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lacollectionneuse1967 · 5 months

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slip of the tongue part 3 - reckoning

Theseus Scamander x Reader

"Keep your hands to yourself!" You snap, trying to infuse as much venom into your voice as possible. "I can't," he groans.

summary: a second mission with newt and the group reintroduces theseus's former fiancée, leta lestrange, into the mix. old wounds and insecurities flare as you both reckon with your pasts and make decisions that determine your future.

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: romance with plot. some smut. slight angst!! non-canon compliant.

warnings: 18+ smut, semi-public inappropriate touching, dirty talk, hand kink

part one / part two / part three

author's note: it's funny how the title of this fic doesn't really fit anymore HAHA, goes to show that i did not plan this story at all. this part is going to be LONGER & more focused on plot & their character development! hope you enjoy, as always let me know if you'd like me to continue :)

The surreal, electric buzz from the gala dissipates as soon as you enter the elevator at the Hotel de Rome with Theseus.

Theseus's jacket is so large you're practically drowning in it, the sleeves hang well past your hands. You feel like a little girl in a nightgown. The elevator pulleys burr mechanically as it slowly rises, the electric bulb light casting your face in a sickly, ghastly light. The backs of your high heels have begun to dig painfully into your skin, that stinging pain the only thing grounding you to reality, that and Theseus's warm body beside you. You're positive your feet are bleeding.

Your weariness is mirrored in everyone else's faces when you walk into the hotel room at last. It's obvious that they're all overextended. There's no semblance of victoriousness, even after your successful heist.

Newt stands, alert, at the sight of his brother.

"Theseus! Finally, I was beginning to worry-"

"I'm fine, brother," Theseus waves him off. His hair is slightly damp from the snowfall, and his dress shirt as well. "We got caught up, but we're fine."

When Newt turns to speak to you, his lips part but no words come out. He's staring at your mouth. He looks pale and horrified.

"What?" You turn to the others and to Theseus in uncertainty. Tina and Jacob are also looking at you with newfound distress, but Theseus seems as clueless as you, frowning warily at Newt.

Newt makes as if to bring a hand to your face but pulls back at the last moment.

"Oh dear," Newt says. "Y-Your lipstick is smeared... I'm so terribly sorry, Y/N. And your hair—I didn’t think Dietrich would actually-"

Theseus half-raises an arm, cutting his brother short, looking admonished.

“Actually, Newt, that would be my doing...”

Your face warms considerably. Newt chokes on his words.

“Oh…” He turns to the rest of the group, his face nearly flushed as yours. Jacob lets out a strangled noise and Tina does a discreet double-take between you and Theseus.

“Well,” says Newt, mercifully changing the subject. “We all made off fantastically. Good work.”

You want to share in his congratulations, but it feels premature with Grindelwald still at large. It doesn't feel as though you have much to celebrate in this tiny hotel room, the five of you still standing awkwardly in your evening wear.

"What now?" Asks Tina.

Newt sits on one of the two twin-sized beds and hunches over, forearms on his legs. He is your designated leader, but you have to admit he looks so small and frail without his coat. Thin and unsure of himself.

"I have it on good authority that Credence will be at a mausoleum in the French Alps. He could be heading there now, we have no way of knowing, but he is planning on going there soon. Tomorrow, maybe."

"Why?" Tina's face is full of emotion. You don't know who Credence is, or why he is important to the resistance, but you don't feel that now is the time to ask. It stuns you, the subtlety of her expression, how someone can look so crushed and full of love at once.

"He's, erm, searching for his ancestral records I believe," Newt answers. "The Lestrange artifacts and family tree were moved there from the cemetery in Paris, possibly by Grindelwald. This is likely all a trap set for Credence, but this could very well be our last chance to intercept him. To save him."

Tina is speechless, Jacob nods solemnly.

"Y/N," says Newt. It startles you to hear him say your name in all of this deliberation. "I know you probably don't understand half of what we're saying, and we understand if you don't want to come. But we'll likely run into Grindelwald and his followers. They're after Credence. We could use you."

You don't even have to think.

"Of course, Newt. I go where Theseus goes." You wonder if you sound too intense, too devoted, so you add: "And besides, I want to be of any help that I can."

Theseus reaches out and clasps your hand in his. It thrills you, for him to do this in front of his brother, in front of the others. Your heart races, happily so.

Newt smiles at the sight.

"Sleep," he turns to everyone. "We leave first thing in the morning."

----

The next day, by the time you make it to the French Alps in spats of apparition and stretches of traveling by train, it is nearly dusk again.

You and Theseus had slept like the dead in the too-small hotel room bed, with Tina in the other bed and Jacob and Newt, in a turn of events beyond your understanding, in some hidden compartment within Newt's brown leather suitcase. Strange, but you didn't question it. Your bodies ached when you woke, but it felt like heaven to you, being held by him, you wouldn't have traded it for the world.

"I'm too big for this bed," he lamented, stretching his limbs, when the two of you woke in the morning.

"Hmm, yeah. Too big... " When you smiled coyly and narrowed your eyes at him he threw a pillow at your face. You caught it with a laugh.

"Naughty," he chided.

"The resistance," as Theseus had once jokingly called it, turned out to be not so glamorous after all. The resistance was perpetually tired and forever embarking on some haphazard plans only half-understood.

