being led to a small hut near the cattle pen. Perhaps they recognised he meant no harm, Newt thought optimistically, even if they couldn't trust his intentions entirely.

"Thank you," he said to his guards. "This is actually rather more comfortable than some places I've been detained."

They left him there, though he noticed they posted watches nearby. Eventually. Newt dozed fitfully, his bound hands awkward but not painful, keeping an ear out for any sounds of Nyaring or the apeth or even the sounds an Obscurus might make—but the night only settled into a quiet, unremarkable rhythm.

He was woken by the jingling of cattle bells and the sound of intense movement outside the small hut. In it were many metal containers, and the faint, soured smell of old milk. Newt slowly peeled his eyes open, shifting on his haunches, squinting into the sunlight. The fire was still burning outside, producing a heavy smoke that he suspected kept away some of the more dangerous insects.

The sky was a brilliant orange, the sun egg-yolk heavy, bleaching the sky into a corona like a watchful eye. When he shuffled forwards, his hands still clasped in front of him and his khaki travelling suit gathering pale dust, he managed to get to the hut’s mouth. The pen had been opened, the cattle led out. Several boys followed behind, guiding the massive beasts away from the huts and out into the plains nearby.

Sucking in an interested breath, Newt glanced around and quickly got to his feet. He stuck his head out of the entrance and scanned from side to side. The luaks seemed almost totally empty. If he had to guess, there was something going on with the cattle—a celebration or similar—and it could be the perfect moment to try and connect again with this village. 

His legs were stiff. He walked unevenly, feeling the sweat stick his shirt to his back, until he reached a large clearing now utterly full of cattle. Their horns rose like bone spurs, creating interlocking archways and gateways, warning and welcome at once. For a moment, the breath was knocked from Newt’s lungs.

Those horns—signs of selective breeding, maybe? And the cattle were thin, but in good condition—clearly well-cared for, draped with some strange material he didn’t recognise, potentially old brush. Between them were several of the village men, tall enough to be seen over them, waving and flapping their arms and chanting. A young woman watched nearby, her hand pressed to her mouth, wearing a bead corset more intricate than any Newt had yet seen. 

Newt heard the singing begin.

The ceremony itself was unlike anything Newt had witnessed in his travels. People moved in complex patterns that seemed random at first but must have had deeper meaning—like migration routes, Newt thought, or the invisible paths animals followed through their territories.

Before he could fully react, a little too intently focused on some of the cows nearest him as they were being milked, the man with the forehead marks who’d held him prisoner returned. He smiled at Newt, teeth gleaming. Newt considered smiling back, but suddenly felt shy, almost self-conscious. At home, he knew how to dance. Here, not so much, and he’d already intruded enough. 

Also, he’d smoked a lot after that argument with Theseus, and his teeth were now not looking their best. Everyone here had good teeth. 

They laughed as they danced and chanted. One man would advance, arms curved in an elegant impression of horns, while the other responded with his own flourish. Their feet kicked up small clouds of dust. They called to each other in Dinka, words Newt couldn't understand but whose meaning was clear in their tone—friendly competition, ritual boasting, the kind of casual camaraderie that transcended language barriers. Some of the younger boys watching from the edges mimicked the movements. 

The men gestured for him to join them, but Newt shook his head, holding up his bound hands apologetically. This earned him another laugh, though not an unkind one. The younger guard made a comment to his friend that set them both chuckling again, probably about Newt's awkwardness. The first man made an exaggerated motion of locking horns with his friend, who responded by pretending to be pushed backward, both of them grinning. There was some kind of story here—some kind of oral testimony. 

The beny bith's message came as the sun climbed higher, the morning's ceremonial energy dissipating like smoke. 

Newt had to go. The older man told him as much, stamping the butt of his spear against the ground with authority, and made it clear he’d lead Newt out personally. 

The village had shifted into its daily rhythms, women moving between the luaks with baskets balanced on their heads, children chasing each other through the gaps between huts. 

But there were patterns to their movement, Newt noticed—subtle redirections, careful distances maintained. Like water flowing around a stone, or animals avoiding a predator's territory.

The stone in this case was Nyaring. She wasn’t in her usual spot grinding sorghum. Instead, she was sitting right at what the perimeter of the village might have been, just beyond the cattle alone, while the other women gathered up the lingering cow dung. She had something green smeared up her palms and her forehead, sitting cross-legged, rocking slightly. Her beads were askew. She kept her hands twisted in the skirt. 

Butterflies danced around her head.

A small boy ran past, covered in dust and dirt from the ceremony, chasing a friend. He veered sharply when he saw Nyaring, almost stumbling in his haste to maintain distance. But she closed her eyes, Newt had noticed. Not fear exactly—or not just fear. There was something apologetic in the way he glanced back.

Newt and beny bith reached the village edge, where the luaks gave way to the vast expanse of grassland. The morning sun cast long shadows behind them, stretching like bars across the ground.

Newt smiled politely and ducked his head, raising a hand in farewell. The other man cocked his head to one side, eyes penetrating, but said nothing as he watched Newt hurry away.

Really, it wasn’t very far to Newt’s tent: to his translation machine. And, well, coming back when he’d been asked not to—was a certain talent of Newt Scamander’s. His guilt at stirring up more of their reasonable distrust towards him—a man, with the skin colour of the people who’d segregated off this area, who’d given them probably many reasons to be wary—was slowly but surely outweighed by his memories of Nyaring.

If he could help, even a little, then he had to.

His knees cracked in protest as he returned to his camp and coat, reaching into one of its magically-expanded pockets to pull out a bulky object. With heavy straps he had to sling over his forearm, it wasn’t the most convenient thing. Especially when he realised he couldn’t bear to leave his case behind this time, and added that on, too. 

Newt had a good ear for languages: had picked up a conversational ability in many as he’d travelled. Since 1923, some time after quitting the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, he’d spent the majority of his time abroad doing research, working on his papers, only visiting home for at most a month at a time to do various errands and meetings. 

But he wasn’t perfect, nor did he stay in any one place long enough to become anything further than clumsily conversational.

Purchased in northern Italy, this was a translation machine. A firm wire could be screwed into the ear, requiring you either to hunch or hold it like a phone. It had to be pre-loaded with languages, arranged in a certain way on enchanted disks with a relevant reference dictionary, and so often fizzled into static with local dialect. Newt had learned the hard way that the language of a certain country as advertised—even the language of a certain region, based on his contacts and preliminary observations—could vary so wildly no machine could truly capture the meaning. 

Still, this was the best he had now. 

Hopefully the wizard who’d sold it to him hadn’t been scamming him—Newt had been scammed more than a few times before. He gave all his money to beggars and clearly had a face that belied none of his real canniness. He’d always figure out he’d been tricked a little too long after the fact. Even thinking it made him let out a slow sigh. How was it possible to be so slow and fast to trust at once?  

This time, he walked up to the village more tentatively, rehearsing the words of explanation and apology he’d need if confronted again. Please. I think someone here is sick. I want to try and help, but only if you’ll let me. He loved Albus like a very good friend, but he had started to wonder with these first few requests, these small tasks on his travels, whether his former teacher had an issue with boundaries. 

But someone came out to meet him. Nyaring’s mother. She stepped up from behind one of the thick, leafy trees, arms crossed, eyes watchful. When they made eye contact, she uncrossed her arms and lifted her chin. The beads laced her bare torso. “You weren’t meant to come back.”

Hastily, Newt adjusted the dial on his machine, magically pulling the speaker to his mouth. He kept his hands wrapped around the case handle, aware of how ridiculous he looked, overdressed and overaccessorised. 

“Ah. I understand that I—I might, um, be overstepping here, but you see, I’m a researcher and specialist in—creatures and other unusual things and—and, um, so I usually try and help where I can—I always really, really try. And I suspect—“

"Yes." Adut's expression gave nothing away. "You watch my daughter also."

Newt stumbled over his next words. "I...that is..."

"You are not the first to notice. Not the first like you to…take an interest." Her face shuttered. “Better to have you where we can see you than in the grass.”

Of course—a foreigner watching a young girl would raise very specific fears. He'd been so focused on the magical aspect that he'd failed to consider how his presence might be interpreted. Newt felt sick. "No, I wouldn't—I mean, I'm only here to—“

"To help?" The curve of her mouth was bitter. "Like those who wish to save her soul? Come.”

She walked slightly ahead of him now, her spine straight as a spear. Newt noticed how she positioned herself to always keep him in her line of sight, how her path would intercept anyone approaching the area where children played.

"The last researcher who came also had papers." Adut's words were careful, measured. "He wished to take photographs. To document the 'curious case.' He thought we would not understand what else he documented, but we are not blind to the ways of men who think they know better than a mother. Though I wonder why the British send their men to watch children instead of stopping the raiders they claim to police."

"I'm not—that is, I'm not here officially. I'm just...someone who might be able to help. Or at least understand."

Explaining he was a wix was out of the question. Newt clutched his case tighter, understanding now why his presence had been tolerated but watched. His own intentions might be different, but how could they know that? Instead, he said quietly, "Thank you. For letting me stay where you can see me."

“You will stay where I can watch you, and you will explain exactly why you are here.” She ran a hand over her head and adjusted her skirt's waistband, the closest to nerves she seemed to permit herself to show. “And you will not be alone with her. Now, explain.”

“About your daughter. I was only watching because I know…she’s not well. And I don’t know as much as I should, probably, but I’m somewhat of a scientist…when it comes to some, unexplained things," Newt said. "And I can’t claim to know everything, um, but I know something about what's happening to her. The...the condition. I don’t know much. You see, I can imagine—I can imagine, um, you look after her, and it’s not my place, and there must be certain ways you’ve tried. But I've seen this darkness before."

He winced as he said darkness ; it was unnecessarily prejerorative, and emerged more from his own anxiety about everyone’s safety than his true belief. There was nothing truly evil, nothing truly wicked in this world, so he believed, only different shades of understanding. 

This wasn't entirely true—he'd only read about it, heard whispers, and, twice, seen the aftermath. 

"The apeth ," she said quietly, still walking. "The night spirit. They say it marks those it touches. That death follows in their wake."

"It's not quite like that," Newt started, then paused as Adut held up a hand, not turning to face him. She spoke as if she were afraid she’d be overhead. 

“Nyaring. She is not truly one of us. We took her in, gave her a name—assumed her mother was running, as it recalls—but some say we should have left her where we found her. That she brings death with her."

"She's just a child," Newt said.

"Yes. My child. Whatever spirits or witchcraft possesses her." Fierce pride mixed with something like defiance. "My husband and I had lost our daughter to fever. We had love to give, whatever spirits she carried."

The translation device crackled, struggling with the emotion in her voice. Newt adjusted it carefully, aware of how ridiculous he must look with the wire in his ear, but unwilling to miss any nuance.

“And the community, um, accepts her?” Newt asked.

