The Witch That Time Forgot | Newtmione ✔️

Chapter 8 | Closer

"Jeez..." Jacob says with a laugh, reaching out still.

"Step back..." Newt warns once more, hands outstretched towards Jacob, voice strained.

Hermione's magic sings as her wand slides into her hand. A sense of calm falling over her. The swirling mass moves more frantically, emitting a disturbed, restless energy. The feeling it emits making her stomach turn.

"What's the matter with this?" Jacob asks, confused and intrigued.

"I said step away." Newt tries once more, voice firm.

"What the hell is this thing?" Jacob exclaims turning to Newt, his eyes registering momentary surprise at the sight of Hermione.

"It's an Obscurus." Newt explains his voice hard, colder, more efficient, seemingly lost in a bad memory.

His words confirm Hermione's suspicions. A wave of empathy crashing into her as he turns abruptly, seemingly no longer happy to play about in his magical case. She holsters her wand once more a sad sigh escaping her lips, struggling to keep her own memories at bay.

—

Hermione sits at her desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She hadn't slept in days and it showed. Her normally impeccable style of professional dress gone, her light blue blouse stained and untucked, navy blue skirt wrinkled and bunched, a large run in her nude coloured stockings, sensible black heels kicked to the side of the room. Her ID badge forgotten atop a pile of reports haphazardly stacked on the corner of her desk. Wild, curling hair framing her face, large clumps falling from the messy bun atop her head, held in place by her vine wood wand.

Face pale, lips pulled tight she glances at the report thrown open on her desk, just as she's been doing off and on for the past couple of hours. The moving crime scene style photo replays once more. A man's steady hands pulling a white sheet up and over the head of a body, a body that's far to small to even be mistaken for an adult.

She rubs a frenzied hand across her face, cupping her chin. A shuddering sigh full of remorse drops from her shaking lips. Tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Rage filling her as a single word flashes through her mind.

Obscurial. The word circles about her mind as if taunting her, a snarl tears from her lips, feet firm against the cold stone floor as she stands, the contents of her desk flying across the room, the sound of breaking glass and heavy thumps filling the room. Her eyes burning as she blinks the tears from her eyes, breath coming in ragged gasps before falling back into her chair with gulp of air. The sound of sobs fill the space now. A sound that would permeate the office for many hours yet.

—

The young man who met Percival Graves earlier that evening stands in the dimly lit interior of the Second Salem Church before an older woman sat upon the stairs leading to the second floor, basked in darkness, an accusing look on her face.

"Credence-" she begins her tone one of finality. "Where have you been"

"I was..." The young man, Credence begins a lie forming on his lips.

"-looking for a place for tomorrow's meeting. There's a corner on Thirty-Second that could-" The words die on his lips at severe look on the woman's face.

"I'm sorry, Ma. I didn't realize it was so late." He assents.

As if familiar with this particular scene, Credence removes his belt, the smooth leather sliding easily from his belt loops. The woman extends a lightly lined hand, taking the belt from his extended hand. In silence, she turns, walking up the stairs, Credence obediently following.