#y’know i usually draw newt

[carewyncromwell]

“A cold and friendless tide has found you -- Don't let the stormy darkness pull you down. I'll paint a ray of hope around you, Circling in the air -- lighted by a prayer...” ~“Candle on the Water” from Pete’s Dragon

x~x~x~x

Hi guys! So the recent Hogsmeade Festival quest surprisingly did spark a little bit of inspiration in me...namely, to give a little bit of love to our favorite Three Broomsticks owner, Madam Rosmerta! So I decided to do this drawing of her coming around to show my boy Jacob Cromwell some kindness and bring him a warm mug of Butterbeer. 

“Here. I’ve been trying this new caffeinated brew that’s got a shot of unsweetened cocoa powder mixed in. Reckon if there’s anyone who’d appreciate it, it’d be you.”

We learn canonically in year 5 that Madam Rosmerta felt warmly enough toward Jacob that she actually gave him a safe place to stay when the Ministry came looking for him post-expulsion. And yeah, the same was true for Rosmerta with Jacob Cromwell. In my headcanon, Rosmerta first became a barmaid at the Three Broomsticks while the Marauders were still at school, which made it so she was about nine years older than Jacob -- exactly the same age gap Jacob originally shared with Carewyn, prior to getting trapped in the Portrait Vault. Therefore Rosmerta ended up developing something of an “older sister” relationship with Jacob, who she initially found to be an incredibly curious and bright kid with a brand of infectious enthusiasm that was all his own. 

Over time, though, Rosmerta saw how much the Cursed Vaults and R’s influence was weighing on Jacob, at least from afar, since he wouldn’t confide in her the extent of everything going on. But from what she was gathered in passing -- hearing that his best friend Olivia had gone missing, learning that Jacob’s owl had died after carrying a Howler that went off prematurely...seeing how pale, exhausted, and gaunt this usually bright-eyed, energetic teenager had become, in his fifth and sixth years...Rosmerta gathered Jacob wasn’t doing so well. And then when he was expelled mysteriously by Dumbledore and rumors started swirling about him being involved in Knockturn Alley, Rosmerta stuck by Jacob and offered him lodging. 

One night, however, Jacob left his room and never resurfaced again. It wasn’t until many years later than Rosmerta learned why that was. And when Jacob did actually resurface at the Three Broomsticks again after being stuck in a Portrait for seven years, looking just the same as he did when she last saw him, Rosmerta -- now a full sixteen years older than the boy standing before her -- embraced him in relief, just glad to see that he was safe. She even invited him to stay at the Three Broomsticks again, until he’d finished studying for his NEWTs and found some way to support himself financially. Jacob accepted, but only after taking on some work part-time as a bartender mixing drinks, so as to earn some money to pay for his room and board. 

Once Jacob got all of his NEWTs and was able to enter the Wizarding World properly as a free man with a clean record, he remained in touch with Madam Rosmerta through Owl Post and even popped into the Three Broomsticks for a visit now and again, to visit his old friend. One such visit was right after Dumbledore’s death, upon hearing that Madam Rosmerta had been placed under the Imperius Curse by Draco Malfoy and thus unwittingly had helped the Death Eaters for nearly an entire school year. That occasion was one of the first times that Jacob actually ended up counseling Rosmerta, rather than the other way around --

“I know what it’s like...being forced to do things you’d never do, if you had a choice. It’s bogue. Totally bogue, worse than bogue. It’s violating and dehumanizing and...well, wrong. Everything about it feels wrong, you feel wrong. And it feels that way for a long while after, even when people say it wasn’t your fault and you’re not that person and they don’t blame you for it. ...But y’know...it does get better. It does get easier to look at yourself in the mirror and not just see the harm you caused. It does. ...I promise it does.”

In that moment, Rosmerta was actually left pleasantly surprised, to see just how wise this book-smart, people-dumb spaceman had become. 