But when you set foot at the base of the mountains in the Alps, you feel bizarrely energized. This is what you imagined the work of an Auror would be like, chasing leads, pursuing justice through crowded cities and rugged terrain. It feels good to be so proactive after a year of being more or less cooped up in an office at the Ministry. And, best of all, Theseus is here with you. And he wants you, if not your heart then your body, at last, at least...

"This can't be it, Newt," you hear Jacob say, his breath pluming in front of him in small huffs. He struggles through the thick snowbed to catch up to Newt, who is a bit ahead of the group. You're in what looks like a forest clearing, the mountains rise in the distance, gargantuan and feeling a bit holy in their emptiness, their silence.

"He's right. There's nothing out here," calls Tina.

It's a winter forest. A killing wood. In truth, you’ve never been so cold in your entire life. The whole world has turned white as death: white blizzard blotting the air, thick blankets of fresh snow carpet the ground, and everywhere outside the clearing are great white pines standing like sentries, their edges blurred and softened by the snow fog.

You can see what’s in front of you, but you can’t see what’s coming.

Newt walks clumsily back through the budding blizzard to rejoin the group.

"The mausoleum should be a bit uphill from here!" He assures. "It's concealed by magic. Credence doesn't know, but we need someone with the blood of a Lestrange to enter."

The blood of a Lestrange.

Before you can even make the connection, Theseus stiffens beside you and drops your hand.

"Newt, you didn't." His voice is grave.

"I'm so sorry."

You wonder in a shrugging, aloof way why Newt looks to you after saying this to Theseus. It still doesn't mean anything to you.

A branch cracks, a high, ear-splitting sound like a broken bone. When you see the figure emerge from the tree line, your hand is already on your wand.

Grindelwald, you think.

But then Theseus's arm snaps out to yours, stilling your hand, almost just as quick.

"Don't." He says.

She approaches you slowly and you make out who it is almost immediately, just by the shape of her silhouette. Theseus and Newt's reactions make sense now, it all clicks into place with resounding dread. You feel the word "oh" in the pit of your stomach like a dropped stone.

Floating from the forest like that, in her wine-colored silk dress and black coat, Leta Lestrange really does look something like a ghost, or an angel...

When she approaches she walks straight to Theseus.

"Newt wrote to me," she says loud enough for everyone to hear, but she is only looking at Theseus. Looking at him like she's searching for some lifeline there. "Credence thinks he's my brother... We both know this cannot be true. I can help you get inside the mausoleum. I want to help you."

You dare to look at Theseus, bracing yourself. He looks genuinely stricken, lips parted, palms open and hanging limp beside him. So little affects him, he's so confident and secure in himself. But there in the clearing, the look on his face...

Before anyone can speak Newt steps forward again.

"I'm so sorry, but we need to get to Credence before Grindelwald. We have to go. Credence is... sensitive. He's afraid. It's best Tina and I go ahead. Leta, Theseus," he turns to the two, who are having some silent conversation with their eyes. It's so private and familiar you have to look away, you want to scream. "You two follow closely behind."

"What about me?" Jacob chimes in with a nervous laugh.

Newt tilts his head and gives Jacob a sympathetic smile.

"Don't worry, my friend. I won't leave you to the wolves. Y/N is a brilliant duelist and a master of all sorts of charms. You two will stay at the very back and wait outside the mausoleum. We can't afford to frighten Credence, and you need to alert us if you see any of Grindelwald's followers coming our way."

You nod numbly. Some roaring white noise fills your ears, anesthetizing the scene in front of you.

"Theseus," you hear Leta say softly. She places a gloved hand on his forearm. "Can I speak with you on the way there?"

"Of course," he responds, graciously, easily. She leads him up ahead.

You keep hoping Theseus will turn to you, even just to look back at you, to reassure, to reconnect now that Leta has been thrust back into the mix between you.

He does not turn back. You stare blankly at the back of his head as it disappears in the blurring snow. He follows Leta into the woods like a man being swept away by magic, following some siren song you can't hear.

'I can't compete with her,' you realize achingly. The truth rings dully in the pit of your stomach, metallically. 'They were engaged. They've been connected since childhood... I'm nothing.'

You try not to wring your hands or shuffle your feet, try not to look like someone left behind, wounded. You blink at the delicate crystals of snow that land on your lashes, hoping that the others don't mistake them for tears.

Newt comes over to you cautiously. He's not one for knowing what to say, but he's perceptive, and kind. Sinking, sinking, you can feel your heart being pulled to your feet and swallowed by the ground.

"Y/N," he begins. "I'm sure... When they were together—but when they separated…" He swallows and starts again. "I’m quite sure my brother’s mind is made up. I know he cares for you too, though I don’t know if he made you any promises-"

“He did not,” your voice sounds acrid, bitter to your ears, petulant, and you hate it. “It’s fine, really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s okay. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

'And I don't owe him anything,' you finish in your mind. When really you love him like breathing, need him like water. You're just trying not to let it show.

You want to be nonchalant and unaffected, want to give only what he’ll take. You don’t want to ask for too much.

You don’t know why loving always takes the form of limitation with you. You withheld your feelings for him for nearly a year. You only ever do what he asks. You turned down jobs and tried your best not to burden him with your feelings, with your past.

Why this mode of loving, why starvation and restraint, when love itself, for you, felt like every door in you burst open at the sight of his face? It was a wild and unwieldy joy, a freeing sort of affection that you felt for him. Now and always.

You swallow thickly, embarrassed at the speed at which he abandoned you for her. Embarrassed by the way Tina and Newt and Jacob, even, are looking at you.

