A Newt Scamander × Charlie Swan One-Shot

by lumos_child

Summary:

a cute fluffy plot bunny one-shot: a heartwarming Newt Scamander × Charlie Swan ship - soft, gentle, awkward, healing and utterly adorable encounters with Newt’s magical creatures.

Chapter 1: Newt Scamander × Charlie Swan

Forks, Washington

It started with a phone call about a bear attack.

Charlie Swan had seen enough to know when something wasn’t a bear. Especially when the witness—a local hiker—insisted the animal had “disappeared into thin air” after spitting blue flames and launching itself off a cliff.

Typical Forks nonsense.

Still, he was the Chief of Police, and even post–Cullen revelations, he liked to believe in some kind of order in his town.

He strapped on his boots, holstered his gun, and headed out toward Clearwater Trail.

It was dusk when Charlie found the site.

The forest clearing was quiet, except for the sound of insects and the distant drip of water off mossy branches. There were scorch marks in the underbrush, and something that looked suspiciously like clawed footprints—but no sign of blood. No fur. Just… weirdness.

That’s when he saw the man.

Or rather, the back of him—crouched low, muttering softly to something inside a large, battered suitcase resting wide open on the ground. He wore a rumpled blue coat, ginger curls catching the last of the fading light.

Charlie cleared his throat, hand near his holster.

“Evening.”

The man startled, nearly dropping what appeared to be a glowing salamander.

“Oh—oh dear.” He gently set the creature down, snapped the case shut with a whispered “Stay put,” and straightened up.

The stranger was youngish, freckled, and flustered, with an accent that sounded British and posh, and entirely too many leaves in his hair.

“I—I’m terribly sorry,” he said, already holding up what looked like a leather permit. “I’m Newt. Newt Scamander. I have authorisation to study magical fauna across North America—”

Charlie held up a hand.

“Let’s pause at ‘magical fauna,’ yeah?”

Newt blinked. “Oh. Right. You’re Muggle law enforcement. Or… perhaps Squib?”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what that means, but I do know what a lie sounds like. And that thing you were holding wasn’t from any wildlife catalogue I’ve ever seen.”

Newt hesitated—then said, “I promise I mean no harm. I’m a magizoologist. That was a Firedrake—harmless, but gets anxious in daylight. I was helping him find a cooler place to rest.”

Charlie stared.

“I didn’t understand half of that.”

Newt offered a small, apologetic smile. “That’s alright. Most people don’t.”

They stood in silence for a moment, forest humming around them.

Charlie studied him—the awkward posture, the quiet eyes, the genuine concern he’d shown that… thing. He looked less like a threat and more like a substitute science teacher who’d gotten lost on a field trip.

“Let me guess,” Charlie said at last, “you’ve got a permit that absolutely no one around here can verify.”

Newt brightened. “Yes! Exactly!”

Charlie sighed and muttered, “Of course you do.”

He should’ve called it in. Should’ve escorted the guy out of the woods, maybe even cuffed him on principle. But something told him this wasn’t that kind of situation.

Instead, Charlie reached into his jacket, pulled out his flask, and took a long sip.

“You’re not going to tell me what the fire-breathing thing was, are you?”

Newt tilted his head. “Would it help if I offered a drawing?”

Charlie handed him a granola bar from his pack. “You can start with that.”

 

Later that Night…

Charlie didn’t file a report. He told the department it was “a loose exotic pet, already recaptured,” and drove home with the woods still tingling in his chest.

He didn’t know then that Newt would return. That he’d end up on his porch, weeks later, holding a shy Niffler and asking about local nesting sites for Thunderbird migration.

He didn’t know this strange, bright-eyed man would eventually become a constant presence—trailing muddy boots and magic into his quiet, simple life.

It had been twelve days since Charlie Swan met Newt Scamander.

Not that he was counting.

Well—he wasn’t, exactly. But he’d found himself glancing at the tree line more often. Listening for odd rustles that didn’t belong. Pausing when the wind carried the faintest scent of singed moss.

Charlie didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t file under a report. And Newt Scamander was nothing but mystery, bundled into a blue coat with pockets deeper than reason.

So when he found the man standing quietly on his porch one foggy morning—damp, dishevelled, and holding a steaming paper cup of coffee and a donut in a paper bag like a peace offering—Charlie didn’t pretend to be surprised.