“They accepted her at first. But then people began to sicken. Slowly, always slowly. The butterflies came. Plants withered. Cattle grew restless when she passed." Adut's hands clenched in her skirts. "The witch doctor says the apeth grows stronger. The beny bith must maintain harmony. There is talk of..."

She broke off, but Newt could imagine what kind of "solutions" might be proposed. He'd seen similar patterns before—fear turning to violence, however well-intentioned.

"I might be able to help," he said carefully. "But I'd need to understand exactly how the... the spirit manifests. If you tell me to go, I'll go. But please...at least let me try. She doesn't have much time."

Adut went very still. But something in his voice must have convinced her, because Adut stopped and turned to face him. Her eyes were thin, her hair a little longer than the rest of the women’s. She had particularly bony shoulders. Newt noticed her beads were slightly worn, the sewn-on strings missing several. Everything about her spoke of making do and protecting what was hers.

"What do you mean?"

"The, um, the parasite...it kills its hosts. Usually by age ten. Sometimes sooner." The words felt like stones in his mouth. But he knew this must have been why Albus had alerted him. Surely his former teacher would have only done so if he believed there was something Newt could do. "I'm sorry. I wish I had better news."

There was a long silence, broken only by the rustling of the crops around them.

"But she’s not evil," Newt said quickly. "She's hurt. Something happened to her, something that turned her, um, her—her life force—split it, corrupted it. The darkness; it’s a parasite, and as long as she has it, she can’t—“

He swallowed and ducked his head. 

"You know of such things?"

"Some. Not enough, probably." Newt shifted his case to his other hand. "But I've seen what happens when this, um, condition isn't treated. The host usually doesn't survive past—"

"She is not a host," Adut cut in sharply. "She is my daughter. She was five.” It was as if the words had been waiting to spill out. "We found her in the bush during dry season. Half-dead, speaking only a little Arabic and another dialect we didn't know. Some said she had escaped from slavers. Others that she had been cast out of her village for carrying the apeth . She would not speak of it. Still will not. And if you bring harm to my daughter, there will be nowhere far enough for you to run."

The translation device rendered her words in flat, mechanical English, but the threat needed no translation. Newt nodded, clutching his case tighter.

“Can I—“ he began. “Can I speak to her?”

Newt had a difficult relationship with talking to people as a concept. Children were sometimes different, sometimes not. They were always brimming with creativity, not yet stamped with the world’s prejudices, curious and ready to learn. They were often impressed by magical creatures rather than afraid of them—because children loved stories, and most adults feared them and what they could teach them.

Some children smelled that he was different like finding blood in the water, and in moments, he could feel as though he was back in the village school, hiding behind the shed from bullies. But some made him nearly emotional—made him think that of course, one day, he would want a family, even if he eventually had to say goodbye to every temporary lover he took along his travels, every genuine connection he tentatively let into his heart. 

But this was different. He was needed here—or maybe he wasn’t—and had to try.

The vicar’s son he’d once loved as a lonely and confused boy had taught him how to pray. He’d never fully grasped the concept; but he now knew how to look to the sky and wish. 

Please, he thought. I really want to help this girl, even if she’s the first Obscurial I’ve met, even if I know little. Even if I’m not trained for this—even if I’m not a full Healer or Cursebreaker or Unspeakable.

Adut scanned the village, her hands creeping to press against her heart until she finally caught sight of Nyaring sitting outside an open structure that held several of the other children. They were chatting and repairing a section of fence; Nyaring sat two metres away, drawing spirals in the soil with a stick. 

“There she is,” she said, smiling a little. She clicked her tongue until Nyaring looked about, but the girl didn’t budge, instead pressing her cheek against one of her knobbly knees.

“I’ll go to her,” Newt said. That felt important.

The short distance between them felt like miles. Adut trailed him, explaining to the others as she went, the translation device humming frantically as it picked up on the chatter. She was telling them that he wasn’t there on official business, that he wasn’t a missionary. She explained he was a doctor and would listen to everything they said; a few made low noises of concern and looked at Nyaring. 

He couldn’t help but think about the possibility Nyaring be cast out. Societies didn’t like to include everyone, did they? And if Nyaring was sent away from the village, would her parents follow, or would they simply accept she was doomed? Worse, would them following eventually kill them too under the Obscurus’s power? 

"Hello," Newt said, crouching down to her level but maintaining his distance. He set the translator carefully between them. "I'm Newt. I was hoping we might talk about your butterflies."

Nyaring's hands stilled. "They don't mean to die," she said quietly, the translator rendering her words with a slight delay. "They just want to dance with me. But everything that dances too close dies eventually."

The simple tragedy of the statement hit Newt like a physical blow. "Do they come when you call them?"

“No," Nyaring said with surprising firmness. "They're...pieces. Of something inside." 

She traced a pattern in the dirt with one toe. "Something that wants to get out."

A chill ran down Newt's spine at her words. Adut made a small sound, half protest and half fear.

"Does it hurt?" Newt asked carefully. "This thing inside?"

Nyaring considered this. "Not exactly. It's more like..." She frowned, searching for words. "Like being full of shadows. They want to spread out, but then people get sick. So I try to keep them in." 

She looked up suddenly, meeting his eyes. "Are you going to make them go away?"

"I'd like to try to help," Newt said honestly. "Though I'm not entirely sure how yet."

"Other people tried." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "Before. They used fire and sharp things. It didn't work. Why do you want to help? Nobody helps without wanting something."

"Nyaring," Adut said sharply, but Newt shook his head.

"No, it's a fair question." He considered how to explain. "I help creatures that other people don't understand. Things they fear or hate because they're different. But being different isn't wrong. It's just...complicated sometimes."

"I'm not a creature," Nyaring said, but there was a hint of curiosity in her voice now.

"No, you're not," Newt agreed. "You're a person who happens to have something unusual inside you. Something that scares people because they don't understand it. But that doesn't make you wrong or bad. Just different."

Another butterfly landed on the translator. This one lasted almost ten seconds before its wings began to blacken. Nyaring watched it with intense focus.

"Can you make them stop dying?" she asked finally.

"I don't know," Newt admitted. "But I'd like to try to understand why they do. If you'll let me."

She looked to her mother, who nodded slightly. 

"You can see them too?" Nyaring asked. "Most people pretend they're not there."

"I see them." Newt pulled out his notebook, showing her his sketches. "I've been watching them. They're beautiful, in their way. Even if they're dangerous."

She reached for the notebook but stopped herself, drawing back.

"I shouldn't touch," she said. "It might poison it."

"It's alright." Newt set the notebook on the ground between them. "Sometimes beautiful things can be dangerous. That doesn't make them evil."

Nyaring was looking at his sketches with real interest now, one finger hovering just above the page, examining his careful renderings of the white butterflies.

"When did they start following you?" Newt asked.

But Nyaring clamped her lips together, making a small, distressed sound. She pulled back, wrapping the skirt more tightly around her calves, and pressed the stick hard enough into the earth that it snapped. With a sharp sigh, familiar enough to remind Newt a little of his older brother, Adut reached out and grabbed Newt’s arm, dragging him back to her luak.

“You can set up camp here,” she said. “And keep watch for thieves or raiders. You might as well make yourself useful. She is not a trusting girl. I don’t think she ever will be.”

Luckily for Newt, he'd grown practised at setting up his heavy canvas tent without magic. He positioned it carefully at the edge of the family's area, close enough to be present but not so near as to intrude. The relentless travel of the last few months had started to make the blue-grey fabric fray at the edges, rust creeping over the eyelets. He examined these minor damages with a sigh, and pulled out his small kit. Despite common belief, he tried his best to be careful with things—his family and teachers had always scolded him for his tendency to lose or damage what little he did own that wasn’t a hand-me-down.

But there was just so much to think about. 

To try and ease some of the discomfort of sleeping so close to other people rather than entirely alone under the stars, he cleaned the eyelets with extra vigour, until his arms ached. Then, exhausted and a little overwhelmed at the magnitude of the task ahead of him, he lay on the floor of the tent, breathing slowly, the acrid smell of dried cattle dung heavy on the air.

A thick millipede crawled over his hand; he raised it to his face, examining it, before letting it flop back down over his heart, heavy with the responsibility awaiting him that he rather feared. 

He trusted Albus. When it grew dark, he prepared his hurricane lamp and clambered into his case, relaxing a little in the familiarity of his workshop. A pen; paper; and his favourite owl, Artemis. Hastily, the letter was composed and sent off. Dear Albus, I hope you’re well, I hope the research is coming along, are you sure about this? Are you sure I’m the right person to do this? and Albus, he knew, would reply and reassure him, as he always had. He was the only person who’d consistently been this kind, this present, for Newt. 

When the reply came, Newt knew he’d stay. His first few days settled into a pattern. He'd wake before dawn to help Adut's husband, Deng, check the cattle—learning quickly to recognise individual beasts by their horn patterns and markings. Deng spoke little, but his hands were gentle with the animals, and sometimes he'd make quiet clicking sounds that reminded Newt of how he calmed nervous creatures.

"The grey one," Newt said one morning, pointing. "She's pregnant?"

Deng looked surprised, then pleased. "You notice well," he said through the translator. "Her first calf. We’ll watch her carefully."

Nyaring would sometimes watch them work, keeping her distance but following their movements with those too-old eyes. The butterflies seemed calmer in the early hours, their deaths slower, almost peaceful. Newt documented everything in his notebook: the patterns of their falling, the way they responded to Nyaring's moods, the subtle variations in how quickly they blackened.

"You write many things," Adut commented one afternoon, finding him cross-legged outside his tent, ink-stained fingers cramping around his quill. "What do you find so interesting about our ordinary lives?" 

The translation device crackled with static, struggling with her tone.

"Nothing about life is ordinary," Newt replied, then flushed at how pretentious that sounded. "I mean...everything has meaning. It's all important, I think."

She studied him for a moment, then handed him a gourd of milk. "Hmm. You can help with the crops tomorrow. Better than sitting and watching."

His height—or lack thereof—actually proved an advantage when it came to working in the millet fields, where the tall stalks would have made anyone else stoop uncomfortably. With that, the next day found Newt bent double in the sorghum fields, his pale skin burning in the sun despite the protection charms on his face and arms. The work was harder than he'd expected—not just physically, but socially. The women called to each other as they worked, their jokes and songs flowing back and forth in patterns he couldn't quite grasp. His presence seemed to create several awkward silences until one of the older women, face lined with laugh wrinkles, watched Newt attempt to swipe at some millet and made a comment that set everyone giggling.

"She says you look like a stork trying to dance," Adut translated, her own lips twitching. "All legs and no grace."

Newt flushed but smiled. "Well, she's not wrong. Though I'd argue storks are actually quite graceful. Did you know they..."