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #madam rosmerta #madame rosmerta #jacob cromwell #my art #I love these two's friendship so much okay :') #even with their age gap which grew wider thanks to the vaults they still really do see each other as something akin to siblings or mum/son #jacob's relationships post-portrait all ended up interesting actually #like with olivia she became younger than him thanks to being petrified prior to him being put in the portrait #and yet now with them still being close in age they're almost 'out of time' compared to everyone around them #and of course carewyn is suddenly only two years younger than him and thus one of his peers too #and obviously duncan was a ghost so he ended up stagnating in age the same way XD;

[sunriseverse]

Omg I was just thinking of a hurt/comfort prompt when I saw your thing! Newt knows people find him exhausting. Sometimes he just exhausts himself and Hermann helps get him out of his own head.

okay so I saw the notification for my inbox like 4 hours ago on my phone…but when I finally got back, my computer decided to take ages to instal the new software…set some time post-pitfall

“Newton?” Hermann calls, eyes flicking over his equations. “Would you pass me the tablet on my desk?” When there’s no response, he frowns, and calls, “Newton? Are you alright there?” 

There’s silence yet again, and, worry mounting, Hermann turns, scanning the lab for his partner. The other side of the lab is silent, lacking the wet sounds of kaiju entrails and other miscellaneous bits and bobs being experimented on by Newton, or his chatter as he logs something on the recorder. Finally, he spies the other, laying flat on his back on the floor.

Hermann gnaws at his lip and climbs down from his perch on the ladder, grabs his cane from where it’s hanging, and makes his way over to Newton. The biologist is spread-eagle on the floor, somehow having found a patch of ground not covered in water or kaiju viscera, eyes closed. “Newton? Are you alright?” Hermann hazards.

For a moment, it seems as if Newt hasn’t heard him, before he lets out a deep sigh, and murmurs, voice dull, “Yeah, I…I’m just a bit overwhelmed.”

Hermann raises a questioning brow, even though the other can’t see it, and shifts so that he’s not putting as much weight on his leg. “What happened?”

There’s a moment of silence, and Newt’s eyes open partially, and he stares off blankly into the middle-distance. “I just…” he pauses and lets out another sigh. “’s just too much sometimes, y’know? Like, my head won’t stop…” he waves vaguely, drops his hands back to the ground by his side.

Hermann swallows. Carefully, he lowers himself down beside the biologist and reaches for one of his hands. Newt lets him take it, the limb limp against Hermann’s palm. He’s not sure what to say––they’ve been around each other for years, but comfort and care aren’t words people usually associate with Hermann, perhaps rightly so, given his general clumsiness with human interaction. He clears his throat. “Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

He’s not sure how the other will respond––if he’ll brush it off, tell Hermann to stop worrying, or burst into tears, but Newton looks…drained, the set of his jaw that of one trying to hold themselves together and get through a trying ordeal. Hermann contemplates saying something more, but nothing comes to mind.

There’s a pause, and then Newt turns his head slightly, adjusting his position. His hand grips Hermann’s. “It’s just one of those days where everything feels…too much,” he says softly. “And––I know I annoy other people by being, well, me, but sometimes I can’t keep up with myself. It’s…exhausting, like, I mean, my brain is going a million miles a second but I just…don’t have the energy to keep up,” he finishes sadly.

One of those days means that Newt’s battling with a depressive episode; for all his seemingly endless energy, it all drains away in moments like these, leaving the other tired and looking every one of his dozen years spent trying to stop the Kaiju. Hermann rubs his thumb over Newt’s knuckles, purses his lips. “Ah,” he says, rather uselessly. “Is there anything I can…do to help?”

“I…” there’s a stunned silence, confusion furrowing Newton’s brow, as if the offer is one he’s never heard before. The thought makes Hermann’s heart ache. “No, just…can you stay with me for a bit?” Newt asks plantatively. 

“Of course, darling,” Hermann replies, the endearment slipping easily from his tongue, as it always does when in Newton’s presence. “Of course I will.” A small, tentative smile twitches at Newt’s lips, and he draws his hand away from Hermann’s momentarily, only to press it to his cheek. Though wordless, the simple gesture conveys a thousand words, and an answering smile tugs at Hermann’s lips. 

He adjusts his position so that he can sit comfortably on the cold floor, and nudges Newt, guiding the other’s head into his lap, carding his fingers through Newt’s hair, and watches fondly as the other’s eyes flutter and finally close, face serene as he drifts off to sleep.

#newmann #h/c #mentions of depression/depressive episodes #don't worry it's not angsty I swear #prompt #prompt fic #newton geiszler #hermann gottlieb #pacific rim #fanfic #ask #spinecorset writes

[elspethsunschampion]

awkwardness is in the eye of the beholder

@sundayswiththeilluminati I blame you for linking me to this. 

A/N: The first two lines are gratuitously stolen from the above link.