"Let's go," you say, trying to sound encouraging. Newt and Tina run ahead. You and Jacob walk in silence uphill, trudging through the snow.

----

In the end you don't see any action at all. The mausoleum appeared at Leta's beckoning, a wave of her wand and the stunning glass building, hexagonal, glittered into solidity in front of you. You and Jacob waited outside, as instructed, but through the thick, crystalline glass you could make out that the bodies and artifacts were housed in beautiful stone tombs, scattered in the glass room like giant chess pieces, and you could see what unfolded within.

Leta, Newt, and Tina were talking to Credence. They met him down where he was crouched on the floor, explaining something to him in hushed tones. He was sobbing so softly. And then he was gone, and so was Tina, who left with him.

You feel so utterly mute, so adrift, you're glad that Jacob doesn't speak to you.

Newt is the one who jogs out to you and Jacob. Theseus is still inside talking to Leta, who seems sad in a soft, unperturbed way. He's gazing at her so gently as she speaks. It's the way he looks at small animals, and children, and the people he loves.

Looking at them feels like looking at a photograph, or like looking through the windows at Primrose Hill when you were a child, before you'd outgrown the title of "orphan." You would escape the orphanage to peek into the townhouses, the family homes overlooking Regent's Park. Dining tables and grand pianos, all the lights on. Nothing to hide...

"Y/N," Newt says breathlessly. "We better get going. We beat Grindelwald here, but I don't know by how much."

You cross your arms to help with the cold.

"Okay. Where are we going-"

"Oh, it's probably best if you go back to London. Back to the Ministry. Lay low until you hear from me, or Dumbledore."

You don't know why his goodbye is so cutting. You know that he's not abandoning you too, but it's almost too much.

He purses his lips sympathetically.

"Stay safe, Y/N. Grindelwald is planning something big. But if we act any earlier Grindelwald and the Ministry will be onto us and our efforts will have been in vain."

"I know," you say. "I understand."

You apparate away without another word. You try not to think about the two of them, in the forest clearing, in the glass mausoleum, together in all the years before that, but you allow yourself to wonder when Theseus will notice that you're gone.

----

On Monday you call in sick. You've never called in sick once in your entire time at the Ministry, so your request for a sick day is accepted easily and without complaint.

You sleep the whole day and do not answer the door when you hear the knocks. Knowing who they belong to is agonizing enough. He'd never been to your place before, but you can't imagine that it was difficult for him to procure the address.

You wake from your day of fitful, restless sleeping around 2am. Moonlight streams cold and bright through your chiffon curtains, filling your apartment with blue and silver shadows that you find comforting, beautiful maybe.

When you pad out into your living room, barefoot, you see a letter on the hardwood floor. A creamy envelope that had been slipped under the doorframe, waiting there for you like magic.

You bend down to pick it up and open it. There's nothing on the envelope itself, but you'd know him by handwriting alone, by his breathing, his scent.

Dear Y/N,

I know you're not sick. Because you're never sick. You have the most formidable immune system I've ever come across and I think muggle doctors should study you in a lab for it. But, I confess, that's beside the point...

I know you're cross with me. Please, if I have upset you or, worse, if I've broken your heart, I can assure you it was never my intention. Meaning: if I hurt you it is because I am a fool, and not because you are deserving of any hurt.

Forgive me for my behavior yesterday. I needed to resolve some things, and Leta's arrival was a true shock for me. I behaved poorly to you, but even more unforgivably to Leta, who I left mere weeks before our wedding, confessing my love for another woman. The pain I've caused her haunts me, and I was happy to be absolved of it yesterday evening. Happy to answer her questions and to be forgiven. But I should not have left you there alone. I should not have let go of your hand. I damn myself, because as much as I love you, it seems I've never been able to do it well.

I hope this pitiful explanation and guileless apology will suffice. Come, pretty girl. Come to work tomorrow, I beg you. My whole life is on the floor without you, nothing works, my head's a mess.

Yours,

You heart clenches painfully. Your lungs constrict and your hand tightens around the letter. You love him. You want to let it go, what happened between him and Leta, and you and him, in the clearing.

But you can't.

----

Apparently, it's going to be a week of first-times. Because, also for the first time in your career at the Ministry, you are running late.

"Fuck," you hiss to yourself. You hate traveling by Floo Flame, are used to the muggle comforts of walking and the London Underground, but you don't have time.

You dust off the fireplace ash from your shoulders as you walk through the British Ministry.

"Y/N!" you hear. The voice slices through the bustle and noise of the suit-clad workers not with its volume but with its familiarity.

It's him.

'Oh, god. Already?' You'd been hoping to avoid Theseus today. An impossible task, considering he was your boss, but you'd taken on more impossible tasks before. Bigger monsters.

"Y/N, hold on!" Theseus shouts again.

You have to speed up your walking to a near-comical pace to escape his long-legged strides. Hard to do in heels.

You turn your body sideways and push forward through a thicket of office workers with an "Excuse me! So sorry!" to shoulder your way into an empty elevator.

You slump against the back wall, exhaling deeply in relief. No Theseus-encounter after all. You really managed to-

"Aha!" Theseus exclaims, interjecting his overstretched hand just as the elevator doors begin to close. "Perfect. I was just looking for you, Y/N."

You don't respond, but huff in indignation and move aside, making room for him in the small elevator. He presses your floor number, level two, looking far too self-satisfied for someone who just ran across the marble floors of the Ministry of Magic, unrepentantly.