He caught himself before launching into a lecture on bird behaviour, but something in his expression must have amused Adut. She turned to the woman beside her, who had a little boy trailing her, and jerked her head towards Newt. The woman whistled but headed over, her son taking the moment to sprawl dramatically on the ground, miming his exhaustion; Adut planted her hands on her hips and began to scold him, shoving her yai into the dirt. In return, the boy tried to steal the iron and wood tool with its long handle. 

"You’re holding the stem wrong," one of the women told him, demonstrating the proper grip. Her name was Ajak, he'd learned, and she had a way of correcting him that reminded him of his mother. "Like this."

Newt adjusted his grip, noting how the movement aligned better with the plant's natural structure. "Thank you. I'm afraid I'm, um, better with creatures than crops."

The translation device rendered his words somewhat mechanically, but Ajak seemed to understand the sentiment. She showed him how to test the grain's readiness, explaining the subtle changes in colour that indicated proper ripeness. Her son kept looking at Newt, distracted from his scolding by the strange pale man who  clearly didn't know basic farming.

Adut kept careful watch, but Newt noticed her scrutiny softening slightly as days passed. She began asking him questions while he worked: about his travels, his research, though never directly about his interest in Nyaring. Finally, one evening, she called him to share their meal, rather than leaving him water outside the tent and letting him eat a dinner of old biscuits from his substantial stores within his case.

The inside of their luak was cool and dim, smoke from the cooking fire creating shifting patterns on the walls. Nyaring sat slightly apart, silhouetted in the doorway, but closer than she usually got. The butterflies danced in the firelight, creating ghost-shadows on the packed earth floor.

"Eat," Adut commanded, handing him a bowl. The food was simple but good: sorghum porridge, rich with milk and a spice he didn't recognise. 

Newt ate carefully, hyper-aware of every movement.

"Thank you," he said when he was finished. "For the meal, and for letting me help today."

"You work hard," Deng said unexpectedly, sucking the last of the porridge off his fingers.

Newt didn’t expect such a simple statement to make him feel so strange. He laughed. “When I was young,” he said, aware that his own voice was often quite monotone: not helped by the translation machine, which he’d figured out how to strap to his back, “my brother—he was older than me, you see; and practically grown—was always telling me I need to pay more attention and work harder.”

Deng hummed. “You work hard,” he repeated. “It’s good.” 

Some villagers still avoided him, but others began to approach with questions. A young mother wanted to know if he had medicine for her feverish baby. An elderly man asked about British farming methods, then spent an hour explaining why traditional ways were better. Children would sometimes follow him at a distance, giggling when he pretended not to notice, occasionally throwing cattle dung at him. 

Nyaring watched him too, though she rarely spoke directly to him. She'd drift closer when he was working, especially if he was fiddling with matters in his case, his equipment scattered across the tent, repairing harnesses or creating new splints of some of the creatures. He was wary of spending too long away, disappearing into his case.

The feeding schedules were all thrown; he could only really tend them at night or in quick bursts during the day, sprinting around the enclosures and trying his hardest to set up last minute automation charms. Because they were keeping him under tight scrutiny—and having the ability to vanish would hardly endear him any further. 

Nyaring had her favourite spots—a particular tree, a quiet corner by the millet storage, places where she could observe without being observed. Sometimes she'd draw patterns in the dirt near him, whirling spirals and circles that looked a little like either eyes or broken eyes. He'd sketch them in his notebook, sensing they meant something but not sure what.

The breakthrough came, oddly enough, because of his case.

He'd been carefully feeding its inhabitants before dawn one morning when a particular Bowtruckle—not Pickett, who never left his pocket, but a younger one he'd rescued from a logging operation—made a bid for freedom, scampering out over his dirty canvas floor, past his worn boots kicked off at the tent entrance. Emerging in his thick woollen socks, his overgrown fringe getting in the way of catching the creature quickly, he had to burst out of the tent and grab Charlie the Bowtruckle before he could have an unfortunate encounter with one of the huge cows. 

Breathing heavily, he tucked Charlie into his pocket—and looked up to see Nyaring, sitting outside her luak, her hands frozen on the stone which she used to grind sorghum. 

"What was that?" she asked, the first direct question she'd ever posed to him.

"Ah." Newt glanced at his waistcoat, then at her. "A friend. Would you like to meet him properly?"

She nodded, then hesitated. “But what if…?”

"He's quite resilient," Newt assured her, though he wasn't entirely certain. "And used to unusual situations."

She followed him back around to his tent. Not wanting to bring her all the way inside—partly because he sensed the Obscurus had some kind of areal effect, partly because he was still an adult and she was still a child, and partly because he was sure he might have carelessly left underpants somewhere on the inside—he opened up the porch canopy and settled down there. Casting a quick, anxious glance towards the clusters of huts, he reached into his pocket again and pulled out Charlie.

Young and attention-loving, Charlie immediately tried to bite Newt’s finger then began waving each of his leaves in turn.

Nyaring’s eyes went wide. 

Newt had to suppress both a fond smile and a bittersweet pang of memory, thinking of a different tree and a different time, when the world was both smaller and more wonderful at once. 

“Can I touch him?” she asked warily. “I don’t think I can.”

Newt hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Ah…maybe not…”

But, before he could pull away, Charlie leapt onto Nyaring’s beads, clambering quickly with his spindly fingers onto her hand.

This close, Newt could see where her fingertips darkened, where the Obscurus might have been manifesting. The skin around her nail beds was almost black, the nails themselves chalky, the veins in her hands holding an odd quality. Newt froze in place, as still as if he’d just spotted something in the bush. 

“Oh,” he said.

If Nyaring hadn’t been aware of her own fear before, she certainly was now. It was dead silent other than from the distant sound of the cattle. The clanging of the cow bells. Her ribs heaved. She said something, quick and desperate, so fast that the translation machine only whirred, a burden on Newt’s back that gave him no easy solutions. 

Charlie’s leaves began to wilt. Chirruping, he turned around and peered at Nyaring with his bright eyes. She stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, as he explored her palm.

"Why doesn't it die?" she whispered.

Thirty seconds. A minute. Newt had already heard the rumours. The sickness she produced was slow, her touch like poison. All previous reports he’d heard of Obscurials had them nearly ripping their targets apart in ferocious anger, the parasite grown from trauma and suppression having a rage that exceeded the capacity of many children.

But what myth made clear, fuzzy on the specifics of the bow and why and focusing on the fearful aftermath, was that the marks were unmistakable. Darkened veins, shadowy weaving, much like the patterning of coral. Primarily deposited over the face, neck, and heart; every place most efficient to target. 

But Charlie remained very much alive. 

"Perhaps because it's already magical," Newt suggested, conscious that his carelessness had already made her afraid. "Like you."

She snatched her hand back, dumping Charlie onto the ground. Unaware of the chaos he’d just caused, Charlie crawled up Newt’s trousers and decided to climb into his back pocket. "I'm not…” she said. “That’s not..."

"It's alright," he said quietly. "Your mother knows. About magic, I mean. She uses it too, in her own way. Those aren't just decorative gestures she makes when she's cooking."

He stood and considered Nyaring carefully, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves.

Bowtruckles guarded the wood of wand making trees; they had a keen sense of magical signatures and the like, as well as a certain skill to affect them of their own. Part of the seasoning and hardening of wand wood took place in the resilient defense of the Bowtruckles, imbuing it with both flexibility and strength. Of course, he couldn’t use a Bowtruckle to curse an Obscurial. But, what it did suggest was something about the interaction of magical signatures. Hers, smothered by the dark veil of whatever trauma she’d endured, nonetheless interacted well with a healthy and natural system.

Perhaps there was a way to combine—to extract, but gently, of course?

The same way that venom could be drawn from a snakebite?

His mind was whirring as he pulled a small copper object from his pocket. To all intents and purposes, a thermometer; but with a tiny collection vial within it, something he used to custom-brew his potions for various sick creatures.

“Nyaring,” he said softly. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to just check your temperature, and take a small sample of your saliva.”

“Saliva?” she questioned, frowning at him.

He smiled and demonstrated, turning his head and spitting into the ground. She wrinkled her nose and laughed, lacing her hands in front of her and rocking a little on her feet. The thermometer seemed to now become an object of unusual interest. He suspected he knew what it was: a special thing, for her; an innocuous interest, an opportunity to be measured in a way undefined by the apeth, felt as good as attention.

Oh, did Newt understand that, since the days he’d had to try and be cruel with his tongue in his childhood home if only to feel like more than part of the wallpaper. 

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You can do it yourself.”

“Can you give me a present afterwards?” Nyaring asked.

Newt smiled to himself and patted down his pocket. With his chronic sweet tooth, he tried his hardest to stay prepared—and he withdrew a small paper bag of toffee chocolate, enchanted not to melt despite the heat. “I might give you a toothbrush along with this,” he said, the translation machine crackling on his back. “These, at home, mean you have to go to a special doctor just for your teeth if you eat too many.”

“But no other doctors will look at me,” she said craftily. “Even tooth doctors.”

She took the themometer from his hands and stuck it into her mouth, biting down on it. His fingers fluttered a little as he watched, but he didn’t correct her. The agency was making her brighter, her shoulders straighter. When she ran off with the chocolate to her favourite, distant tree, where the increasingly suspicious others from the village couldn’t reach her, she laughed for the first time.

The sound drifted back to him over the long stretch of grass. 

After that, Adut began including him more in family meals. They'd sit in the luak as evening fell, sharing milk and meat and thick porridge. Demg, when not out with the herds, would tell stories that the translator rendered imperfectly but whose meaning carried through—tales of cattle raids and clever escapes, of spirits and seasons and survival.

Even so, the witch doctor was suspicious, watching Newt with narrow eyes whenever their paths crossed. Newt understood—he represented an outside threat to established ways of handling spiritual matters. 

"He means well," Adut said one evening, after the witch doctor had performed another cleansing ritual that left Nyaring trembling and silent. "He thinks he's protecting the village."

"From what?" Newt asked, though he knew the answer.

"From change. From outside forces. From things we don't understand." She sighed, adjusting her beads. "From my daughter. But you…can stay with her more. When I'm working. She...trusts you, I think. As much as she trusts anyone."

"Thank you," Newt said, meaning it. "I'll be careful."

"Yes," Adut agreed. "You will.”

The school squatted on the horizon like a bleached bone, topped with a plain wooden cross. It was a stark white building that seemed to repel the landscape around it. Several times a week, Newt had heard of Adut walking Nyaring in the early morning, watching their figures growing smaller against the rising sun. They'd return hours later, Nyaring's shoulders hunched, Adut's spine straight with determined dignity.

One day, Newt asked to go with them, explaining that he couldn’t get too close. Adut seemed to weigh this—“But could you talk to them?” she asked, adding: “Maybe you could persuade them?”—and finally accepted it wasn’t possible when Newt’s agitation finally seeped through. That she had to make allowances for him mortified him, but it had to be better this way. And, on that journey under the peeling cover of darkness, the jewel like stars slowly fading, Newt came to realise that some of the rumours were true.