      “So I’m going to start this interview off super non-awkward and ask you guys if you are aware that the internet ships you two?”

           Newt blinks at the interviewer, trying to process the number of things going through his head at the same time. Among them are, ‘yes, because I exist on the internet,’ and ‘is there a reason they shouldn’t?’ and ‘why exactly would you think this would be awkward?’ Except then he realizes that Hermann actually might think this is pretty awkward, and he drums his fingers against his chairs and sends a glance sliding sideways towards his coworker.

           But Hermann is just smiling, a slightly bemused smile. “Excellent taste,” he murmurs gently, and he’s probably trying to downplay it, honestly. Newt squirms in his seat, because he’s not sure what else to say, but frankly he thinks that was kind of an uncool question, when you really come down to it.

           “You know that the two of us, uh, like, we’re not hermits?” he says. Trying to avoid the edge that he’s afraid is creeping into his voice, he pushes out a laugh that he thinks sounds pretty genuine. “I mean, I’ve got a Facebook, a Twitter, like, three Tumblrs—” he just barely stops himself from mentioning the AO3 account, because mentioning the Tumblr is probably bad enough. “Like, yeah, I guess it’s a little weird in the sense that, you know, shipping real people is always a little weird, but where do you draw the line, right? Like, you get someone writing historical fiction with real people, and that has romance in it, sometimes with people who actually existed, and then, you know, it gets kind of—”

           “Newt—” Hermann interrupts him, because, oh, he’s kind of rambling, isn’t he, and that’s maybe a little weird. Shoot.

           “Yeah, sorry.” He shoots the interviewer an apologetic smile. “Anyways, yeah, we’re aware.”

           She looks a little put-off, but probably they briefed her beforehand. Heroes Newt and Hermann may be, but there’s a reason they’re usually not doing the interviews. Hermann is notoriously nervous of public speaking, and while Newt isn’t so much, he will just say whatever floats to the top of his head, no matter how much time somebody from PR has spent telling him what he should and shouldn’t say.

           “So, why do you think that is?” the interviewer rallies, plastering a smile onto her face. Newt squirms again. Probably because I’m stupidly in love with Hermann and really really unsubtle about it, is not something he can afford to say, not in front of the millions of people watching this, and, more importantly, not in front of Hermann himself. Their friendship survived a drift involving a bunch of monsters, he doesn’t need it to be destroyed by embarrassment in front of all these viewers.

           “Would you be asking this question of Mr. Beckett and Miss Mori?” Hermann asks quietly. “Or perhaps I should say, would you regard it as an awkward revelation if you were speaking with a heterosexual pair?”

           “I, um.” The interviewer shuffles, as if she hasn’t thought about this way before, but she gives him a small, awkward smile. “I’m sorry, I was trying to dial the tension down over this question, but I think I’ve made it worse. Would you prefer we move on?”

           Oh, god, yes. Newt wants to bury his face in his hands, but he doesn’t.

           “I, er.” Beside him, Hermann is taking a long, deep breath. “I do think the question of why people might—see something romantic blossoming between us is—well, it’s rather invasive, I suppose, but such interviews usually are. It’s no worse a question than many; I merely objected to the way it was asked.”

           And that is definitely not what Newt expected, and now he’s going to have to say something. “Well, you know,” he blurts, “People are really bad at distinguishing different kinds of closeness, you know? I mean, what’s the difference between romance and friendship, right? It’s kind of just a sliding scale, and Hermann and I are really close, obviously—I mean we’re drift compatible, even if we do drive each other crazy, and we just, everyone knows that we get on really well, when, when we’re not trying to bite each other’s heads off, I guess.”

           He has to concentrate on not pulling his shoulders in and trying to make himself look small; all of a sudden his ears are hot and he can hear everything that’s going on. He can hear himself breathing, for fuck’s sake, and the high buzz of the equipment, and, oh, he really can’t afford an overload right now. If that’s the term, he doesn’t really know, but “sensory overload” sure seems to capture the fact that his senses seem to be, well, overloading, whenever this happens. Maybe it’s just a panic attack. Whatever.

           “I mean, I do love Newt; that’s hardly a secret.” Wait. What. Rewind, rewind, rewind, replay, what?

           “What?” Newt interjects, and Hermann stares at him blankly.

