The Witch That Time Forgot | Newtmione ✔️

Chapter 8 | Closer

"Poppy!" he exclaims the joy clear in his voice as he steps closer a hand reaching out, fingers brushing her curls aside gently as he strokes the chattering Bowtruckles head.

"Oh now don't-" he starts only to be cut off, a bemused look crossing his face.

"Poppy?" Hermione asks unable to stop the shocked question falling from her lips, voice somewhat shrill.

"Her name." He explains simply, eyes falling once more to the seemingly incensed Bowtruckle.

"And mines Newt by the way. You can't keep carrying on calling me Mr. Scamander as though i'm some old man." He continues with a laugh before dropping his hand, straightening his back.

An old man... a giggle tickles her throat at the thought. Not quite yet, I suppose.

Her fingers unconsciously reach for the Bowtruckle swinging in her hair, her fingers gently touching its plant like skin, worrying her lip between her teeth.

Poppy. Of course. The small giggle escapes her mouth now. Over 70 years in the past yet her own past- or would it be future now... seems so very close.

Still occupied with her inner musings, Hermione misses the look that crosses Newts face as his eyes fall on her exposed left forearm. The luminescent lighting casting her skin in metallic glow. His blue eyes darkening with anger as he takes in the crudely carved slur, a silvery, raised scar dwarfing the number of other small scars and bite marks that adorn the naked skin of her arm. One little word, eight characters long but with the heaviest of meanings.

"Newt" Hermione says with a bit of wonder as she breaks from her thoughts.

Newt... Newt. Newt! Oh nothing out of the ordinary here, just spending time with my good friend, Newt bloody Scamander! Her smile stretches wide at the ludicrous thought, eyes falling on his face.

A look of confusion and irritation fills her face as she notes his attention is elsewhere. Following his line of sight her brown eyes widen as they fall on her exposed forearm. The crudely carved word spelling Mudblood, entirely exposed and clear as day.

No. She thinks as her opposing hand moves of its own accord covering the scar with a slightly shaking hand.

The movement catches Newts attention. Drawing his gaze to her own. Her jaw set in a stubborn line, lips pursed, eyes defiant and proud as brown meet blue is a swirl of emotion. Time seems to stop as they engage in a silent staring contest. The air around them feeling thick. His eyes soften, though it isn't pity or disgust held within their depths as one may very well expect.

Empathy. Her mind supplies. Though their circumstances differ, one a muggle-born the other a pure-blood, neither is unfamiliar with adversity. Silently, without word he reaches out as if to touch her arm before thinking better of it. Dropping his hand he clears his throat, the spell broken. And finally she feels as though she can breath.

"Ah-well-I really would like to know how you came to be in my case-but I left Jacob alone and some of the creatures housed here-" he trails off as though unsure or perhaps unwilling to leave.

With a nod of her head the two avert their gazes before exiting the luminescent room.

"Step back." Newts voice is sharp over the howling wind blowing across the snowy tundra of the habitat they've just entered.

Fear crashes through her senses as Hermione takes in the scene playing out before her. Jacob stands in the tundra his hand reaching out to touch the swirling, smokey, black mass suspended in mid air. Contained inside that sphere is what Hermione believes to be a parasitic creature the sight of which makes her blood run cold.