“Two weeks before you came,” Adut admitted, her voice low and rough, “one of the elders died. She was one of the few who still was happy to touch Nyaring, who was kind to her. She gave us that goatskin because it was determined my daughter was no longer pure, even if she can never get married.”

“Ah,” Newt said. “Ah, I’m sorry.”

She looked sideways at him. “Are you married? What does it mean, where you are from?”

Newt shrugged one shoulder. “Well, um, it can both be rather a lot or nothing at all,” he said, adjusting the weight of the translation machine. “It’s often about reputation, about where you are from, biologically speaking. Some peoples’ names are good, and some bad. No one will ever choose me, but I, um, I’d like to be married one day.”

“Land? A herd?”

“No, neither of those.”

She scoffed, almost disparaging. “Mmh.”

Newt adjusted his case, watching Nyaring run off a little ahead of them, kicking up at the dirt. Whenever there was a noise, big or small in the distance, she would flinch and duck to the ground, hands clawing into her close-cropped hair. Each time, it would take moments for her to recover, and then she’d be up and running around, looping in circles as if making up for the lost time she spent watchful and quiet on the edges of village life.

“Do you think someone might die again?” Newt asked. “Soon?”

Adut pursed her lips. “I don’t know. I fear it—I have nightmares about it coming to pass. But, in the end, she’s my daughter…”

“If they do, could I, um, could you try and tell me, so I can see?” Newt asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “No. They are still my people.”

He ducked his head, scuffing his boots in the dirt. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

Later, on the days that Adut was working, Newt offered to take Nyaring. She seemed reluctant about the school. Newt could entirely understand that hesitation. But Adut seemed stubborn, shaking her head and getting irate whenever Newt mentioned that the nights he spent helping guard the cattle meant he heard the whispers. 

There were doubts: growing ones. Some seemed to think Newt might take Nyaring; others believed that he, too, carried the apeth. Either way, after two goats had died the week before, Newt could sense the tide slowly but surely turning. He sensed that if a cow or person went next, decisions would begin to boil. 

It was better for her to get out, at least for a little time.

The other children would file inside while Nyaring settled beneath a scraggly tree, just within sight of the classroom window but far enough that the teachers wouldn't protest. She had an old slate and a stub of chalk that Adut had traded three days' worth of milk for. Sometimes she'd draw on it; more often she'd just sit, watching shadows move across the ground.

"Did you go to school?" she asked Newt one morning as they sat together the appropriate distance away from the school. 

She’d had nightmares that night, and the shadows on her skin were obvious enough that she’d been dismissed entirely from the school and its perimeter. They must have thought it some skin disease. They sat morosely under a tree, sharing water. She didn’t want to go back and finish her chores, and was now picking at a scab on her knee, a habit he'd noticed increased when she was frustrated.

"Yes, though it was rather different from this one." He adjusted the translation device, which had been slipping in the heat. "I wasn't very good at sitting still."

"Me neither." She wrenched at a tuft of grass. "But I would if they'd let me. Mama says education is important." Her voice took on a slightly mocking tone, clearly imitating someone: "'Through learning we advance.'"

"Who says that?"

"The teachers. When they're telling us why we should want to learn English." She wrinkled her nose. "But they won't let me learn anything except the alphabet. And only because Mama argued. Besides, there’s no other people from our tribe there, even without me having the apeth. ”

Dark patches were beginning to spread across her arms. They always did when she got upset. Like bruises rising to the surface, but somehow wrong, as if they went deeper than skin. Newt had documented similar markings in his notes, tracking their patterns and intensity.

"Well," he said carefully, "perhaps we could learn other things. Out here."

"Like what?"

"Whatever you'd like. Mathematics, natural history..." He gestured at his case. "I have quite a few books."

Nyaring leaned back against the tree. There was a thin sheen of sweat over her dark skin. “I want to learn, but I don’t know if there’s any point. No one will trust me. No matter how many things I can say, or how well I bead, or even how healthy our herd is, no one will like me.”

"That's different. They don't understand what's happening to you, but it's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" She scratched violently at her slate, erasing the careful letters. "The witch doctor says I attracted the apeth because I was weak. Because I did something wrong. Because I let it in."

"He's wrong." Newt's voice came out sharper than intended. "You were a child. Are a child. Whatever happened, it—it wasn't your fault."

Nyaring looked at him sideways, evaluating. She had a habit of doing that: watching people when she thought they weren't paying attention, collecting information like the magpies that sometimes raided the village.

"I remember some things. From before. Not much. But..." She drew a pattern on her slate, intricate spirals that reminded Newt of spell diagrams. "I remember being scared. All the time. And then something...broke."

The dark patches were spreading again, but slower this time. Newt noticed they seemed less intense when he was nearby—as if his own magic somehow dampened the effect.

"What else do you remember?"

"Songs." Her face brightened slightly. "Different from here. Want to hear?"

She sang something in a language the translator couldn't catch—probably the dialect Adut had mentioned her speaking when they found her. Her voice was clear and surprisingly strong.

"That's lovely," Newt said when she finished. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know anymore. Like...like when Mama makes protective signs over the cooking fire. Or when you're treating the cattle and they get better even though you only used water."

Newt went very still. "You can sense that?"

"Sometimes. When the shadows aren't too loud." She drew another spiral, more confident now. "It feels different from when the witch doctor does his rituals. Calmer. Like..." She frowned, searching for words. 

"Like when the cattle are sleeping instead of running."

An idea was forming in Newt's mind: dangerous, probably illegal, but potentially vital. If she could sense magic naturally, if his presence helped stabilise the Obscurus…

"Would you like to learn a game?" he asked. "It's something I learned when I was about your age. It involves focusing on your breath and trying to make a feather float."

That earned him a real smile—quick and sharp as a knife, but genuine. "Show me?"

He glanced toward the school, but no one was watching. He pulled a feather from his pocket—he'd been carrying it for days, working up the courage for this moment.

"Hold out your hand," he instructed. "And try to feel the air around the feather. Like you're gathering up all the quiet parts of yourself and directing them upward."

She closed her eyes in concentration. The dark patches on her skin flickered, then faded slightly. The feather twitched.

"Good," Newt said softly. "That's very good. Now imagine the air becoming lighter, like the space between butterfly wings..."

For a moment—just a moment—the feather rose. Then a drift of sound from the school made Nyaring start, and everything crashed back down. 

But for that brief moment, the magic had been controlled, directed. The Obscurus had retreated, allowing Nyaring's natural magical ability to surface.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to..."

"No, no, you did wonderfully." Newt was already reaching for his notebook. "Would you like to try again tomorrow?"

She studied him with that sidelong look again. "You're not scared?"

"Of you? Never." He meant it completely. "Though I am rather terrified of your mother if she catches us practicing without her permission."

That startled another laugh out of her.

Newt smiled, noting how the butterflies had settled into a gentler pattern. "Shall we work on mathematics now?”

They met in the early morning before school, when the mist still clung to the grass and most of the village was occupied with the cattle. Newt had cleared a small space several kilometres behind his tent, far out of view of any other human, marking out a crude circle with stones. Not for any magical purpose, but to give Nyaring a sense of boundary.

"It looks like the witch doctor's circle," she said the first morning, eyeing it suspiciously. "Are you going to make me drink anything?"

"Absolutely not." Newt adjusted his bow tie. "No drinking, no smoke, no...um, whatever else you've had to endure. Just simple exercises."

"Like the feather?"

"Like the feather. But first..." Newt reached into his case and pulled out what looked like a mismatched collection of leather straps and padding. "Safety precautions."

Nyaring stared at him. "What is that?"

"Handling gear, actually. Bit modified. Here, let me..."

She dissolved into giggles as he helped her into the ridiculous outfit. The leather straps crossed her chest like a harness, while spelled padding protected her vital areas. The whole ensemble was clearly designed for someone much larger. The shoulder pads kept slipping down to her elbows.

“And,” he said, bowing slightly and producing the fireproof mask with a flourish, “here you go. The final item.”

“You’re mad,” she said, with her eight year old candour. But she put it over her head and turned, letting him adjust the strap so it fit properly over the back of her skull. It had luminous green goggles, and when she turned, she was blinking hard, trying to peer through the scratches. “Where did this come from?” 

“The cows at home get very angry,” he said wryly, still not entirely sure about discussing dragons: either because of the context or the memories of the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau. “Now, shall we try that feather-floating charm again?"

Her laughter faded. She ran her hands over the leather protective vest. “What if...what if the apeth doesn't like it? This time?”

Newt kept busied himself checking the latches of his case, keeping his voice gentle. "Tell me about the apeth . What do people say about it?"

"It's a night spirit." Nyaring settled opposite him, the oversized gear making her movements clumsy. "It takes children who are...wrong. Inside. Who have made mistakes and brought misfortune on others. The witch doctor says it hollows them out and fills them with darkness." 

She touched her chest. "That's why the butterflies come. They're pieces of light trying to escape before they turn dark too. But I don’t think they can.”

“And what do you think?"

“I think…”

She stuck out one leg and traced a spiral into the soil, shifting from one foot to the other. “I think it hurts. When the witch doctor does the cleansing rituals, it feels like being torn apart. But if I cry, he says that's the apeth fighting back, so I have to be quiet. To drown out the spirit’s call.”

Newt's hands clenched. "That must have been terrifying."

"I wasn't scared," she said, too quickly. Then, softer: "Maybe a little. Like you were scared at your school?"

"How did you know about that?"

"You flinch sometimes. When people laugh suddenly. Like I do." She gave him that knife-flash smile. "And you said you weren't good at sitting still."

"No, I wasn't." Newt picked up the feather, turning it between his fingers. "Other children... they knew I was different. They had ways of showing they didn't like that."

"Did they try to fix you too?"

"In their way. Though not like..." He swallowed hard. "Nothing like what you've experienced."

She shrugged, the gesture almost lost in the oversized gear. "Mama says I'm strong. Like the cattle that survive the dry season." Another butterfly died. "But sometimes I get tired of being strong."

"Shall we try something else today?" Newt offered. "We could work on your reading, or..."

"No." She straightened, the mask giving her face a strange, fierce anonymity. "I want to try. I want to know if I can be like you instead of like...this."

They started slowly—breathing exercises, simple visualisation techniques. Newt noticed the butterflies seemed calmer when Nyaring focused on specific magical tasks rather than letting her power flow unchecked. But there was always an undercurrent of darkness, like storm clouds gathering.

"That's excellent," he encouraged as she managed to make the feather wobble. "Now try directing the energy up, like we practiced..."

The feather rose an inch, then two. Nyaring's face lit up behind the mask—and that was when it happened. The darkness surged, visible even through the clothes, and something like black lightning crackled between them.