           “You are aware of how I feel about you?” he says, in a slightly choked voice that’s Hermann’s Very Patient Voice that he uses whenever Newt’s being particularly annoying or obtuse.

           “Um, you like me? We’re friends. Yeah?”

           Hermann’s gaze slides uneasily back towards the interviewer, then back to Newt’s. “How could you not—we Drifted, you imbecile!”

           “What, you know how I feel about you?” Newt says, in what’s supposed to be sort of a jovial tone of voice, only it comes out very small and terrified, because he thought he’d managed to keep that secret, somehow, even if he’s not really certain how.

           “You—” Hermann pauses, swivels in his chair, blinking. “I—well, I’ve been assuming you view me as a close friend. I admit, I found it odd that I never touched those feelings during our Drift, but I assumed you’d understood my own feelings, since I didn’t think I’d be able to hide them and therefore, I—didn’t really try.”

           “What!” screeches Newt. “Dude!” Is Hermann really saying what he seems to be saying? Newt’s head’s going around and around, and the noises are getting louder, and his chest’s so tight that if he didn’t know what a panic attack feels like he’d think he was having a heart attack. Everything starts to get wavery and dark around the edges of his vision. This is exactly the wrong time for this, he knows, but focusing on his breathing just isn’t doing what he needs it to. Fuck, he needs a Xanax or something.

           There’s a pressure on his hand, the concerned voice of the interviewer speaking, and, above that, Hermann’s voice sounding, an oddly calm monotone. Then there’s movement, bright and dark patterns moving in front of his eyes, someone yelling. Someone else tugs at his hand, puts a hand on his shoulder, and there’s a water bottle in front of him. “Damn it, Newt, take a drink, will you,” Hermann’s voice says, irritably, and it cuts through the miasma enough to allow him to gulp down a couple swallows of lukewarm water.

           It takes a while, but his breathing starts to even out, and, trembling, he puts his face in his hands. “Shit,” he says, as soon as his vocal cords decide to function. “Shit. Sorry. Shit.”

           “Is it really that terrifying a revelation?” Hermann bites out, and he sounds stripped of emotion, bleak, raw.

           “Yes! No! Dude, I thought—” He has to get this out, now; he can’t let Hermann keep thinking this is somehow his fault or whatever. “I thought that’s how it was, only the other way round?”

           There’s a very long pause, during which Newt’s breathing calms down enough that he’s able to peek out from between his hands and look up at Hermann. His friend has an extremely peculiar look on his face; there’s a slight flush adorning his high cheekbones and the tips of his ears. “Ah,” he says. “Hrm.”

           “I’m so sorry, Doctor Geiszler!” the interviewer puts in, sounding a little horrified. Oh. Right.

           “Uh, are we still, uh, live?” Newt asks.

           “No, no,” she replies soothingly. “We cut to another story.”

           And that’s better than the alternative, Newt supposes, but great. Now he’s made a complete idiot out of himself on national TV. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Uh.” He looks back at Hermann. “That was definitely not how I expected today to go.”

           “Nor I.” Hermann edges closer to him. “Erm. Perhaps we should do follow-up interview?” He looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon.

           “Probably,” Newt sighs miserably. “So, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I kind of have a panic disorder,” he mutters in the general direction of the interviewer. “And, um, I thought it was under control, since, y’know, we dealt with the whole apocalypse, but apparently, it, uh, it wasn’t? So much?”

           “I’m sure we can reschedule as necessary,” the interviewer says. “My—my sincerest apologies about this.”

           “I, uh. Apology accepted, but I’m kind of glad this happened?” Newt says hopefully, looking over at Hermann, who gives him a surprised, shy smile.

           “I suppose it was rather serendipitous,” he allows.

           “C’mon, Hermann, I can’t believe you just assumed—”

           “You did precisely the same thing, you do not have a leg to stand on—”

           They’re leaning closer and closer until Newt can feel Hermann’s breath on his lips. Well, they’re not live anymore. He leans forward quickly, just brushing their lips together. Hermann sucks in his breath in shock, then reaches forward and just lays his hand on Newt’s knee. “Perhaps we’d better reschedule, then,” he says, quietly.

           “Oh, shit.” Newt gropes for his phone. “My Twitter’s gonna blow up.” And let’s not even start on what’s going to show up on my AO3.

           “Can’t you put that thing away for half a second?”