“You’re back,” Charlie said flatly.

Newt’s shoulders tensed. “Yes. I, erm, realised I left something behind. Well, several somethings. One was a charmed compass. The other was… dignity.”

Charlie huffed. “You’re doing fine.”

Newt smiled at that—small and startled, like he hadn’t expected kindness. He held out the donut and coffee.

“It’s… from that shop in town. The one with the rude barista. I thought you might like it.”

Charlie took them, nodded once. “Thanks.”

They stood in silence, watching the fog crawl across the yard.

Then Newt fidgeted.

“There’s also the matter of a fledgling Bowtruckle who’s taken up residence in one of your cedars. I thought I might ask permission before encouraging him to relocate.”

Charlie raised a brow. “Are you saying a stick bug has squatted in my tree?”

Newt lit up. “Precisely! Bowtruckles are terribly selective. It’s actually quite flattering. They only choose trees they deem worthy protectors.”

Charlie took a bite out of the donut and sipped his coffee. “Guess my backyard’s got a reputation.”

Newt shifted, bashful. “Well… so do you.”

Charlie gave him a long look. “Flattering or frightening?”

“Both?” Newt offered, sheepish.

 

Later That Day…

Charlie let Newt walk the property, watching from the porch as the wizard murmured to the trees like they were old friends. He was gentle in a way Charlie didn’t often see—patient, careful, reverent.

It was the opposite of how most people treated the woods. Or him.

Charlie went back inside.

When Newt returned that afternoon, he found a note pinned to the porch railing in Charlie’s blocky handwriting:

Tree’s yours. Coffee’s on after five. Bring the bug if he’s well-behaved.

Newt started coming around every few days. Never presumptuous, always knocking, always polite.

Sometimes he brought strange gifts—a warming charm for Charlie’s boots. A tiny stone that repelled mosquitoes. A charmed tin that kept jerky fresh “even in parallel dimensions” (Charlie had raised a brow at that one).

In return, Charlie offered practical things. A map of the Olympic forests with his old tracking notes. A spare compass. Once, a patched-up raincoat that fit Newt perfectly.

Newt had stared at it like Charlie had handed him a star.

“You mended this?”

Charlie shrugged. “Seemed a waste to throw it out.”

Newt touched the sleeve with something like awe. “You stitched it by hand.”

“Sure. Ain’t got magic, remember?”

Newt’s voice had gone quiet. “That doesn’t make it any less… meaningful.”

And so, quietly, carefully, without quite meaning to, they started orbiting each other.

Not colliding.

Not yet.

But close enough to feel the pull.

—

Charlie Swan had never imagined he’d end up sharing his quiet life in Forks with a wizard who kept magical hedgehogs in his coat.

But then again, Newt Scamander wasn’t exactly easy to forget.

It started with odd noises in the woods. Strange pawprints. Then something had dug up the police station’s flowerbeds and rearranged the marigolds into a perfect spiral. Charlie had gone to investigate—gun holstered, eyebrow arched—and walked straight into a familiar man with wild red hair, grass stains on his knees, and a creature that looked like a shiny-furred platypus trying to climb into his boot.

Newt had looked up with wide, apologetic eyes and said, “Oh dear. Sorry, Charlie. He’s very fond of loose change.”

And somehow, that had been the one of the first few.

Newt showed up to Charlie’s cabin most days now—sometimes for coffee, sometimes just to sit on the porch and scribble in a weathered leather journal while the rain drizzled down the roof. Charlie didn’t mind. He liked the company, especially when it came with quiet chatter about Bowtruckles and Mooncalves and something called a Snidget.

Still, he wasn’t exactly demonstrative. Newt didn’t seem to mind that either.

One morning, Newt arrived looking particularly pleased with himself. His coat rustled oddly as he approached, and his arms were held stiffly, like he was trying to keep something contained.

Charlie looked up from his mug and narrowed his eyes.

“You’ve got another one in there, don’t you?”

Newt’s face lit up. “Just a baby Niffler. Only hatched two days ago. He’s still bonding.”

“Bonding?”

“Yes! They imprint on shiny things first, and then… on people. Sometimes.”