Newt felt it hit like a physical blow, sending him sprawling. Through watering eyes, he saw Nyaring collapse, the protective gear smoking slightly.

"Nyaring!" He scrambled to her side, ignoring his own pain. "Are you alright?"

She was conscious but dazed. In the gaps between the equipment, he could see the dark patches spreading across her bare skin like ink in water. "It's angry," she whispered. "It doesn't want to be controlled."

Before Newt could respond, a cry split the air. Over the horizon, Adut came running, her beads clicking frantically, protective gestures flying from her fingers.

"What have you done?" she demanded, pulling Nyaring to her feet. It suddenly struck Newt. Sometimes, Adut forgot herself and touched Nyaring—but unlike the kindly older woman who’d apparently been poisoned by the Obscurus, she was still alive. But investigating it any further vanished from his mind as he realised how betrayed she looked. “What magic is this?"

Nyaring tried to speak, but only managed a weak cough. 

“S—simple magic,” Newt stammered. “Nothing more than the b—basics—“

"Go." Adut's voice was like ice. She began to wrench the equipment off her daughter, tossing it aside; Newt was relieved to see that she was okay underneath it, at least on the surface, perhaps nothing more than magically exhausted. "Not right now.”

"Please, let me explain..."

"Now!" She turned to call for her husband, who came running with several other men.

Newt backed away. He watched them carry Nyaring into the luak, saw the witch doctor hurrying over with his ritual implements. 

For several minutes there, he stood there in silence, trying to slow his breathing. Then, at last, he retreated to his tent, hands shaking as he packed his equipment away. The pain from the magical backlash was nothing compared to the knowledge that he'd hurt her, that he'd betrayed Adut's trust, that he might have made everything worse.

Hours passed. The sun set, painting the sky in bloody colours. Newt heard chanting from the luak—another cleansing ritual. He imagined Nyaring having to lie still and quiet through it, and felt sick.

A rustle at his tent flap made him look up. 

There, in the growing darkness, stood Nyaring. She was trembling but upright, holding something behind her back.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered. "Your mother..."

"Is sleeping. The witch doctor told her to calm herself." Nyaring brought her hands forward, revealing a small bunch of wild flowers. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

"I'm sorry you got hurt," Newt countered, but she shook her head.

"It wasn't your fault. It was the apeth . Or...whatever it really is." She held out the flowers. "Here. I'm sorry Mama got angry. But I'm not sorry we tried."

The flowers were dying even as she spoke, their petals blackening from the centre outward. She dropped them quickly and stared at them; then, she backed away, her arms wrapping around herself. “Will you go away now?” 

Her voice was small, young.

"I..." Newt hesitated. In the distance, he could hear men's voices. The night patrol, watching for raiders. But there was something different in their tone tonight. 

Something harder. She cocked her head, also listening. He felt like more of an outsider than ever. 

"They're talking about me again," Nyaring said matter-of-factly. "They do that more now. Ever since the witch doctor said the apeth is getting stronger."

"What do they say?"

She shrugged, but Newt could see the tension in her shoulders. "That I'm dangerous. That I'll bring disaster to the village. That they should have left me in the bush where they found me."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" 

She shot Newt one last look—half apology, half something else—before darting away into the darkness. 

Later, unable to sleep, Newt sat in his tent doorway and listened to the night patrol. His translation device caught fragments of their conversation:

"—getting worse—"

"—can't risk the whole village—"

"—the witch doctor says—"

"—better to act now, before—"

The words themselves were less threatening than their tone—the sound of people convincing themselves that harsh actions could be justified. Newt had heard it before, in other villages, other times. The slow turn of community opinion from fear to resolution.

He looked down at the dead flowers in his hand, then at his notebook full of observations. He'd been so focused on understanding the Obscurus, on trying to help Nyaring control it, that he'd forgotten the most basic lesson from his work with magical creatures. 

Sometimes the greatest threat wasn't the creature itself, but people's reaction to it.

But, somehow, nothing was getting better. It was as if Newt’s arrival alone had begun a hasty chain reaction, and now, the community was collapsing like a house of cards. He held onto his faith in Albus even as it began to ache like an old sore. 

Where others had scorned his passion for fantastic beasts, Albus had supported them. Where Theseus had called his specimens weird and shouted at him for bringing Horklumps into the house, Albus had taken the draft paper Newt had written with interest and helped him get it published in a small journal. It all came back to small acts of kindness like that, didn’t it? 

Albus always carried himself as if he needed to hide, but with great confidence, too; and Newt suspected there was a wellspring of secrets he was yet to know, about why the Ministry were becoming increasingly interested in his past, about why he took interest in where Newt was going and what messages Newt could pass on. But Newt had never minded. He wasn’t as naive as Theseus believed him to be. 

Every time he had this spiral of thoughts, he couldn’t help but bite down on the cuff of his sleeve, exhausted of it despite himself. It always came down to his brother and his teacher and his best friend.

Even with brilliant academic contacts, even with friends all over the world, even with intimate acquaintances scattered like stardust in his path. He wasn’t alone, but he was haunted by them, and that same persistent uncertainty when it came to decisions given enough time to worry about. 

"It hurts," Nyaring told Newt one evening, after a particularly long ceremony with the witch doctor. The smoke still clung to her, and her voice was hoarse from chanting. "The shadows don't like the rituals. They get angry."

"We could try the breathing exercises again," Newt suggested. "Just gentle ones."

But then came the first death. 

Ayen, one of the older women who sometimes snuck Nyaring extra portions of food, simply didn't wake up one morning. She had been teaching Nyaring to weave the day before, showing her how to cross the reeds in intricate patterns. Her hands had trembled slightly when Nyaring got too close, but she hadn't pulled away like the others did.

"She knew the risk," people whispered. "Getting that close."

Newt watched from his tent as they prepared Ayen's body, noting how the usual funeral preparations took on an edge of fear. Crying, singing, dancing. All meant to comfort the spirit. He wondered what the Obscurus thought—what it could think, if it thought at all. The butterflies around Nyaring were frenzied that day, their deaths coming so rapidly it looked like snow falling.

"It was my fault," Nyaring said later, hiding behind Newt's tent. She had taken to creeping over when her mother was busy, though they no longer attempted magic. "She was kind to me, and now she's dead."

"You didn't mean to hurt her," Newt said.

"Doesn't matter what I meant." She traced not the playful spirals from before, but sharp, angular shapes that reminded Newt of warning signs. "The apeth takes what it wants."

The funeral rites went on for some time into the night. The smoke was thick and heavy before they buried her, catching in the lungs, turning every singing voice hacking and scratchy with enough exposure. It was as if the village was afraid to let the light die: as if they were afraid that, under the cover of night, something worse might enter.

That night—the thing in question, the girl—the Obscurial, sobbed in the luak. Newt guarded the cattle, and Deng, for once, went into the house rather than sleeping in the pen. 

He heard him murmuring, and heard Nyaring’s wailing muffled, as if she was being held. Newt’s heart sank; he might not have known everything there was to know about Obscurials, but he understood infection, proximity, and parasitic transference. Both Nyaring’s parents, when he’d been observing the village from afar, had avoided touching her. Newt had seen the way that even grass, some days, wilted at her feet. 

It was nothing like the Obscurials he had heard of before, but with those marks on Ayen, there was no doubt that Nyaring housed one. Yet now that Newt had come—now that he had invaded just like the apeth—it seemed as though they sensed their little rescued girl was falling apart, and were trying once more to save her, the way many parents did. With touch. With care. With impossible hope. 

He knew it was impossible. He didn’t know what to say. Never had he broken bad news to someone before, and especially not about the death of a child. 

Four days later, Deng started coughing. Just a small cough at first—the kind anyone might get from ritual smoke. 

But it had been some time since the ritual.

And it didn't stop.

The decline was gradual but relentless.

Deng grew weaker each day, though he tried to hide it. He still went out with the herds, still sang the cattle songs, still stuck his head into the luak to chat with his wife and daughter every evening with fresh milk for them both. But the whites of his eyes yellowed; when he crossed the vast plains around the village, searching for the best grazing ground dry enough for the cattle to safely walk, he came back breathless. 

"Papa?" Nyaring would say, each time she saw him. "I think you should go away."

"Never," he'd reply firmly, even as the cough shook his frame. "You are my daughter."

But she started spending more time alone at the village edges, anyway. As if she could protect others with her isolation. The butterflies followed. People began to whisper that they could see shapes in their dances—omens, warnings, the touch of death itself.

Newt documented everything in his notebook, his normally neat handwriting growing ragged with urgency. He couldn't help it. The idea of clinical distance didn't work when the "subject" was a frightened eight-year-old who'd curl up next to him sometimes, asking questions about his travels just to hear stories that didn't end in death.

When Deng died, it was in his sleep. 

The marks were unmissable. 

The temporary desk Newt had set up in his tent became cluttered with increasingly desperate correspondence. Crumpled and ink-stained. Some half-written in the middle of the night when thoughts wouldn't let him sleep. 

He'd scratch out whole paragraphs, restart:

"Albus,

Why didn't you tell me it would be like this? That I'd have to watch a child tear herself apart trying to contain something she doesn't understand? Your academic interest takes on a rather different shade when faced with..."

Those letters usually ended up in the fire. No one looked twice at Newt now. Only at Nyaring. 

To a contact in Egypt:

"...any references to similar cases in ancient magical traditions? The local witch doctor's methods show surprising effectiveness in temporary containment, suggesting historical precedent..."

To a former colleague in the Beasts Division:

"...understand this isn't technically within your department's purview, but given the parasitic nature of the condition, any insights into magical symbiosis would be..."

To Leta, drafted and burned without sending:

"...remember how we used to think we could save everything? How young we were, how sure? There's a girl here who reminds me of us then—too bright, too different, too much for the world to handle. I don't know how to help her. I don't know if anyone can..."

To Theseus, also unsent, but not burned, because he needed a piece of something to hold onto:

"...for once in my life I wish I had your talent for rules and structures. Everything I know about magical creatures tells me one thing, while every human instinct says another. How do you balance duty and emotion? You always made it look so easy..."

His brother's Ministry connections might help cut through the bureaucracy of accessing any help they might unwillingly provide him. But how could he explain why he was involving himself in such a dangerous situation—and facing Theseus's mixture of concern and disapproval?

Besides, what would he write? "Dear Theseus, Remember how you always said my tendency to get involved with dangerous creatures would get me in trouble? Well, there's this girl..."

No. Better to keep searching. There had to be something in all these books and letters and notes. Some pattern he wasn't seeing. Some solution that wouldn't involve either abandoning Nyaring to local fears or imposing foreign methods that might make things worse.

"The problem," he wrote in his personal journal, "is that everyone wants to classify it. Creature or curse. Traditional or modern. Light or dark. But it's all of these and none of them. It's just Nyaring, trying so hard to contain something that's eating her from the inside out."