Your heart pounds as the elevator begins to move, you don't know why you can't look at him. Maybe it's because you know, if you did, all would be forgiven. You jolt when he leans forward and pulls the emergency break. The elevator comes to a jerking, screeching halt.

When he looks at you, sidelong, your stomach flips.

"C'mere," he mumbles, and moves to trap your body against the wall.

Your body responds differently than your mouth, arching against the wall, pushing closer to him.

"Ugh, no," you say, mournfully. You want it bad, want him. But you're still angry. It's oddly possessing, the notion that just a kiss from him could save you.

Your words do give him pause, however. He's standing so close to you he basically has you up against the wall, there's no escaping him. His chest heaves, you can feel his breath against your face. You want to press his open mouth to yours, to taste it, open yours to his tongue.

"No?" He echoes dubiously. "Did... did you not get my letter?"

"I got your letter," you retort, feeling flustered. "I found it... insufficient."

He starts forward again, a hand cups your ass. You slap it away.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" You snap, trying to infuse as much venom into your voice as possible.

"I can't," he groans.

"Try harder."

"I am rational and measured about all things in life, except for this, for you."

"Try harder," you say again, more forcefully, ignoring him.

"Hmm," he hums, considering. You don't move this time when his hand traces your thigh through the material of your skirt, you just stare, mesmerized. Your skin breaks out in chills. His fingertips move in lazy, dancing circles.

His hands, his fucking hands. They're so big. Long, elegant fingers with large knuckles. The veins there, the fact that you know what his fingers feel like inside of you...

Theseus follows your gaze with his eyes and scoffs, but not unkindly.

"You want my fingers inside of you, baby?"

He doesn't wait, and when you don't protest he doesn't stop. His hands slide under your skirt, one of his thumbs is pressing firmly against your clit through the lacy material of your underwear. He applies such a steady, unmoving pressure, staring into your eyes relentlessly and leaning his thumb harder and harder into that one spot until you squirm back against the wall with a ragged moan, breaking his burning gaze, not sure if you're more desperate to escape the sensation or to keep feeling it, over and over again.

"Theseus," his name sounds filthy out of your mouth, heady as a moan, though you're actually trying to tell him something. "Really, I just-"

The elevator lurches forward again, shuddering in place for a few moments before resuming its path with a piercing screech. You tumble into Theseus, losing your balance, and he catches you with both his arms.

"What did-"

"I don't know," he says, helping you right yourself, looking over his shoulder at the doors.

The elevator stops at level six, the Department of Magical Transportation. Your face is still flushed red and tingling with heat when the ornamental brass doors slide open and the two of you are greeted by a curious, gawking group of wizards that includes the department head, Mr. Silas Elodius.

"Oh, heavens! Mr. Scamander, it's you," Silas Elodius is a unfailingly happy, plump man. "We were wondering what must've happened! It seemed the two of you got stuck. Well, all sorted now!" He laughs heartily. "Trust our department to get you moving again."

Theseus returns the laugh, a little less enthusiastically. The both of you move against the back wall of the elevator to allow the large group to shuffle in.

"Excuse us, we're headed to level three," Silas smiles wildly, toothily. He tends to talk through his smiling, which makes his next admission all the more horrific. "Terrible accident involving a misplaced potion bottle on the Knight Bus! Boom! Limbs lost. Really nasty business."

"Erm," Theseus seems shaken, at a loss of how to respond, which is uncommon for him. "We'll be level two."

"Right, of course!" Mr. Elodius motions impatiently for one of his several colleagues to press the button. With the combined weight of everyone there, the elevator moves slowly, dragging sluggishly upwards through space. Thankfully, the group does not turn back to you or Theseus, preoccupied with their own small conversations.

Your heart is still thumping pitifully, your pussy still throbbing and aching around nothing, craving his fingers, stuffed inside. You're wet, and there is no relief in sight. But you still want, need, to be mad at him.

"Y/N," Theseus is leaning in, speaking so low that only you can hear him. The sound of your name in his mouth, it's a purr, a plea.

You shudder. "Theseus, please don't."

"If this were my office," he whispers. His hand returns to the front of your skirt, slips beneath the hemline and nudges your underwear aside, slides up, embarrassingly easily, between your slick folds. You lean back against the wall in silent prayer, for him. You're frozen, incapable of moving, incapable of telling him to stop.

"If this were my office," he continues, voice thick and ragged. His finger moves leisurely, pumping in and out, driving you crazy. "I'd have you on my desk with your legs up. And I'd lick you until you cried. I bet you're such a pretty crier. I wanna make you come on my mouth, my tongue."

It takes everything in you to remain quiet, to remain still. Just as you begin to lose yourself in the feeling, your head going pleasantly fuzzy, the elevator dings and he retracts his hand, smoothly, unfussily.

He looks so unaffected, leaning back against the wall. It's you who has to bow your head to avoid Mr. Elodius's eyeline. Your knees tremble.

"Well, this is us! Best of luck, Scamander." Mr. Elodius waits for his people to file out of the elevator before departing.

Theseus salutes him with two fingers, in a charmingly youthful way.

When the doors close again you've recovered more of yourself, your wits.

"Where were we?" He corners you again, kissing the side of your neck.

"I'm mad at you, Theseus." You don't stop him from kissing your neck, but you grip his wrist, haltingly hard, when it starts to reach under your skirt again.