Charlie raised a brow. “I don’t do imprinting.”

Newt hesitated—then carefully reached into his coat and produced a wide-eyed baby Niffler, no larger than a kiwi fruit, with glossy black fur and twitching paws.

“He won’t bite,” Newt said hopefully.

The Niffler squeaked and wriggled toward Charlie with laser-focused attention.

Charlie grunted, set his coffee down, and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a tarnished silver dollar and held it out.

The Niffler snatched it with glee and nestled in Charlie’s palm, cooing softly.

Newt blinked. “Oh. Oh, he likes you.”

Charlie shrugged. “Figured. I’m shiny on the inside.”

Newt laughed, and Charlie couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A few days later, Charlie handed Newt a wrapped parcel as the wizard prepared to leave for a trip to Oregon—“There’s a rare colony of Diricawls nesting by the coast,” he’d said, eyes shining.

“What’s this?” Newt asked, untying the string.

Charlie shrugged. “Something practical.”

Inside was a deep green thermos with his name engraved in simple, blocky letters: Newt S.

“So you don’t forget to eat,” Charlie said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, “when you’re off saving magical raccoons or whatever.”

Newt stared at the thermos, fingers tracing the letters as if they were made of gold. His voice went soft. “Those magical raccoons..They’re called Jarveys, but… thank you.”

He held it like it was made of starlight.

Charlie cleared his throat. “It’s just a thermos, don’t get weird about it. Figured you’d like something warm while you’re out there in the rain, chasing trouble.”

“I do.” Newt’s smile was so wide it hurt to look at. “It’s… perfect.”

The weeks passed.

Newt hadn’t expected to be gone for long.

A quick trip to Oregon, a ministry meeting, a few dramatic run-ins with an escaped Griffin—not that uncommon. But by the time he returned to Forks, it had been nearly three weeks.

When he finally trudged back up the familiar gravel path—suitcase in tow, curls wild, coat patched with a haphazard Sticking Charm—he told himself to lower his expectations. Charlie Swan was a quiet man. A private man. You didn’t get your hopes up over someone like that.

Then he reached the porch.

And stopped.

Because curled in Charlie’s old rocking chair was Dougal, his very shy, very particular, easily-spooked Demiguise. Swaddled in a worn flannel blanket and snacking from a bowl of strawberries and chopped bananas.

Newt’s jaw dropped and blinked. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Dougal did not take to strangers. Newt stepped closer, quietly—enough to alert Dougal, who looked up lazily, and made a soft cooing sound. Not afraid. Not skittish.

Just… content.

The front door opened before Newt could process it.

Charlie stood there with a mug of coffee and his usual deadpan expression.

“Figured you’d show up.”

Newt blinked. “You… fed Dougal?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “He kept stealing bananas through my kitchen window. Eventually I left a bowl outside. Thought it was less creepy than pretending I didn’t notice.”

Newt gawked and crouched beside the chair, inspecting the soft grey fur and gently stroking Dougal’s side. “He trusts very few people.”

Charlie glanced at the snoozing Demiguise and took a sip of his coffee. “Guess he’s got good instincts, this bug-eyed ghost monkey must’ve decided I was boring enough not to be a threat.”

“He’s an endangered Demiguise,” Newt corrected gently, “he likes you.”

Charlie muttered, “One of us has questionable taste.”

There was a pause. The wind rustled the porch windchime—an old one, shaped like tiny fishing hooks and pine cones.

Then Charlie said, voice lower:“You were gone longer than usual.”

Newt looked up, surprised by the note of something unreadable—something almost vulnerable—in Charlie’s voice.

“I had to detour,” Newt said softly. “Some urgent things came up.”

Charlie nodded. “Right. Sure. I just…”

He scratched the back of his neck, clearly regretting saying anything at all.

 

Later That Afternoon…

Charlie offered Newt a cold beer and didn’t ask about his trip. Newt didn’t mention the minor diplomatic incident in British Columbia, or how he’d missed the familiar creak of Charlie’s porch more than he cared to admit.

Just as Charlie was settling into his chair again, a high-pitched squeak interrupted them.

Newt froze. “Oh no.”

Charlie didn’t even look up. “What now.”

A moment later, a baby Niffler scrambled up from under the porch with a bottle cap in its paws and a distinctly smug expression.