The ink smeared where his hand shook, but he kept writing:

"She drew butterflies today. Just ordinary ones, with chalk. Said she remembers when they used to land on flowers instead of dying. I don't know how to tell her that every book, every expert, every piece of research says this only ends one way."

That night, the witch doctor came. Newt could hear the drums from his tent, could smell the sacred smoke. Nyaring's screams started again. Different this time, desperate. 

He found himself halfway to the luak before catching himself. 

This wasn't his place. These weren't his traditions.

But when morning came, he saw the fresh marks on Nyaring's skin—not just the Obscurus's shadows, but deliberate patterns cut and burned into her flesh. Protective sigils, the witch doctor called them. Necessary pain to drive out the spirit.

"Does it help?" he asked Adut quietly.

She touched her own arms. "It has to."

Helpless now, Newt documented everything. Ideas were forming in the back of his mind. Vague, dangerous, hypothetical. Would there be lines he had to cross? As a wixen, wasn’t there a point where he had to try, no matter what? The Obscurus—a parasite. Him—a magical creatures expert. He’d tended to the injured before, knew some healing, knew most of all how creatures and beasts operated. This thing inside Nyaring—Merlin, he couldn’t help it, but he hated it. When there were no more letters to write, when people stopped responding and he realised he’d soon be out of time, he allowed himself to feel it with a viciousness that surprised him. 

Nothing was truly evil in the natural world. But Nyaring, little Nyaring, didn’t deserve to die only because of this: poor luck, a birth in the wrong place, a soul leached by this thing like smoke. 

His notes couldn't capture the reality: Nyaring's face when she realised she couldn't even touch her mother's cooking pots without tainting them. The way she flinched from her own reflection in water. How she would sing her father's cattle-songs to herself at night, voice getting softer and softer until it disappeared entirely.

"You should go," she told Newt one morning. "Before it takes you too."

"I'm not leaving," he said firmly, though his chest still ached from their failed magic lesson.

"Why?" Her voice was bitter. "To study me? To watch how the apeth kills?"

"To help."

"You can't help. No one can." She looked at her hands—such small hands, Newt thought, to hold so much power and pain. "I dream about them sometimes. Ayen. Papa. They don't blame me, in the dreams. That's how I know they're not real."

The witch doctor came more frequently now, his rituals growing more elaborate. Smoke and blood and sacred words. Sometimes the combinations seemed to help—the butterflies would slow, the shadows retreat. But they always came back stronger.

"Your foreign magic makes it worse," the witch doctor told him. "The spirit feeds on it."

"Your rituals hurt her," Newt countered, then immediately regretted his sharpness when he saw Adut's face.

"Everything hurts her," she said quietly. "We just have to find what hurts her least. The beny bith came today. To discuss...options."

"What kind of options?"

"The kind that protect the many at the expense of the few." She adjusted her beads, eyes beginning to glitter. "I told him I needed time to think."

"And Nyaring?"

The witch doctor nodded to them both and retreated, perhaps sending this was a sensitive conversation. 

"Knows more than she should. Understands more than I wish she did." Adut's composure cracked. "She asked me last night...asked me if it would be better if she just walked into the bush and kept walking. My eight-year-old daughter, talking about..."

She broke off, turning away. 

Nyaring had tried to run away twice in the week after Deng's death. The second time, near sunset, he found Nyaring nearly an hour away from the village, drawing in the dirt under a lone tree. The light painted everything red. Her favourite colour. But instead of her usual spirals, she was drawing butterflies—detailed, delicate, doomed.

"I remember more now," she said without looking up. "About before. About how the shadows got inside." Her hand stilled. "I think...I think I let them in. I needed them then, to survive. But now they're killing everyone I love."

He was getting too close. But how could he not? He saw himself in her isolation, saw Leta in her guilt, saw every wounded creature he'd failed to save.

"I should go," she said. “Far away, where I can't hurt anyone else."

"You're eight years old," Newt pointed out gently. "Where would you go?"

"Anywhere. Nowhere." She picked at the protective beads tied around her wrists—new ones, stronger ones, though they didn't seem to help. "Sometimes I dream about turning into butterflies and just...flying away. Until there's nothing left of me but wings."

The poetry in her words made them more heartbreaking. Newt sat down beside her, careful to maintain the necessary distance. "But what would your father want?"

"He'd want to be alive." She sniffled. 

“He'd want to be here to help with the cattle and tell stories at night and...and..." She broke off, pressing her fists against her eyes. "I can feel it. And I can't stop it."

"We'll find a way," Newt promised, knowing he shouldn't make promises he couldn't keep. "There's always a way."

“I understand now. Why people fear the apeth. Why they think it has to be driven out." She looked at her hands. "But it's not something inside me anymore. It is me. And I don't know how to drive myself out. They're not really butterflies. They're pieces of me. Breaking off."

Breaking off, he thought. 

Later that night, he turned it over in his head, over and over. There was a large meeting taking place, right in the luak of the beny bith. How did you draw out any parasite? There were ways to alleviate possession he’d learned a little of from his work at the Ministry, close to the Spirits Division while serving in the Beasts. In Egypt, in some of the black markets, he had seen transference magic and the close links of humans and animals as a result, the similarities to the ancient deities re-emerging in wet-eyed things pressed against cage bars. 

If only there was a way to remove the trauma, to Obliviate it—but an Obscurus was a physical, latching, corrupted result of that trauma, wasn’t it? Yet she had been able to breathe on that feather, her own magic showing through for a moment. When Newt had been younger, after an accident involving some Muggle boys—a tale as old as time for so-called volatile and erratic wixen—he had been taken for a month to an institution to help him control his magic. There was a sense of replacement, repair. Of skinning away.

It made some sense. As he’d got older, he’d shed the pain from his childhood as if shrugging off an old coat, compartmentalising and forgetting and running until he had broken free, the shyness and broken insecurity slipping away. A person’s magic and mind were inextricably connected. The mind couldn’t be fixed until the magic was—or the magic couldn’t be fixed until the mind was. 

He barely slept, barely ate, barely spent the necessary time with the creatures he already had in the case. He forgot there was a world beyond this small cluster of luaks at all. When the beny bith finally prepared for a final, deliberated announcement—when Nyaring began to faint, to spit out shadows—he realised he had no other choice. 

Adut’s face was flat and hard with grief. They sat by the fire together, on opposite sides, the light flickering across their faces. There were preparations he’d made that he had not yet told her about; his stomach roiled worse than any ocean liner or small skiff he’d been on. His hands wouldn’t stop fluttering. Here, no comment was made about it. 

How long had it been since he’d arrived? Maybe two, three months. His journals had become messy and scattered, observation giving way to dread and quiet mourning. Whenever he went to ink in the date, his breath caught in his chest despite himself. A few times, he’d wondered if it were a cough building, if he would go the same way as first Deng and then Nyaring. Somehow, he was not afraid of that. Newt had never been either attracted to or afraid of death. It was simply there, or not—around him, or not, to be viewed with a sensitive understanding that this was the way of the natural world. 

Odd, then, that he was not concerned that contact with the Obscurus might damage him, but was very, very concerned that Nyaring might only have weeks or days or hours left to live. 

No, not concerned.

Terrified. 

If there were answers, they all needed them. Nothing was enough.

“I don’t know,” Newt said, evading the answer. The translation machine felt utterly useless. There was so much he could have said, and no way to parse it. 

Adut sighed. Someone was approaching, footsteps slow and solemn, the base of what sounded like a spear colliding against the floor with every raggedly uneven step. Newt couldn't bear to look up. He stared down at his own hands as Adut got to her feet, whisper-quiet. 

Nyaring was out there, somewhere, alone, in the gathering dusk. As if in some silent agreement, they’d stopped chasing her when she ran. Even a child deserved time alone, to think, to be. It was a luxury Newt and his brother had been denied many times in their childhood—and something she deserved, now, when they couldn’t even be sure the village was safer than the wild animals, with the paranoia growing, the witch doctor making sacrifices that seemed to appease no spirit. 

“The girl must go,” said the beny bith . “For the safety of all.”

Adut went rigid. “She is my child. Where would you have us take her?”

“Not us,” the beny bith said. “She must go alone. The apeth’s hunger is too great. We can lose no more for the one. She must go into exile. When dawn comes, she must go.”

“No.” Adut’s voice rose. She beat at her chest and stepped forwards, her beads swinging. “No!”

“You know as well as I do that there is no other option. And when she dies, the apeth might choose us, too, for the misfortune and ill-will we bestowed on innocents for keeping her here, trapped, instead of able to answer to its hungers out where she belongs.”

Adut’s hands, clenched into fists, slowly opened. Her fingers were crooked, shaking. This, Newt knew, was potentially true. Who was to say there was no apeth? If you believed something for long enough, it was essential, no matter whether Newt himself knew of vengeance or not. Her breathing had a wet edge to it that made Newt's chest tight with recognition.

"I can help," he said quietly. "But you won't like how."

She didn't look up. "Tell me."

The beny bith only watched. 

"The...the thing inside her. I think I can remove it. Like drawing poison from a wound." He swallowed hard. "But it would be dangerous. And we'd need to do it away from the village. Away from everyone."

Now she did look up. "You want to take my daughter away? After everything?"

"The magical discharge could kill anyone nearby," Newt explained, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "And if something goes wrong..."

"If something goes wrong, you want her to die alone?"

"No! No, I just..." Newt ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it further. "I can't guarantee anyone's safety. Even yours. You’ve, um, you’ve seen that there’s other residue. Other side effects when it spreads. I will do it, happily—I’ll happily do it, and whatever effect it has on me, I promise, I’ll leave. I’ll take the sickness with me. But you don’t deserve it. That hurt. I can imagine, um, that all of you have, um—been through enough.”

"How long?" Adut asked after a long moment.

"The procedure? Hours, maybe. Maybe a day. But we'd need to go far enough away that—"

"No." She sat down again, slumping forwards. "How long does she have without your help?"

None of the handful Newt had distantly heard of had survived past ten. Those known to the Spirits Division had died violently, taking others with them, and all they’d known of was the aftermath. 

"Days," he hedged. "Maybe a week."

Adut closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were bright with unshed tears. "Will it hurt?"

"I'll do everything I can to make it painless."

"That's not what I asked."

"...yes. Probably."

"Then I won't let you experiment on her anymore,” said Adut. “We will find another way.”

But there was no other way, and they all knew it.

The beny bith nodded. “Then she will be exiled. Tomorrow.”

Newt left Adut and the beny bith to argue, biting down hard on his sleeve, letting his teeth scratch at the smooth skin of his wrist. 

The ritual. The ritual. Oh, Merlin. He knew what he could do, what he might do. There could be a way forwards. But for one of the first and few times in his life, Newt was afraid to try and save something. 

