Suzu: This is an anthology collecting simple, funny, sometimes poignant moments. It's not told in chronological order (but there is a chronology), and centers on the "courtship" stage. The piece aims to bring you realism from the 1920s-30s.

Without further ado, so happy you joined us, reader! Onward!

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Newton's Improbabilities

small improbable moments

in an

improbable romance

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Scamanders do not get roaringly drunk.

That is a trait reserved for the Smiths, or Cadwalladers, and even after age, the owner of Hog's Head Inn still spares his old Hufflepuff classmates an especially sharp, cranky glare that curiously reminds Newt of a certain Professor.

Regardless, Newt takes another swill, because Jacob swears to him that courage comes in liquid form, and, scientifically speaking, no one of repute has disproved that this muggle stuff did not imbue the drinker with a penchant for heroics.

What was the saying again?

"Desperate measures call for desperate times," Jacob announces, helpfully.

"Hm," Newt says, and doesn't read too much into it. "How did you do it, then?" He crashes his pint against Jacob's, watching the thick white foam slither down the side. The (shiny, squeaky clean, and perfectly legal) pub is fresh-opened, and full. People are still far too happy about the post-prohibition years to save their money on drink.

"Easy as pie, Newt, I just stood in front of her and…" Jacob is smiling like he's found out the rain drops bricks of gold, then pauses for a moment. The baker salvages the memory from his state of inebriation. "I—I mean, she just knew."

"Firecrab's arse," Newt comments enthusiastically, slugging his beer around. "Doomed. Utterly ended."

"There were the normal signs, too." Jacob claps an encouraging hand on his friend's back. "I mean, I bought roses and a ring."

"Tina hates excess," muses Newt, staring abjectly into the gaping abyss of his (fifth? Sixth?) pint glass. "She says it's not right, in this e-econ-hic-my. 'Even if we have enough money, others still don't, Newton Scamander'."

Jacob, blinking violently, shakes his head, wondering at intoxicated Newt's exceedingly accurate impression.

"Why not buy her something useful? Women like practical comforts." Words having just left his mouth, Jacob stares wonderingly at his own reflection in his beer. Good Lord, he should write books! Dispense wisdom to his kind! Clearly, his being successfully affianced to a woman like Queenie means he is the model of successful courtship.

"I think," Jacob continues, the paragon of self-confidence, "That you should take some cues from what you know best. How would you treat this, if she were a fantastic beast? It's the same principles, my good man. Same principles."

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