"Mm," he hums against your throat, noting the way you expose more of it, craning it for his access. "No, you're not."

With a nip of his teeth, he extracts a whine and a tremor down your legs. You imagine his hands, his beautiful big hands, coming around your throat, squeezing, applying pressure there until you go light-headed. You want to be choked by him. You want to get down on your knees in this elevator and unbuckle his belt and take him into your mouth until he's the one who is needy and whining, wanting it bad, moaning and praising you, calling you a good girl.

The elevator dings for the final time and you have to physically push him off of you. He falls back without a fight.

"Our floor," you say, trying to make your expression into something like a glare. You're not very good at resenting him.

For a moment you're not sure what he's going to do to you. It's scandalizing and rousing, the idea that he might grab you, touch you anyway. The look in his eyes is black and beyond hungry, sapped of all restraint. He gulps and clenches his jaw. Blinks at last.

Ever the gentleman.

"Of course, after you," Theseus says. He motions for you to walk ahead of him.

You stomp off to your shared office, trying pathetically to fix your skirt and your hair and any other part of you that looks disheveled.

When he comes into his office behind you and closes the door, latching the lock, he looks equally undone. Vulnerable almost. It's not only that he needs you, which he does, but that he wants to make it okay and doesn't know how.

"Y/N," he makes a vague, defenseless gesture, throwing up his arms weakly, and sighs. "I don't.... How can I make it right? How can I make it up to you?"

It's a cheerless, pitiful noise, your responding laugh.

"Don't worry, Theseus. I got your letter. And besides, I manage my hopes quite well on my own."

"I wish you wouldn't. Don't."

You scoff.

"No, it's my fault for hoping for more from you. You're asking me to, what, put my faith in the world?" You know your tone is sharper than intended, and your expression is that of a burned woman, hardened and jaded.

But he doesn't hold it against you. You try not to flinch away when he steps forward and brings a hand up to your face, to your cheek.

"No, I'm asking you to put your faith in me."

You could cry at this tenderness he's affording you.

"I just," you gently place your hand over his and lower it from your face. "I just can't believe that you don't feel anything for her. I can't shake the way I felt watching you leave me, without a second glance."

Your voice breaks on the last word. You're admitting more than you bargained for. Admitting that this is the way you've felt your entire life. The orphanage, your parents, every adult who promised to help you, to save you, and didn't. It was too familiar of a pain for it to hurt as badly as it did, being left behind.

"Leta, she... I don't know what you mean," he says, shaking his head.

“Theseus, I'm not stupid! I saw the way you went after her! The way you left me behind, it was like I ceased to exist. You obviously still have feelings for her—"

“I have feelings for you!" He raises his voice in frustration, and it startles you. "She’s the one I left behind, for you.”

You feel so worked up, so overheated. You don't want to be fighting with him, not now, not ever.

"I-I don't believe you-"

"Y/N, you are essentially calling me a liar right now. I don't know what else I can say to make you believe it, you act as if I took off with her and kissed her-"

"You didn't have to! You already have been for the last two years, Theseus!" Your hands are wavering, your bottom lip too. "I don't believe you because, if it's true what you told me, about you leaving her for me, why didn't you act in the months after?! You proposed to Leta mere months after dating, but for the months you were single you didn't try to-"

"I was your boss, Y/N! I was trying to be a good man, a good friend!" He rakes a hand through his hair roughly.

"So I'm just supposed to believe that you left your fiancée to live a life as my friend? To continue working with me like-"

“I apologize if that’s too difficult for you to believe, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.” His tone is brusque, almost business-like.

It's like a shot to the heart. His lack of understanding, lack of seeing.

“Too difficult for me to believe? Me?!” You’ve never raised your voice at him like this, every word is straining out of you, painfully. Any semblance of control you had is unspooling, rapidly. “Theseus, my second month here I was offered a position as an Auror, my dream job, what I’d worked so hard for at school, and I turned it down to keep being your assistant! I turned it down to keep living a life in your shadow. I thought that if I could make myself smaller for you I could-"

You can’t continue, the tears rise up in a saltwater tide in your lungs. You turn your head away, quick, so he doesn’t see your face break.

"Y/N," he says, gentle, broken. "Y/N, I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"Maybe you didn't want to know. I... I know you desire me, Theseus. I'm sorry, at one point I thought I could just sleep with you, and I wouldn't need anything more, but.... Oh, god, I'm sorry."

You rub at your eyes aggressively, even as the tears continue to fall, in a self-conscious and fruitless display.

He looks so lost, looks like he very badly wants to comfort you, to hug you, but no longer knows if he's allowed to.

"Y/N, I can recommend you for promotion, I can-"

"It's fine, Theseus. I made my decision and I've lived with it. There are no open positions right now anyway, the post was filled."

It's silent for long enough that the quiet no longer hangs there like an awful, third body between you. You regain your composure, the tears pass and give way to a hollow feeling.

"Y/N," Theseus speaks at last. He's standing across his office still, but the look in his eyes is so full of longing and yearning, he could've been across a train platform, a crowded room, a continent. "I have not been doing this right. I should've asked you to be my girlfriend a long time ago, I know. For that I am ashamed. But..."

He licks his lips and inhales sharply, trying to find the words.

"Y/N, please don't accuse me of lusting after you. What I feel for you is nothing so shallow as lust. Yes, I want to be inside you all the time, but that's because being close to you, this," he steps forward and places a cold hand against your chest demonstratively, below your neck, skin to skin, "This isn't close enough."