The night grew deeper. Newt sat in his tent, unable to sleep, reviewing his notes for the hundredth time. 

The rustle at his tent flap was so quiet he almost missed it.

Nyaring slipped inside like a shadow, her feet barely touching the ground. The butterflies around her were oddly still, holding their breath.

"You can help?" she whispered. "You know how to take it out?"

Newt's throat felt tight. "Your mother—"

"Mama wants to protect me." Nyaring's voice was older than her years. "But I need to protect her. Like with Papa. Like with Ayen. I can feel it getting stronger."

A butterfly died, its wings dissolving before it hit the ground.

"It would be dangerous," Newt said carefully. "We'd have to go far away. And it would hurt."

"Everything hurts," Nyaring said simply. "But this way, maybe it stops hurting others too."

She held out her hand, shadows writhing beneath her skin. "Will you help me? Please?"

Every living thing deserved to chase its own freedom. Every child deserved a choice about their own destiny.

"Yes," he said softly. "Of course I'll help."

Newt and Nyaring stood alone on the vast patch of iron plateau, feet cracked and blistered from the travel, the rain pouring down. He’d summoned a thin dome to protect them, to contain the residue from the Sudanese Guild should they come looking, come trying to contain her after the procedure was finished. 

He was crawling with insects. They all feared her too much to land. 

“They said,” Nyaring said, her voice weak. She was getting sicker by the moment, as if the distance from home was beginning to sap her life force, “that you know a lot about animals.”

Newt dipped his head. “Yes,” he said. It was nearly impossible not to stumble over the words. All his preparations hung here, in the muggy air, against the blue-green-brown of the blurred world around them. “Yes, um, that’s what I am. I know a lot about—about animals.”

A flash of the whites of her eyes at him. She leaned forwards a little but didn’t smile her knife-smile. “I think I’m an animal,” she said quietly. “I suppose that was why you were here from the beginning. That’s why you had binoculars. I’ve seen what happens to sick animals, those that aren’t the cows. And that’s what my papa said. You don't try to fix them by loving them. You fix them by knowing what's wrong."

For the first time, Newt realised that papa and mama were such poor approximations in the translation. That the words she was speaking were fond titles entirely of their own—and both those figures, currently lost. 

Nyaring's eyes were fever-bright, her breathing shallow. Everything in Newt's training told him this was the right place. The dome was more for containment than shelter. After the dragons, he'd seen how magical discharge could spread, how it could poison the land itself. He'd thought he was being subtle with his observations, professional. But of course she'd noticed. 

She noticed everything.

" No," he said, then, "Well, yes, but—it's not—you're not just..."

Yes, he had been watching her like one of his creatures. Taking notes. Measuring symptoms. Looking for patterns. But he didn’t see her as one of his creatures. They’d talked for hours; he’d taught her about the ecology of Sudan, taught her how to add and subtract, learned about her favourite colours and the few memories she didn’t have of her life before. 

He bit the inside of his cheek. He was frowning here, a creature expert staring at a vulnerable human child that no one else could save. He and Nyaring and the Obscurus—they were all alone. 

"It's alright," Nyaring said, and somehow that was worse than if she'd been angry. "I don't mind. The witch doctor watches me too. Everyone does." She held up her hand, studying how the shadows writhed beneath her skin. "At least you try to help the animals you study."

"I should have at least told your mother where we were going," Newt said. The guilt sat in his stomach like lead. "She'll be—"

"She would have stopped us." Nyaring's voice was matter-of-fact. "And then more people would die. Like Papa. Like Ayen. The sick animals, they get taken away too. So the healthy ones don't catch it. Sometimes they come back better."

Newt swallowed hard. "This isn't like treating the cattle. It's more complicated. More dangerous."

"Because I'm people too?" A ghost of her knife-smile flickered across her face. "Or because the apeth is stronger than regular sickness?"

The butterflies around her were moving strangely now, their patterns more erratic. Several dropped dead at once, their wings dissolving before they hit the ground. Newt noticed her breathing had grown shallow, her skin taking on a grey undertone that had nothing to do with the shadows.

"Both," he admitted. "And because I'm not... I'm not entirely sure..."

All of it suddenly seemed inadequate, like trying to catch a storm in a teacup. But, as if half in a trance, he began to unpack the equipment he’d prepared in his case. 

All his research had led to something. In this case, it rather needed to. Helping—he was helping. He had no other choice. 

He began drawing the circles, adding the symbols he'd researched—ancient runes for protection, separation, containment. His chalk was special, infused with powdered moonstone and dragon eggshell, materials that responded to magical signatures. The lines glowed faintly as he drew them, like paths of starlight on the dark ground.

"Is that why we needed the rain?" Nyaring touched one of the water bowls gently. "To wash it away?"

"I didn’t bring the rain myself, but maybe nature did it for us." Newt smiled despite himself. She was clever, always making connections. "Water helps draw things out. Like pulling poison from a wound. And the rain..well, it helps hide what we're doing. Magic leaves traces, you see. Like footprints in sand."

He spoke about magic freely because he believed he owed her this honesty. She didn’t question it.

Newt had a sudden memory of being eight and running into the forest, collapsing onto the soil behind that big fallen tree, practically burrowing into the damp. Of smelling the loam and thinking that was what spirits who could offer freedom might taste like. Practically prayer. Get me away. Get me away. I hate my brother and my father and I hate everyone else because my skin is burning when I’m around them and I want it to be quiet. 

Was he offering this to Nyaring?

“This way,” she said, as if reading his thoughts, “Mama won’t die.”  

Newt placed small copper bowls at the cardinal points, filling each with water he'd collected from a sacred spring. The water caught what little light filtered through the storm clouds, gleaming like liquid stars. In his experience, pure water helped draw out magical toxins—he'd used it successfully with dozens of poisoned creatures.

But none of them had been children. 

Finally, he placed his containment sphere in the centre of the dome—a delicate glass orb wrapped in silver filigree, designed to hold dangerous magical entities. It had cost half a years earnings of his Ministry wage. Usually, he used it for particularly volatile specimens, things that needed special care. Never for this. Never for a child's magic.

For a second, he closed his eyes, breathed, felt every little shift and twitch deep within his body. If only. If only this could work. For Nyaring. 

"It's pretty," Nyaring said, reaching for it.

"Careful,” Newt said. She nodded and settled back down. "Sorry, I just...it's very delicate. And we need it to be perfect. "It's like...like making a safe space. Like how your mother draws protection symbols, but different." He gestured to the intricate chalk patterns he’d drawn. "See these spirals? They're to help guide the, um, the sickness out safely."

“And what’s that for?” Nyaring asked, pointing again to the containment sphere.

“To keep the darkness safe."

"Safe?" Nyaring's voice held a hint of her old curiosity. "The apeth isn't safe."

"Everything deserves to be safe," Newt said, getting onto his knees and pulling out several herb pouches from his case. "Even the things we're afraid of."

He busied himself with the herbs next, arranging small bundles at each cardinal point. Lavender for calm, sage for cleansing, valerian root for peace. The same herbs he used when treating frightened or injured creatures. 

"Will it hurt?" she asked again, watching him work.

Newt paused in lighting the herbs. "Yes," he said finally. "I, um, I can’t promise that it won’t, Nyaring, yet please believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to make it less painful. I don’t want to hurt you. But I'll try to make it quick.”

"Like with the sick goat last week? When you had to…?”

"No," Newt said quickly. Too quickly. "No, nothing like that. This is to help you live."

But even as he said it, doubt crept in. How much of his fragmented research material had ended with the same stark notation? Terminal condition. Subject expired. No known cure.

The herbs caught, sending sweet smoke spiralling up to meet the rain pattering against his dome. Nyaring watched it curl through the air, her expression unreadable. Newt’s magic alone was weak, but here, he could feel it enhanced by the hum of life in the land firmly into the wet season. Nyaring, too, had a magical signature that burned like a fire, and he could feel his, weak and limited in comparison, stir with a fundamental understanding that all he needed to do was the first hook. 

What did he know about Obscurials? The Obscurus itself could leap out with ease, volatile to an extent. Goosebumps prickled the back of his neck. He chose another word. Free. Aggressive. The containment sphere, the ritual process, the chalk markings, and Nyaring’s own determination not to harm. He had to believe they’d be enough to outweigh his own limitations. 

And wasn’t that the truth of it? He’d written his letters, begged from help, and found none forthcoming. Even Albus hadn’t replied. Everything had fallen apart in only weeks. Most likely, there hadn’t been the time to. 

Nyaring opened her palm and revealed something small. "I took this," she admitted. "From home. Before we left." 

A tiny carved cow, clearly well-loved. Another cough wracked her frame, and Newt pretended not to notice how the shadows were darker now, how they lingered longer before dissolving. "Papa made it for me. When I was little. Before.”

"You should keep it," Newt said gently.

"No." She walked to the edge of the dome and pressed it through; Newt opened a small window in it so it could sit and watch them, a tiny white dot against the brown soil. "It might break. And someone should tell Mama where to find me. After."

She looked impossibly small against the vast plateau, against the weight of what they were about to attempt. 

“It’ll be okay,” he promised her. “There won’t be an after.”

“I think I might die anyway,” she said with surprising candour. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

Newt felt a deep sadness open within him like a pit. 

"Sit here," he said finally, indicating the centre of the circles. "Try to...try to stay still, if you can."

Nyaring moved into position with the grace of someone long used to following instructions about her own body. 

"Should I think about anything special?" she asked, and for a moment she sounded young again, uncertain.

"Think about..." Newt swallowed hard. "Think about something that makes you happy."

"Like Papa’s singing?"

"Yes. Just like that."

He raised his wand, trying to ignore how small she looked in the centre of his careful circles. The first spell was meant to stabilise, to create a sort of magical scaffold around her natural core. Blue light spiralled from his wand, weaving around Nyaring like gentle ribbons.

She gasped slightly but didn't move. The butterflies grew more agitated, their patterns becoming erratic.

"Alright?" Newt asked, maintaining the spell with effort.

She nodded, though her breathing had grown shallow. 

The next part would be harder. Newt began the extraction spells, carefully adapted from his work with magical parasites. Golden light joined the blue, seeking out the darkness within Nyaring's magical core. 

That's when things started to go wrong.

The shadows didn't want to be separated. The magic felt different immediately—resistant in a way he hadn't expected. Usually, parasitic entities had clear boundaries, places where host and invader remained distinct. But this was like trying to separate water from water, shadow from shadow.

"It's fighting," Nyaring gasped. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool rain. "It doesn't want to go."

"Just hold on," Newt said, increasing the power of his spells. The chalk lines began to glow, the water in the bowls turning black as it absorbed the excess magical discharge. "Almost..."