Newt chased after it, exasperated. “I told you to stay in the case!”

Charlie just grunted and fished into his pocket. Wordlessly, he held out a shiny coin.

The Niffler chirped with delight, snatched it, and scurried under Charlie’s flannel-clad leg to hoard it with great fanfare.

Newt stared. “You just gave it a coin?”

“Better than him nicking my badge again,” Charlie said dryly. “Still haven’t found the last one.”

Newt pressed his hand to his mouth—to hide the ridiculous grin that wanted to escape.

 

A Few Days Later…

Charlie was repairing the latch on his back fence when he heard an unfamiliar bleat.

He turned. Stopped.

There, nibbling on his tomato plants, was a baby Mooncalf. Pale grey, wide-eyed, luminous under the morning mist.

Newt appeared a moment later, breathless. “Don’t—don’t move too quickly. She’s skittish.”

Charlie raised a brow. “She’s eating my vegetables.”

“She’s nervous.”

“She’s ruining my summer salsa.”

Newt looked genuinely apologetic. “I’ll bring you another tomato plant.”

Charlie sighed. “Fine. But if she eats my marigolds, we’re going to have words.”

 

That Evening

Charlie found a perfectly potted tomato plant on his back step.

Next to it: a second plant, labelled “Marigolds – DO NOT EAT” in scratchy handwriting.

Tied to the stem was a tiny, carefully woven braid of Mooncalf fur—soft, grey, and clearly meant as a peace offering.

Charlie tucked it in his pocket without a word.

 

Later That Week…

Newt was tending a small, magically camouflaged clearing behind Charlie’s house, inspecting a nest of Occamies. Their silver-blue feathers shimmered in the dappled sunlight as Newt muttered encouragements in soft, lilting tones.

Charlie had come out to bring him coffee.

He didn’t expect to be tackled by a pair of tiny Knarl kits—bristly, hedgehog-like creatures with spiky attitudes and curious snouts.

Newt was immediately on his knees. “Oh dear. They never do that.”

Charlie froze, holding his mug high. “What do they usually do?”

“Savage gardens when offered food. They have trust issues.”

Charlie looked down at the one trying to chew his bootlace.

“I feel honoured.”

Newt laughed—and it wasn’t the quiet chuckle Charlie was used to. It was full and delighted, spilling out like water over stones.

“You’re a natural,” Newt said, eyes crinkled in genuine joy.

Charlie muttered, “Tell that to my laces.”

—

One evening, Newt returned from a trip to British Columbia with a torn coat and a bruised cheek. Charlie grumbled something unintelligible, sat him down, and fetched his sewing kit.

“You’re not supposed to get mauled by wildlife,” Charlie muttered as he stitched a long tear near the hem. “Thought wizards were meant to be clever.”

Newt, seated at the table with a mug of coffee, smiled quietly. “I was saving a sick Hippogriff.”

Charlie snorted. “Course you were.”

Later, Newt returned from a trip to gather tonic ingredients in the Cascades. Rain-soaked and cold, he stepped onto the porch and saw the usual glow of Charlie’s kitchen window.

Inside, Charlie was at the table, sharpening a hunting knife. Newt’s belt knife, actually. The one he always forgot to maintain.

Clean. Sharpened. Leather grip rewrapped.

Next to it sat his coat—restitched. Mended.

Folded with care.

Newt didn’t knock right away. He stood in the rain and stared at the scene like he’d dreamed once.

When he finally stepped inside, Charlie looked up, blinked.

“You’re soaked.”

Newt could only whisper, “You fixed my coat.”

Charlie set down the knife, quiet. “It had holes. Figured you’d just patch it with tree sap again if I didn’t.”

Newt stepped closer.

“It’s the kindest thing anyone’s done in a long time.”

Charlie shrugged. “It’s needle and thread, Scamander. Not magic.”

But Newt’s eyes shone. “That’s what makes it magic.”

Chapter 2: The first time Charlie Swan sees inside Newt’s world

Summary:

The adorable fluffy plot bunnies just kept multiplying… Here’s the moment when Newt finally opens up—literally and emotionally—by bringing Charlie into his suitcase sanctuary.