You look up into his seaglass eyes, your heart in tatters. Him, it's always been him.

"I miss you when I'm with you," he says. "I love you, I've told you before and I'll tell you again and again, but it's up to you to believe it, sweetheart."

When you still don't say anything, can't find the words, he looks crestfallen, closes his eyes.

"What do you want?" he asks you, opening them.

And you can't answer. To love him freely? To feel held and chosen by him? To live your dreams and relinquish your past without shame or grief or hesitation? Before you begin to say anything at all, the words building and budding at the back of your throat like a flower about to bloom, a knock sounds at the door.

Theseus closes his eyes and sighs, pained.

"Theseus-"

"I have to go," he says tersely. "I've been gone with my brother for too long. The department heads have called me in for questioning. I don't know when I'll be out."

You nod, swallowing.

He looks at your face, a look of determination settling on his.

"I promise to make it right."

----

It's past closing time and Theseus still has not returned from the depths of whatever secret, dim-lit corner of the Ministry they took him to for questioning. All day you've spent heartlessly filling out paperwork, finishing up your research assignments, stewing in anxiety.

Please, keep him safe. You think to no one in particular. Please.

You reluctantly leave the office, hoping to find him in the Atrium. You sit there glumly at the edge of the fountain, shooting periodic glances towards the elevators and the staircases, hoping to see him emerging from the Department of Mysteries, maybe, or the Courtrooms. Even the paper missives, usually magicked into airplane and bird shapes, have stopped flying overhead in the Atrium. The Ministry is emptying out, there's hardly any foot traffic at all.

You feel as though you handled everything, your insecurities and emotions, so artlessly, so recklessly in your last conversation. You are aching to make it better.

Eventually, you walk back to level two in a daze, pushing through the heavy oak door to the Aurors Offices with all the attention of a sleepwalker, your mind elsewhere.

You nearly trip on the house elf in front of the door when you stumble into Theseus's office. The elf grumbles in discontent.

House elves? Your shared office is hardly recognizable. Half-cleaned out, three Ministry house elves are busy at work, boxing and taping and scrubbing the furniture and shelves clean. Your stomach lurches.

Theseus. Where are all his things? Was he found out? Arrested?

Your voice sounds like a stranger's to your ears, so transformed by sheer panic.

"Hello, excuse me!" You say to one of the house elves. He looks over in open disdain, though you can't blame him, seeing as you almost crushed him just now. "Hi, yes, what is going on? What are you doing with Mr. Scamander's things? I'm his assistant."

"Mr. Scamander," the elf drawls, setting aside his mop bucket with a melodramatic thunk and splash. "No longer works here."

The elf tries to turn back to his work when you lunge forward and grasp him by the shoulder. He looks at your hand on him in abject shock.

"Please!" You beg, falling to your knees to better convince the house elf. "I need to know what's happened to him, it's important."

"Nothing has happened to him, miss. He turned in his letter of resignation an hour or so ago!" The elf shakes you off of him, none too gently.

He gestures rudely to the two, untouched pieces of paper laid out on the desk. Everything else has been cleared.

You snatch up the nearest page with a shaking hand, eyes racing over the words.

It's from the heads of your department, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and it confirms what the elf told you. Theseus gave up his position and designated you as the one he desired to fill the post. The Aurorship is yours.

The letter requested that you complete a trial period of one month, as it was unheard of for a witch with no Auror experience to take up the Head Auror post. But they were amenable if the trial period went well. These were dark days, recruits were scarce and few other Aurors were jumping to fill the position. Your confirmation meeting with the department heads was to be after work, at 7pm.

It's nearly that time now.

You blink at the words on the page, astounded and a bit shell-shocked.

You're hardly thinking at all when you pick up the second letter, hands moving with an automaton, detached fluidity.

Dearest Y/N,

The questioning did not go well. I had to act quickly, darling. I was thinking only of you.

Take the Head Auror position and be safe and happy forever. Blamelessly, and knowing you are loved.

Or, meet me at King's Cross Station tonight, at 7:15pm. If you'll have me, if you love me. I'm joining the fight against Grindelwald, for good. I'm meeting my brother and the others at Hogsmeade.

I am horrified that you ever put me over your dreams, and that I gave you so little in return for it. If I could turn back time, I would've done it all differently. I would've made you mine.

My love, you couldn't answer me when I asked you what you wanted today, so I wanted to give you this choice now.

It did not make much sense for me to stay at the Ministry. They were suspicious of me from the start, war hero or not, because of my relation to Newt. You could do wonderful things, have so much more influence than I could. There were no other open Auror positions for you to take but mine, but I can give you this one part of my life, easily. God knows I'd give you the rest if you asked.

I cannot promise your safety, or your happiness, but I can promise to love you, as I do now, as I always have, no matter what you decide. My heart is yours alone. All you have to do is reach out and take it.

Yours,

Theseus

Reading the words on the page, feeling your own breath suck in and whoosh out of your lungs, hearing it, it's all so surreal.

Your heart flutters meekly, wounded at either prospect. But you want to choose yourself. Who has ever chosen you? You need to be on your own side this time.

You glance at the clock and curse. You shouldn't have spent so much time waiting in the Atrium, floating about the Ministry.

"I can't go, I won't go," you decide. "It's too late anyway."

