Fate Is a Fickle Mistress

Newt's POV

The sun that filtered through Hogs Head's windows seemed out of place, starkly contrasting the heavy gloom that enveloped the day. Everything felt burdened- as if the weight of death loomed in the air. In a way, it did.

Hope was gone.

Newt watched her disappear through those double doors three weeks ago and had not heard anything about her since. He never expected it, of course. They didn't exactly allow messenger owls in and out of the place, but knowing she was there on that island with nothing but Dementor's to keep her company was too much to accept.

"You should eat something," Albus murmured, setting a bit of stew before him.

Newt nodded in response but didn't move to pick up the spoon. The only thing he'd been able to chew lately was his nails. 

Sitting across from him at the table, right in the path of his sight, Albus offered a soft smile that didn't touch his usually twinkling eyes. They hadn't held a glimmer for a very long time.

"Elijah will be here in a fortnight."

Newt nodded again.

"Newt," Albus murmured, and Newt finally glanced up to meet his gaze, "we will find a way to help her. I will not rest until we do." He said, taking his hand and using his thumb to draw a careful circle against his palm.

Newt desperately wanted his words to wash comfort over him as they had the first few days since her departure, but now they hung like rocks in his chest. Every day that passed- every minute- Hope relinquished further into darkness. There was only so much the mind could take while in Azkaban, and hers was already compromised.

Were the voices still haunting her?

Behind the bar, Aberforth fixed more stew for Credence, who sat next to the fire, staring blankly at the flames. The flicker of firelight cast a deeper shadow on his pale, sallow cheeks, making him look ghostly even in the sunshine.

Since Hope left and was unable to draw the infection that plagued his body, he had been steadily declining. If they didn't manage to release Hope, there would soon be two losses to mourn.

"I want to believe that, Albus," Newt murmured, looking back at him, finally meeting his eyes, "but…" he trailed off as his throat constricted. He forced himself through the emotion, shaking his head as he continued, "But she did do those things. Yes, they killed someone, but if she hadn't-" he stopped abruptly. 

"I know," he frowned, brows furrowing, "I know."

It was an awful thought to think but a true one. If Hope hadn't retaliated as she did, she wouldn't have gone to Azkaban. Instead, she'd be teaching her class at Hogwarts. They'd exchange stories in the day and kisses at night, living and loving each other as fare meant them to.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when all was quiet and silent, tears streamed down his cheeks, staining the pillow beneath; Newt hated her.

He hated how much he loved.

Yet, he wouldn't change who she was—not for a moment. He wouldn't change the woman who stood up and risked everything for those she cared about. Her loyalty and compassion were unmatched; she just expressed them in what many deemed unethical ways.

"It's okay to be angry," Albus offered in a softer voice so only he heard, "at her. At the Ministry. At yourself. Even at me. But we must maintain perspective. If we're to help her, we must take it one day at a time. The first step is letting Elijah work his own cogs in the system."

Newt wiped a stray tear away with the back of his hand and nodded, swallowing the emotion that had built.

"I don't know what else Elijah can do. The contract seemed to be the most impressive piece, and they hardly seemed moved by it."

"Well," Albus nodded, stroking his scruff, "they had emphasized that his word alone could not vouch, but I suspect he wasn't the only immortal attending the meeting back then. I've wondered if that's what he might be doing now. Finding another vampire who could bear witness."

Newt cringed. "That will still only be the word of Vampires against the Ministry law," he finally picked up his spoon and swirled it around the stew that looked more like vomit than food but smelled incredible, "is there really nothing else we can do? I hate sitting here grading classwork if I could be doing something to help."

It was maddening.

Newt was doing something he adored: caring for and teaching others about caring for magical creatures, but all he could think about during the first few lessons was Hope.

Was she eating enough?

Did she have enough blankets to stay warm? Did she even have a blanket?

Credence's cough drew their attention, and their frowns deepened. They watched as Aberforth hurried over and stoked the fire to bring in more heat despite it being sweltering outside. The Autumn month hadn't yet replaced Summer's heat, but Credence couldn't seem to stay warm enough.

Newt watched the sweat bead on Aberforth's forehead as he sank into the chair opposite Credence.

"I'll be okay." Credence croaked, wearing a faded smile. 

Tears stung behind his eyes, knowing he wasn't discussing the heat. Knowing that Credence was already prepared for the inevitable. 

"I'll go get him some water," Newt murmured, standing to go behind the bar. Anything to keep his hands busy to stop himself from giving in to the grief that tried to force him to his knees.

A moment later, Newt was in front of Credence, helping him sip the cool water.

"I made my decision," Credence murmured after finishing the small glass.

Newt glanced over at Aberforth, who stared at Credence, and he suddenly felt stuck on a battlefield; he had no idea what the fight was about. Glancing up, he locked eyes with Albus, but he, too, seemed to have questions in his gaze.

"You don't know it will work."

"I don't know that it won't."

Albus stood then, walking toward the carpet, eyes flitting back and forth between the two. "What exactly will or won't work?"

Credence looked up at his uncle, the darkness under his eyes somehow heavier than it was moments ago.

"When Elijah returns, I want to see him."

Albus frowned, watching him silently before Credence continued.

"I want him to turn me."