It’s not just about showing his world… it’s about sharing it.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday, the kind Forks specialised in—cold and whisper-quiet, the air thick with mist and the promise of stillness.

Charlie had come over to return Newt’s thermos, the one he’d found sitting half-empty beside his mailbox, scrawled with “contains salamander tonic—don’t drink.”

He stepped inside Newt’s cottage to the usual chaos: feathers, fur, potion smoke, and one baby Niffler trying to wedge itself into a jam jar.

Newt was crouched on the floor, coaxing a porlock away from the sugar bowl. He glanced up, flushed from effort, curls fluffed from steam.

“Oh! Charlie—sorry, didn’t hear you knock. I was just—ah—calming them before feeding. They get… cross when it rains.”

Charlie raised a brow. “I’m getting that.”

He set the thermos down on the cluttered table, stepping over what might’ve been a live root snaking along the floorboards.

Newt stood, hesitating. He looked down, then up, then at Charlie’s boots, like they might hold the answer.

Then: “Would you… like to come in?”

Charlie squinted. “I am in.”

“No—I mean, in.”

Charlie followed Newt’s eyes to the corner of the room, where the old battered suitcase sat, cracked open like a secret mouth.

“Inside that?”

Newt nodded, lips tugging upward in a nervous smile. “It’s… well, it’s where I live. Really live.”

Charlie looked at the case, then back at Newt.

“You’re not about to shrink me, are you?”

“No shrinking,” Newt promised. “Just… follow me.”

 

Moments Later

Charlie stepped through the suitcase’s enchanted entrance and into another world.

The transformation was instant—like walking through a curtain into sunlight.

He found himself standing in the centre of a vast, softly glowing ecosystem: starlit fields, floating platforms, small stables carved into roots and rocks, waterfalls that hung like suspended silk.

The air smelled of moss and starlight. Somewhere nearby, something chirped. Something else trilled.

And then—

A gentle thud against his chest.

Charlie looked down.

A baby Thestral had bumped into him and was now chewing the hem of his flannel.

Newt, beside him, blushed fiercely. “Ah. She’s teething.”

Charlie didn’t move. Just let the creature gnaw quietly, blinking at the shimmering wings and skeletal elegance.

“Right,” he murmured.

Newt’s voice was soft. “She likes you.”

Charlie glanced at him. “You sure? She’s eating my shirt.”

“That’s her love language.”

Charlie snorted.

Newt led him gently through the fields.

They passed a glittering pool where a Kelpie rested, its shape shifting between water and shadow, followed by a pocket grove where Bowtruckles peeked from trees like tiny green sentinels and a warren of softly glowing orbs where Mooncalves danced in slow, weightless arcs.

Charlie didn’t say much. He never did.

But Newt noticed the way his eyes flickered—full of wonder he wouldn’t dare speak aloud.

“This is…” Charlie finally whispered, “in your suitcase.”

Newt nodded, tucking his hands into his coat. “It’s where I keep everyone safe.”

“You built all this?”

“With help. And time. And, well… love.”

Charlie looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And something passed between them then—unspoken and impossible to name.

Later, they sat on a quiet platform high above the sanctuary, legs dangling over the edge. Beneath them, glowing lights bobbed gently where Doxy nests blinked in the twilight.

Newt handed Charlie a cup of something that smelled faintly of cinnamon and star anise.

Charlie took it. “This isn’t poison, is it?”

Newt smiled. “Only to bureaucrats.”

They sat in silence for a long while.

Then Charlie said, low and steady, “You built a home in a suitcase.”

“I didn’t fit anywhere else.”

Charlie looked at him sideways. “You do now.”

Newt didn’t breathe for a second.

And then, in a voice smaller than usual: “I hoped you’d say that.”

Charlie reached over—not grabbing, not pulling. Just resting his hand briefly over Newt’s, callused fingers against ink-stained ones.

Newt didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But the hand under Charlie’s turned, just slightly, to hold him back.

 

A Fishing Date at Forks Lake

Charlie liked his early mornings quiet.

Just the chill breath of mist over the water. The weight of a thermos in his hand. The comforting scratch of stubble and the click of a tackle box. No drama. No magical beasts. No—

Splash.