           Newt rolls his eyes, but he shoves it back into his pocket. “Only for you, babe.”’            “Thank you,” Hermann says primly, but he gives Newt that shy smile again, and, oh god, Newt thinks he’d probably walk through fire for that look. Well, he probably would’ve walked through fire for Hermann anyway? But moreso, now.

           “We’ll be in contact,” the interviewer says faintly, sounding a bit poleaxed. Newt’s kind of sympathetic. He’s also feeling a bit poleaxed, but also he’s starting to suspect he’s about to be on cloud nine, so that’s pretty cool.

           “We should get dinner?” he suggests.

           “It is one-thirty in the afternoon,” Hermann says severely.

           Oh. “Lunch, then?”

           Pause. Deep breath. “Yes, all right. We do have a lot to talk about.”

           “Yeah,” Newt agrees. “Yeah. We do.”

#pacific rim #fanfiction #newton geiszler #hermann gottlieb #tw panic attacks #fuck sorry i forgot to tag with the tw before i'm an idiot #tagged it on ao3 #my writing

[terriblelifechoices]

Return of the comment fic

The glorious @flightinflame mentioned that Seraphina and Win would probably have a lot of fun traumatizing the International Confederation of Wizards while running the embarrassingly named operational maneuver leather and lace.  Aka, make them underestimate you, cause a distraction, hex them into the next county.

I thought about and decided, yes, yes they would have a lot of fun with that, and then this happened.  The original thread is on AO3 here, but I super did not stick the landing, so the better version is below the read more cut.

Early February, 1926, the Pentagram Chamber

"Madam President," said Hughes, demure and polite and the very picture of proper American witch-hood. Her dark hair was looped in its usual complicated series of braids, but she was wearing a somber navy blue dress that emphasized her hourglass figure rather than the breadth of her shoulders or the strength of her arms.

"Auror Hughes," Seraphina said, carefully neutral. There was something about the sight of Winifred Hughes in a dress that was faintly unnerving. She wondered how Percival dealt with it. "Attend," she commanded.

Hughes snapped to attention like a dog on the hunt, trailing obediently behind Seraphina and into the Pentagram Chamber. If she found it intimidating, it didn't show on her face.

The International Confederation of Wizards had been arguing for days now. Everyone wanted a chance at having Grindelwald within their jurisdiction, and that was going to happen over Seraphina's cold, dead and extremely hostile body. American Aurors had brought Grindelwald down, and he was going to stay in American custody until Seraphina was sure that wherever he was extradited to wouldn't fuck it up. (Seraphina was going to ignore Newt Scamander's involvement, because if she didn't, then she'd have to get involved in his creature-related mess and Seraphina wanted no part of that ulcer.)

"Madam President," one of the delegates began. "Grindelwald should be turned over to British authority. We can contain him, at Azkaban. He'll be no threat to anyone, there."

"Really?" Hughes drawled. "Are you sure about that? Or are you just so eager to suck Grindelwald's dick that it's making you fucking delusional?"

A resounding silence echoed around the Pentagram Chamber.

"Because the way I see it," Hughes continued, as brashly arrogant as Percival had been his first year at Ilvermorny, "is that the lot of you are fucking morons who let Grindelwald out of Europe and onto our side of the pond to cause trouble." She smiled, all teeth. "And now that we've got him in custody, the rest of you limp-dicked idiots want in on our collar."

"Auror Hughes!" Seraphina barked. "Stand down."

Hughes ignored her, exactly the way she was supposed to. "Sorry, boys. My boss is a bit softer on, well, the soft, than I'd like." She made an excessively crude hand gesture, leaving no room for doubt about what she was referring to.

Seraphina stifled a giggle. The British delegate looked like he was maybe three inappropriate comments away from having some kind of stroke and passing out.

"Madam President," said one of the other delegates, voice stiff. "If you cannot control your ... guest ... than I suggest you remove her from this discussion."

"Oh?" Seraphina inquired. "Does Auror Hughes make you uncomfortable?" She felt her lips curve up in a smile, sharp as the edge of a knife. "I wonder why that might be," she continued, conversational.

There was rather a lot of uncomfortable fidgeting in the audience. No one wanted to admit that a woman Auror made them feel uncomfortable. Not in front of a woman president.

Yes, Seraphina thought. This was going to be a lot more fun than Seraphina expected it to be.  