But it wasn't almost anything. The more he pulled, the more the shadows seemed to spread. Nyaring's breathing grew more laboured, her skin taking on a grey pallor that had nothing to do with the Obscurus. Aware that turning back now would certainly be dangerous, Newt pressed on, carefully pulling strands of darkness away from her core, trying to siphon them into the waiting sphere.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, though his instincts were screaming that something was wrong. “If I let go, Nyaring, it might hurt. We have to—we have to go all the way. The parasite isn’t kind.” 

The darkness came too easily in some places, fought too hard in others. The sphere began to fill with swirling shadows that seemed to reach back toward Nyaring like hungry fingers.

But as he began the sealing spells, everything shifted. The darkness in the sphere pulsed, reaching out with sudden violence. Nyaring screamed—not in pain but in loss, as if something essential was being torn away.

"No," she gasped, reaching toward the sphere. "No, it's—"

The protective circles scattered. The copper bowls overturned, their sacred water seeping into the parched earth. Newt tried to contain what he'd started, but it was like trying to hold back a tide with his bare hands. 

In all his years of dealing with magical parasites, Newt had never seen one behave like this. The darkness didn't extract cleanly—instead, it stretched like fabric being torn.

"I can't..." Nyaring's voice changed, becoming hollow. "I can't remember what Papa's singing sounded like. When the cattle were sick. He said...said it helped them stay calm."

"Would you like to sing?" Newt asked, fighting to keep his voice steady as he maintained the complex web of spells. The chalk lines were glowing brighter now, some of the symbols beginning to smoke slightly.

Nyaring tried to hum something, but it turned into a gasp as another wave of resistance hit.

"I can't..." she managed. "I can't remember the words..."

Newt could feel the magical pressures building - like a storm about to break, like a wound about to rupture. Everything in his experience told him to stop, to release the spells, to try another way.

But he couldn't stop. The magic was too unstable now, the process too far along. Stopping might be even more dangerous than continuing.

"Think of home," he said desperately, adding another layer to the stabilisation charms. The blue light was flickering now, struggling to maintain its hold. "Think of—"

The shadows suddenly surged, fighting against his spells with terrible strength. Nyaring screamed again, high and thin, and the butterfly deaths came so rapidly now it looked like dark snow falling.

The more precisely he worked, the more damage he seemed to do. His own magic was starting to fail by proxy. It would be damaged after this for at least weeks, if not months, stretched far beyond his natural limits, but he didn’t care. 

Some of the butterflies seemed to be trying to fly back toward the direction of the village, dying in mid-flight.

"Mama?" Nyaring's voice was small, confused. "Where's... I can't feel..."

The shadows in the sphere reached toward her voice like they recognised it. Not like a parasite trying to reinfect its host, Newt realising with growing horror, but like a severed limb trying to reattach itself. His hands shook on his wand.

"Something's wrong," he muttered, more to himself than Nyaring. "This isn't...this isn't how it should..."

Nyaring cried out, her form briefly dissolving into smoke before reforming. When she solidified, her eyes were different—darker, emptier.

"It hurts," she whispered, but it wasn't quite her voice anymore. "It hurts like being lost."

The protective dome creaked under pressure from both within and without. The containment sphere was nearly full now, but rather than the usual dull swirling of contained parasites, the darkness inside seemed alive with purpose. It pressed against the glass like a rapid heartbeat.

"Please," Nyaring said, but her voice came from both her body and the sphere, a horrible duet. "Please, I want..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. Perhaps, Newt realised with growing dread, she no longer remembered what she wanted to say.

"Almost done," Newt said, his voice cracking. "Almost there, just hold on—"

The last of the shadows tore free with a sound like ripping silk. The sphere sealed itself automatically, silver filigree wrapping tight around swirling darkness. For one blessed moment, everything was still. Her eyes were closed. Crosslegged, slowly, Nyaring leaned back. 

Then she went limp. 

The containment sphere gave a high, crystalline note of warning. The darkness within it wasn't settling. Instead, it moved with purpose, with memory, with something that looked terrifyingly like grief.

Newt raced forwards, practically scrambling, his mind racing through every healing spell he knew. Her skin was cool to the touch. 

No, no, no," he muttered, pressing his wand to her chest, barely able to summon the spell, lightheaded with the effort. 

Her eyes flew open, and Newt knew he'd made a terrible mistake.

Diagnostic spells revealed what he'd feared—her magical core wasn't just damaged, it was gone. 

"Stay with me, Nyaring. Please."

He tried pushing his own magic into her, a desperate transfusion, but her body rejected it like a foreign substance. The healing spells that should have strengthened her pulse seemed to slide off her skin, finding nothing to anchor to.

"Cold," she whispered. "Why is everything so quiet?"

The butterflies had stopped dying. They simply vanished, like they'd never existed at all.

“Oh—oh, Merlin, Nyaring, please,” Newt begged.

Head lolling, long limbs cradled in his arms, she looked at him. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t seem to form the words. Her dark eyes were filmy, the whites grey. 

Newt worked frantically, trying everything he knew. Strengthening solutions from his case. Reviving spells. Even Muggle healing techniques he'd learned in his travels. But each system was shutting down with terrible precision—like watching a complex machine slowly power off, gear by gear.

Those eyes. She looked at him, watched him, because he was the only other one here. Both of them having been alone. One of them surviving and the other not. She was only a girl, pushed to the edge of everything she’d ever known, always an outsider; and she was losing that spark of life, already seeing something beyond the plateau and the desperate man in front of her.

"Do you think," she asked, "Mama will forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," Newt said, but she was already slipping away, her body growing heavier in his arms. Her pulse grew fainter—fainter— 

The rain stopped. The protective dome dissolved. 

She exhaled a final time, and went still. 

And Newt was left holding a child who had died exactly like her victims—quietly, peacefully, as if something beautiful had simply decided to stop existing.

For a long time, Newt just held her. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving behind a silence that felt like a physical weight. Her body was growing cooler, but not like his creatures did when they passed. There was something wrong about it—an absence deeper than death.

The containment sphere pulsed steadily in his peripheral vision. He couldn't look at it directly. Not yet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

His hands shook as he checked her pulse one final time, muscle memory from a hundred failed attempts to save injured creatures. Nothing. Just that terrible stillness, that wrongness he couldn't quite name. 

"I should take you home.” 

But even as he said it, his analytical mind was racing ahead, cataloguing risks. The shadow-sickness had spread so easily before. What if there were remnants? What if the extraction had left some sort of magical contamination? He couldn't bear the thought of more deaths, more quiet mornings finding still bodies.

And Adut. Oh, Merlin, Adut. The thought of her face made his chest constrict. 

He remembered Ayen, who had only helped teach weaving. Deng, who had only been her father. Each death had been quiet, peaceful, beautiful in its way. Like this one.

"I can't," he mumbled. "I can't risk...not again."

His voice cracked on the last word. 

Somewhere in the distance, a bird called—not quite a morning sound, not quite mourning. The sun would rise soon. They would be looking for her.

Newt forced himself to move, to think practically through the fog of grief and exhaustion. He had fabric in his case—soft wool meant for binding injured wings, clean cotton for bandages. His hands remembered the motions even as his mind struggled to focus. 

Wrap the body. Protect it. Contain any residual magic.

"I remember," he said as he worked, voice hoarse, "you told me about the songs. For passing. About how everyone joins in, how the whole village helps carry the spirit home."

The wrapping complete, he began to dig. The sun crept higher as he worked, casting long shadows across the plateau. He found himself humming, then singing in broken phrases—not the proper songs, he didn't know those, but something that felt like it might help guide a lost child home. His voice caught on every other note.

With spells he’d used many times before, the earth parted easily, as if it had been waiting. He placed her gently in the shallow grave, then hesitated.

What were the words? He'd heard them at Deng's funeral, had written them down somewhere, but his mind was blank. All he could remember was the melody, haunting and gentle. His voice shook as he tried to reproduce it, the translation spell failing to capture the nuances of the language.

"Sleep well, little one," he managed in English, voice the thickening. "Find your way home."

The earth covered her slowly, each handful of soil feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. He marked the spot with a small stone, then added preservation charms—strong ones, that would last for years. Someone should be able to find her, when it was safe. When he understood more about what had gone wrong.

"Rest well," he managed. "Rest well, Nyaring. I'm so..." 

But he couldn't finish. The tears came then, hot and sudden, blurring his vision. Like a puppet on cut strings, he slumped down to his knees on the plot, and rested his forehead against the soil. The smell of it. Of soil, of life and death. Memories of being eight. 

At some point, he’d picked up that tiny carved cow sat watching from where she'd left it, and hadn’t let go since then. It had left angry red marks on his palm. He placed it carefully above her, tucked it in like she might want it for comfort. 

Then, he sat back on his heels, numb. To his life, watching with silent menace, the containment sphere hummed with the Obscurus. He would have to move soon—the Sudanese Guild would have felt magic this powerful, would come investigating. And he couldn't explain. Couldn't face anyone who might ask what had happened here.

She had been dying. They’d come here. And now she was dead.

None of his actions made sense, suddenly. There was no rationality he could use to explain this grief, so raw it felt as though his heart was splintering, and so he did the only thing he could think of.

For two more days and nights, he sat by the grave, not eating, not sleeping. Then, he did what he did best, and he got to his feet, and he walked, and walked, and walked. 

The journey to the desert was a blur. 

Walking, then Apparating when he could manage it, then walking again when his magic faltered. The sphere grew warmer in his hands with each mile, its contents moving with increasing agitation. Putting it into his case felt wrong. He had to look at it. Usually, Newt shied from remembering. From worrying. Oh, but this was so different. Exhaustion playing tricks. The wind itself blaming him. Mouth so dry he had no tears left to shed. Numb acceptance.  

Night fell as he reached the dunes. The moon cast everything in shades of silver and shadow, making the sand look like waves frozen in time. A vulture circled overhead. 

The wind made strange sounds here—almost like singing, almost like crying.

Newt's hands were steady now as he set up the additional containment wards. He'd planned this part meticulously, had brought materials specifically for securing dangerous specimens. The sphere needed to be properly sealed, properly contained. 

But his thoughts kept slipping away from him. The darkness inside the sphere moved like ink in water, like smoke in air, like something that remembered being part of a little girl who had only wanted to protect her mother. Who had trusted him to help.

His diagnostic spells showed the containment was perfect. No leaks, no weaknesses. The most volatile magical entity he'd ever encountered, successfully extracted and contained. 

The desert wind picked up, whistling between the dunes. 

The vulture had landed nearby, watching with ancient patience. Newt stared at the sphere in his hands, at the swirling darkness that had once been part of a child who noticed everything, who asked clever questions, who had died trying to keep her family safe.

"What have I done?" he whispered.

The wind took his words and scattered them across the sand.

The sphere pulsed in response, its inky contents pressing against the glass like they recognised his voice. Like they were trying to answer. Like they were trying to find their way home.