Charlie turned slowly, expression unreadable, as Newt Scamander stood knee-deep in lake water, coat already soaked, boots floating nearby and holding a rod upside-down.

“I believe,” Newt said cheerfully, “this is what they call the wrong end.”

Charlie stared. “That’s not even a fishing rod. That’s a tent pole.”

Newt looked down. “Oh.” He blinked. “I did wonder why it collapsed on its own.”

They were thirty minutes into Charlie’s annual solo fishing trip—though this year, by some quiet, mutual understanding, it had become a duo.

Newt had shown up with a tackle box full of not fishing gear, but dried salamander tails, humming bait charms and something that suspiciously looked like dragon saliva.

Charlie—after a long sigh—had made him trade it all for a rusty old rod and a stool.

Now they sat at the edge of Forks Lake, side by side. The water mirrored the sky in soft grey-blue tones. Pine trees whispered overhead.

Newt cast his line (correctly this time) with all the enthusiasm of a man who had read twelve books about fishing but never quite understood the appeal.

Charlie just watched him, sipping from his thermos.

“Do I hold it like this?” Newt asked, line twitching.

“No, you’re strangling it. Loosen your grip.”

Newt tried. His line flopped limply into a patch of reeds.

Charlie bit back a smile. “You’re going to catch more weeds than fish.”

“Perfect,” Newt said brightly. “I’ve been meaning to collect some aquatic mosses for hippocampus feeding.”

 

An Hour Later

Newt had not caught a fish.

He had, however, accidentally summoned a Grindylow with a leftover magical lure (That’s not native to this region.) and fallen partially into the lake while rescuing said lure.

Charlie, meanwhile, had caught two trout and a strange, fluttery warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt since Bella was small.

It might’ve had something to do with the way Newt’s curls caught the morning light. Or how he kept glancing sideways, smiling at nothing, as if even the rustle of pine needles was worth treasuring.

Charlie handed over his backup flannel when Newt started shivering.

“You’re soaked.”

“I’m fine,” Newt said through chattering teeth.

Charlie wrapped it around his shoulders anyway.

Newt blinked down at it. “Is this your favourite?”

“Was.”

Newt’s smile was stunned into silence.

They didn’t talk much. Just sat, lines in the water. Occasionally glancing at each other. Comfortable, even in the quiet.

Then, Newt leaned slightly closer, voice soft. “You don’t mind me tagging along?”

Charlie didn’t look at him, but his voice was steady. “I’d have told you to leave if I did.”

Newt swallowed. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

A pause.

Then Charlie added, “Next year, bring the salamander tails. Might keep the mosquitoes off.”

Newt turned to him, face breaking into a wide, lopsided grin. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me on a dock.”

Charlie didn’t smile back. But his ear twitched like it wanted to.

As the sun rose higher, and birds called across the lake, Charlie reached into the cooler and pulled out two sandwiches.

Peanut butter and jelly. Classic.

He handed one to Newt.

Newt looked at it like it was a rare, endangered delicacy.

“You made this?”

Charlie shrugged. “You eat, don’t you?”

Newt cradled it carefully between his hands. “I… I suppose I do.”

And when a soft trill sounded nearby—a sleek, silvery Hippocampus breaching from the deep end of the lake—Charlie didn’t blink.

He just muttered, “Tell your fish not to scare off mine.”

Newt beamed. “They’re very polite once they know you.”

“Then you two have something in common.”

Newt turned sharply toward him, startled by the compliment.

Charlie cast his line again, calm as ever. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

That evening

Back at Charlie’s house, Newt finds the flannel carefully folded on top of his suitcase. He touches it like it’s precious.

Charlie never mentions putting it there.

And Newt doesn’t say thank you.

But he sleeps in it every night after.

New Hampshire, US

It started quietly.

Alice had been flipping through Bella’s closet—again—when the silence hit Alice like a wall: a blank space.

One moment she was laughing with Renesmee at Bella’s prank on Edward, Emmett arm-wrestling Jacob again, Esme restoring an old piano—but next a hole opened in her vision when her mind reached for Charlie Swan. Not a flicker, not a fade—just… absence. Charlie Swan disappeared from the thread of the future like he’d never existed.

Nothing. Not darkness. Just vanished.

No wolves nearby. No death. No obvious cause. Not even a whiff of Volturi surveillance.

