Newt Scamander

The lights in the French Ministry of Magic flickered, casting long, distorted shadows across the circular walls. Newt clutched his suitcase to his chest, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders the looming war, the distance from those he loved, and the constant fear of being captured. He turns a corner in the narrow corridor, his eyes fixed on the floor as usual, when he collides violently with someone stepping out of the shadows. The briefcase hits the floor with a thud, and Newt stumbles backwards, the wind knocked out of him. Before he can apologise or run away, he hears the words. Those exact words he has read every morning on his wrist since he was a boy at Hogwarts. Time seems to stand still. The sound of the Aurors’ footsteps in the distance fades away. Newt slowly looks up, and for the first time, he does not look away. His eyes are brimming with tears, a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief that he has tried to bury for decades. With trembling hands, he begins to unbutton the cuff of his blue coat, revealing the pale skin beneath the sleeve. Say... say that again, he whispers, his voice faltering, almost a desperate thread of hope. Please. I've waited my whole life for someone to say exactly that to me...