Madam Ya Zhou, the Chinese ICW delegate caught Seraphina’s eye and smirked, clearly enjoying the show.  She touched one of the strands of jade around her neck, activating the recording spell Seraphina knew was charmed into it.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” Hughes inquired, grinning dementedly.  “Apologies.  I didn’t realize politics was a game for delicate fucking flowers like you fine gentlemen.  I always thought it was for, y’know, folks with big brass ones.”  Another crude hand gesture demonstrated the relevant portion of necessary brass anatomy.  “Boss, you been lyin’ to me about that?”

“Director Graves is your boss,” Seraphina reminded her.  “I am your boss’s boss.  Do try to remember that, Auror Hughes.”

Hughes bobbed her head.  She’d woven strands of crystal in her braids, and they sparkled distractingly whenever she moved her head.  Seraphina suspected they’d been charmed to draw the eye.  “Yes’m,” she said.  

One of the Scandinavian delegates smiled nastily at the mention of Percival.  “And how is dear Director Graves?” he inquired.  “I trust he’s recovering from his … ordeal.”

Seraphina kept her expression serene.  So.  Word had gotten out, then.  And now this petty little prick wanted to smear Percival’s reputation - to cast doubt on MACUSA’s Aurors and challenge their competence.  Was it to make a case for removing Grindelwald into someone else’s custody, or was it personal?  Percival had made enemies on MACUSA’s behalf his entire career.

On Seraphina’s behalf.

A hint of real anger crept into Hughes’ exaggerated facade.  “You got something you wanna say?” she asked.

“Of course not,” the Scandinavian delegate said.  “I’m simply impressed he survived so long in captivity.”  His tone implied exactly the opposite, but his words were above reproach - especially when compared to Hughes’ conduct.

“He’s a wizard, not a unicorn,” Hughes retorted caustically.  Her tone added the words you dumbass clearly enough for everyone in the Chamber to hear.  “What, you thought he was just gonna lay down and die in captivity?  No American Auror worth their salt dies that easy.  Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” she reminded them.  It is sweet and fitting to die for your country.  

The official motto of MACUSA’s Aurors was ‘always stay vigilant.’  It was an echo of Britain’s ‘constant vigilance,’ since that was Josiah Jackson’s primary inspiration for his Auror corps, but the unofficial motto had always been dulce et decorum est pro patria mori dating all the way back to the original Twelve.  It was, according to legend, what Geraint Graves had said to President Jackson when he’d volunteered for Auror training, standing over his father’s corpse with the President’s apologies still ringing in his ears.

American Aurors knew their duty, and frequently died for it.  The same could be said of the rest of the world’s Aurors, but the rest of the world’s Aurors tried not to make it a habit.  MACUSA’s Aurors treated it as a matter of fact.  MACUSA had the highest death rate in the world for Aurors, but each and every one of them had earned their phoenix feather in the hall of fame.

And Hughes had just reminded them of that.  That had to sting, Seraphina thought, watching the other delegates for signs of weakness.  There were too many new faces - Grindelwald had done a lot of damage in Europe, and it showed - but she took note of which ones looked angry and which ones looked ashamed.

“That’s all very well and good,” the Scandinavian delegate said, “but Director Graves didn’t exactly follow through on that, did he?”

Seraphina put Hughes under Petrificius Partialis before she could break the Scandinavian delegate’s neck and cause an international incident.

The Scandinavian delegate was small potatoes.  He was a petty thug, more concerned with winding Hughes up than he was with the potential prize of successfully slandering Percival’s reputation.  Madam Ya Zhou looked a bit disappointed that her recording of today’s events wouldn’t include actual bloodshed.  None of the delegates Seraphina actually knew had betrayed any reaction that was out of the ordinary.

Seraphina waited.  It was odd, wasn’t it, that the German delegate was the first one to lend support to the British delegate’s demand that Grindelwald be transferred to Azkaban.  That sort of political maneuvering was meant to curry favor, but who with?  The British?  Or Grindelwald?

The Scandinavian delegate never noticed that she was a threat.  Neither did the German one.  

Seraphina kept her serene expression, hiding her fangs the way a proper Horned Serpent should.  It was all very well and good for Wampus’ like Percival and Hughes to bare their fangs at everything and everyone who irritated them even a little, but a Horned Serpent knew better.

A Horned Serpent only bared her fangs when she was ready to strike

#my fic #comment fic #fbawtft #Seraphina Picquery #Win Hughes #Possible 'verse