AN: I don't own Harry Potter or Fantastic Beasts, or anything you recognise.

Dearest Tina,

No, that won't do.

With a decisive gesture Newt crosses out both words on top of the parchment and sighs.

Almost automatically his hand reaches for a fresh roll of parchment, just to stop mid-air.

No. Newt scratches his head. He might want to write a draft first.

"A draft," he snorts aloud. It's so ridiculous it's almost comical.

On top of several volumes haphazardly piled on the table, a small leather-bound journal seems to mock him. Hundreds of pages on magical creatures and barely a scratch, no doubts, no hesitation. And certainly, never a draft. Just frantically writing.

He sighs again, and adjusts his grip on a quill he almost forgot he was holding.

Miss Porpentina,

He stares at the two words, terribly aware of how unsuited they are. Ridiculous, really. In the few days they were together in New York too much happened, too many things said and done, to suddenly go back to these sorts of formalities. 'Miss Goldstein' is out of the question, as well.

He looks at his left hand, and tries to remember the exact texture of that lock of hair that he was bold enough – crazy enough? – to put back in its place. She was smiling, and there were so many things that maybe needed to be said. Or maybe not.

She never said he could write to her. Maybe she didn't want him to, and said that thing about the book only to make him hurry out of her sight. He was a complication to her life. But then, she said… what was it exactly?

Newt shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about Leta, even if he's actually thinking about Tina saying her name.

In one swift movement he drops the quill and crumbles the piece of parchment. The owl perched on top of his dresser hoots and he cannot tell if it's pitying him or mocking him.

He stands up, walks two steps towards the door and then sits down again. Enough is enough, and soon it will be time to feed the creatures. He can write that letter later, of course. But he doesn't need to.

With newly gained determination, he grabs a fresh piece of parchment, and checks that his throwing of the quill didn't damaged the tip.

"All righ, then."

Dear Tina,

I hope this finds you well, and that you don't think too poorly of me for allowing myself to write to you.

There. That's a start. Maybe she'll crumble it and throw it into the fire at this point. Maybe she'll keep on reading.

On reading what? What should he write now?

Distractedly he looks at his right hand again.

He held her hand once, right after catching her from the dead pool, and hiding his hug of relief in the act. But he held her hand, he couldn't let go, even though it's much easier to run when you're not holding somebody's hand. Much easier for both. She wouldn't let go either, though.

It's like a blur. Spells being cast, the swooping evil being the hero, and for the briefest of moments, right before bumping into Queenie and Jacob and being rescued, he was aware of it. Her callous hand, her long fingers, holding onto his. And then both let go, maybe embarrassed.

I have an appointment with my editor in two hours' time. My manuscript is complete and I am looking forward to submit it. It's something I enjoyed doing, and yet, I am also a bit tired, if you don't mind my saying it.

There. Innocuous. Insubstantial. Safe. Dull.

He should've hated her back then. Because of her his case was confiscated. His precious creatures could have died. He could have died.

Newt never really thought about it. He could have died hundreds of times while tending to dragons. And there was that incident with the werewolf. And some other nasty things too. There was a reason there is a xxxxx classification for some creatures. But he doesn't think about it.

He thinks about what he couldn't help but seeing. It didn't feel right to pry in those so very private and precious memories of hers, vivid on the liquid's surface. And then he couldn't help but look at her, a soft expression he could never have guessed in the anguished Auror.

And terror.

And that callous hand.

How do you put all that into words?

I seem unable to stop thinking about our time in New York.

There, he said it. And it's the truth.

Maybe you do, too? And not just because of almost dying more than once?

It's a terrible joke. He is tempted to cross it out and start over. But the owl hoots again. Will she get it? Will she smirk as he did when he wrote it? Or maybe it's now that she throws the letter into the fire.

No. There has been some dark sense of humour, so rare in Americans, so much like his own. He felt it, more than once.

Well… he could just finish it, and make some editions when he's done.

How is everything going there? You must be glad to have your job back. I certainly cannot think of anybody fitter to be an Auror than you.

And it's the truth. But she's so much more than that, and he doesn't know if she knows. But then again, who is he to tell?

His mind wonders again, but this time it's not the feel of her skin, but to her strength. Her courage. Eyes that shone with panic in front of the overgrown occamy, but jaw set in determination. And when those eyes pierced his over the teapot, urging him to tell the truth, he knew he was hopeless. There was no lying to them; there was no lying to Tina.

He checks at the clock on his dresser. Those few lines on the parchment have taken him an enormous amount of time to write. And now he feels he has nothing to say.

Or just too much of it, actually.

But even when he's about to become a published author, there are some things he seems to be utterly unable to put into writing.

Am I being too bold if I say I'm looking forward to hear from you again?

Until then, hopefully.

Yours truly,

Newt

He doesn't want to read it again. Not ever. And he knows he will lose his nerve if he doesn't send it right away.

The owl knows that too, and with soft movements, lands on his table, leg outstretched.

"Are you up for a long journey, Charles?"

The owl hoots with dignity and stares at him.

"Of course you are." Newt ties the parchment carefully, annoyed at the slight trembling of his hands, and the quickening of his pulse. "Have a save trip, all right?"

The owl flies out of the window without a glance back and Newt sighs. It's done, for better or worse.