Who knew if you'd even be able to have a real relationship with him? Even if you believed his love for you, and that he was over Leta, and somehow overcame the horrors and traumas of your life that you hadn't begun to confront... who knew if it would work? That would be its own, new, excruciating pain, having loved and it still not being enough...

"I'm staying," you think to yourself. "I am. He doesn't know what he's asking of me, he doesn't really know me at all. I'm staying. I'm taking the position."

At first you thought the words to convince yourself, reaffirm and reinforce. But they don't sound as improbable as you thought. This happiness doesn't sound too good to be true, it sounds as if it could belong to you after all.

You sigh, trembling, and begin to go through the empty drawers of Theseus's old desk, imagining your life, or trying to.

You reach for the bottommost drawer, pulling it open.

The sight of the worn little clothbound book snags your vision like a thorn. You pull it out in a trancelike state and read the title: Garden Parting by P. M. Kipling. The memory rises without you even having to reach for it, like a face in water.

-----

One Year Ago

It was only your fourth week at the office. This bloody idiot named Henry Ludgate somehow came to the insane conclusion that if he talked to you enough, or talked at you, more fittingly, you would like him back. So every one of your lunch breaks, without fail, he'd come searching for you in the Atrium to talk your ear off about nothing at all.

At the present moment, he was trying to strike up a conversation about women's shoewear, a hard topic for even far better conversationalists.

"I actually do like flat shoes, or 'flats,' are they? But I only like the ones with a bit of heel, all the other types of flats are terribly unattractive I think."

You were dimly aware of your boss, Theseus Scamander, watching this all unfold with a lackadaisical amusement. He was leaning against a newsstand of The Daily Prophet pretending to read it, but really you knew his sly smile at the front page was for you.

"So, not flats?"

"Sorry?" Henry always jumped at the excuse of poor hearing to lean uncomfortably close to you.

You rolled your eyes, not caring if Henry saw or not.

"If the flats you say you like have heels, doesn't that make them not 'flat shoes'?" You asked curtly.

Henry stared at you dumbly. "Oh, right. So it's 'heels' I like then."

You flicked your gaze up to his, irritably.

"So how many pairs do you own, then?"

You thought you saw a rustle of paper in the corner of your vision--undoubtedly Theseus was choking back some fit of laughter.

Henry attempted to clear his throat but only seemed to choke, rubbing a half-fist on his chest touchily.

"What?! Pardon me, not for myself!" He was veritably red in the face, not pink or any subtle, healthy flush, but bright red. "I-I meant I like heels on women, on you."

You could barely tamp down your frustration. This was supposed to be a restful lunch break, a good hour of no-work, and yet you seemed to enjoy your actual work more than this (for many reasons, the first reason beginning with the letter T and the last reason being the way the first reason smiled at you whenever you said something bright, or funny, or kind. He had a smile like light cracking open the sky at dawn, it so completely transformed the rest of his face, always reaching his eyes).

"Henry," you sighed, indulgently, maybe a bit patronizingly. "As much as I am grateful for your... fashion tips, and your riveting conversation, I really do prefer to read on my lunch breaks. I'll have to excuse myself."

You turned on your heel before he could protest, finding another secluded corner of the Atrium by the fountain. You pulled out the book, Garden Parting, as more of a prop, or a shield, or a comfort object, like a teddy bear. You had no intention of reading it right now. Not when...

Just as you suspected. You saw the shadow come over your shoulder, the shape of his figure, his hands in his pockets. Even that, his outline or shadow, stirred up some feeling you couldn't name in your chest, in the cavity there, next to your heart.

"Mr. Scamander," you sighed. "I really don't understand what sort of sadistic pleasure you gain from watching Ludgate torture me with mind-numbingly boring conversation."

You said this without turning, already smiling. Theseus sat down beside you, gingerly, beaming.

"It's entertaining," he said. The deep rumble of his voice was pleasant. "The way you eviscerate him. It's my favorite part."

There was something so attractive about the tilt of his eyes, hooded, and the curl of his hair, a strand falling loose over his forehead. He brought his bottom lip under his teeth, bit down and squinted at you.

"Do you really prefer to read on your breaks, Y/N?"

You scoffed, mock-offended.

"Yes! Do you really read The Daily Prophet on yours?"

"No, not at all," he admitted, shamelessly and with a boyish smile. "What are you reading?"

You suddenly felt self-conscious. You almost didn't want to show him. Your book was soft and worn, the cloth corners frayed, the text on the front half chipped off.

Against your instinct and your nature, you found yourself reluctantly handing him the book. Your mortification increased tenfold when he didn't take it from your extended hand, he only stared at it unreadably.

"What-" you began.

"Wait," Theseus turned to his suitcase, set it down on the tiled floor beside the fountain and clicked open the latches. "Garden Parting by P.M. Kipling, right?"

He was speaking so excitedly, shuffling around in his suitcase.

'No way,' you thought, and then, because you couldn't help it:

"Oh, you're kidding," you gasped. "No, Theseus! You're kidding. I swore I was the only person in London with a copy."

Theseus pulled it out at last, victorious. A sleek hardcover, newer than yours, but creased from frequent reading.

"Oh, Theseus!" You brought your hands up to your mouth. You were always worried your emotions, especially excitement, would make it harder to be taken seriously at work. You endeavored to dampen and mute them, but you could not hide your girlish elation at this inexplicable commonality between the two of you.

He smiled at your reaction, a slow, warm smile.

"Who knew you had a secret affinity for muggle literature?" You tried to make your tone teasing and demeaning but couldn't commit to it, you were too surprised by the force of your own joy.

"My roommate at Hogwarts was muggleborn. He gave it to me."

"You carry it with you too?" You asked, still in disbelief.

"Everywhere!" It was a breathy admission, half a laugh, earnest. "I like to reread certain parts. It doesn't get old." He was smiling so big it was almost heart-wrenching, you did not think he had ever looked at you like that, eyes blazing with naked enthusiasm. Looking at you like you were holding some key, to what you didn't know.

"No one seems to know about it," he continued with a shrug. "I've been waiting for someone to talk with about this book since I was sixteen."

"Oh," you kept saying. You wondered if he thought you sounded stupid for it, or if he thought it was endearing. "There's this one part I think about almost every day. In the purple glass house, with the broken arm used to-"

"-To praise God and 'be done with it'?" He finished for you.

Then miraculously, he flipped his copy open, paper fluttering, to a sole, underlined paragraph. The very same.

"It's like we're speaking the same language," He whispered with an incredulous laugh, but his eyes were reverent.

You flashed him a smile, one that was glowing and real. You were holding his copy of the book between you now, like children with a shared toy, or like lovers reading a roadmap.

"What language? English?" You asked sarcastically, making a funny face.

But you had known what Theseus meant. What wavelength of sense that you two, alone, could access. How the world spoke to you both in the same ways, through the same channels of meaning.

Garden Parting was the only object you had from your deceased parents, the only thing that survived your childhood. It was a children's chapter book that your father used to read to you, quite a grim piece of magical realism about a lot of things, but mostly about a girl condemned to go back to her burning house and stay there, inside, until the flames went out. There's no question that it will be swallowed whole, that she will burn to death in the place she was born.

When Theseus spoke again his eyes were shining, perceptively.

"Is that you then?" His voice was subdued, made gentle, intentionally. His eyes looked strangely dark inside the black stone interior of the Ministry, blue like river slate, dim like rain. "The main character, that's you?"

It was the most you'd ever revealed. It was a single, quiet word.

"Yes," you said.

Theseus placed a hand on your forearm. You didn't dare move, react, for fear he would stop touching you. A bird on your windowsill.

"I'll be the great owl then," he said. "The one that takes her away at the end.... Or Reggie, the one that's her friend. Whatever you want."

You laughed, bleakly. You felt pressured to speak, nonsense, anything to cover up how much his words meant to you.

"Really," you said. "It's my favorite book, but sometimes I can hardly get through it, there's so much pain in her life. I get so anxious..."

"Here," Theseus plucked a ribbon from his suitcase and flipped open your copy of the book. He placed the ribbon strategically towards the back, surgically almost, his long fingers lining it up with the interior spine, right in the scene where the owl takes the girl away and there's happiness set aside for her in life, after all.

"I'll mark it with this," he said. Neither of you were looking at each other anymore, the moment was too intimate to bear. But you were both thinking of each other, talking to each other. "So you can remember how it ends."

-----

The memory of that day by the fountain is so unexpected that it is the first time you're remembering it at all.

'Maybe he does know me after all, does see me.'

The thought is a shattering one.

'Oh, god.'

You check the time. It's 6:50pm. You pull on your coat and snatch your purse off the desk. If you leave now, right now, you can intercept him.

Theseus has to know you're coming. Even if you don't make it onto the train, he has to see your face on the platform, through the window, even. He has to know that you're choosing him.

You apparate as far as you're able and begin to run towards the station the rest of the way.

You're coming for him, each pounding step you're coming, heart soaring, this is that freeing love that grows and grows and stretches out into space like air. And you're going to tell him everything, every wish and every nightmare, you're going to--

A hand shoots out and pulls you backward by the neck. The grip is so hard that you taste blood, everywhere, in your mouth.

You yelp but the sound is lost as you are torn through the air, choking through space. Being forcibly apparated always feels like choking, like being pushed down a flight of stairs repeatedly. You can't catch your breath or your footing, you don't know where you're being taken.

Dark material whooshes and cuts around you. You hardly feel a thing.

Could someone at the Ministry have seen the letters left on your desk? Read them? Were you and Theseus positively identified at the gala in Berlin, or maybe outside the mausoleum? Before you've even arrived at your captor's destination, your mind whirls helplessly, to Grindelwald, to the situation at hand, and then, finally, to Theseus, who is waiting at Platform 9 3/4 for a girl who will never arrive, for a girl he will assume is telling him "no."

It happened so fast you didn't even have the time to turn around, to touch your wand. You were apparated away, stolen into thin air, before you could even set foot inside the station.

---

part four here

authors note: yeah i did watch the last letter from you lover on netflix and YEAH it did inspire this fic and rewire my brain at the same time. SORRY this fic ended on a cliffhanger and was so long!! we just had a LOT of ground to cover, but the subsequent parts should be back to the normal length!!

i like writing a mix of smut and romance plot but let me know if you prefer one to the other (also garden parting isn't a real book if that wasn't obvious) OK BYYEEE love you thanks so much for all the replies and feedback :))

also i have yet to read through this for typos so maybe! come back in a day or so for the final version?

taglist: @karashaw99 @gracieroxzy @mystic-mara

#theseus scamander smut #theseus scamander #theseus #theseus x reader #theseus scamander x reader #fantastic beasts #fbawtft #hp fanfic #hp fic

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