Just… nothing. Just… gone . And worse—he stayed gone.

Alice staggered. “I’ve lost Charlie.”

Forks, Washington

Three hours later , a silver Volvo—Bella, Edward, Alice, Carlisle, and Esme—pulled into Charlie’s driveway, crunching over damp gravel. Mist clung to the pine trees, the scent of damp earth thick in the air. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the air thrummed with tension.

Bella was the first out, her fists were clenched before the car stopped moving.

“I told him to call me if anything weird happened.” She hadn’t been to Forks in months, not since Renesmee had outgrown the pretense of childhood. But now, the possibility of danger around her father—any danger—overrode the careful distance they’d kept.

Esme touched her shoulder gently. “He’s still your father. Still stubborn.”

Carlisle and Alice followed, silent and concerned.

“Charlie?” Bella knocked on the door and called, heart no longer beating, but fear curling through her anyway.

—

The first sign something was wrong came when Pickett—usually stubborn but shy—refused to leave the kettle in the kitchen despite Newt’s gentle coaxing. The Bowtruckle trembled and hissed, tiny claws gripping the metal walls like ivy clinging to a cliff before a storm.

“Easy now,” Newt murmured.

When a knock came, Charlie was still nursing a coffee and flipping through a battered fly-fishing magazine with Rupert trying to wiggle into his pocket to fish for change.

—

The front door creaked opened.

And there stood Charlie Swan.

Wearing a flannel shirt, looking perfectly healthy—though mildly confused—with a mug of coffee in one hand—and a furry, plush-looking, jewel-eyed creature nestled in the crook of his other arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Uh,” he said, glancing down at the baby Niffler nervously. “You’re all looking very… tense.”

“Dad—what is that?” Bella stared, jaw dropped.

Charlie scratched the creature behind the ears. “This little guy here? Rupert. He’s a baby niffler.”

He cooed at the beady-eyed creature with a shiny coat, “You like to take shiny things, don’t you?”

He smiled indulgently at the Cullens, ”We just found the toothpick holder he stole from the kitchen and caught him grabbing a quarter from my sock drawer.”

Carlisle blinked. Alice blinked harder. “We?”

Then from inside the house came a warm, accented voice:“Charlie, have you seen Dougal? Pickett’s hiding in the kettle again—oh!”

Before anyone could answer, the front door swung wider—and out stepped a man who looked like he’d stepped from a storybook: freckled, curls wild, cheeks flushed, wand sticking out of one pocket, trousers muddied, coat covered in hay, a nest, and what might’ve been glitter.

Newt Scamander.

He froze on the step and blinked at the assembly of supernatural immortals standing on Charlie’s lawn.

Four vampires—no, five.

They are too still, too deliberate.

Bella’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this ?”

Behind her, Edward, Alice, and Carlisle filed in. Alice’s gaze flicked toward Newt like a hawk clocking a squirrel.

Newt gave them a thin, closed-mouth smile. “Hello. Newt Scamander. Magizoologist. I… live here now. In a fashion.”

A few minutes later, the Cullens were seated stiffly in Charlie’s modest living room. Edward, Alice, Esme and Carlisle had come today—polite but wary, each in their own way.

Newt stood near the back door, dirt smudged across his cheek, his coat unbuttoned and half a Mooncalf feather stuck in his curls.

Carlisle’s gaze flicked toward him with polite curiosity. Alice frowned. “You’re the one. You’re why I can’t see Charlie.”

Newt didn’t move from his place just inside the kitchen doorway. “Apologies. It wasn’t deliberate.”

Carlisle, ever the diplomat, extended a hand. “Newt Scamander. I’ve heard of you. You’re something of a legend in certain corners of the world.”

Newt flushed. “Only the quieter corners. I avoid the limelight.” He accepted the handshake politely—but didn’t let his wand arm fall from its defensive position，“I’m temporarily in Forks for a… migration issue. Charlie’s made Forks rather difficult to leave.”

Edward’s eyebrows rose.

Charlie coughed into his mug. “He means the local wildlife’s complicated.”

Newt nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes. Though also—Charlie’s coffee. Very grounding.”

Edward’s nostrils flared slightly. He was reading the surface thoughts—and those thoughts were wild, whirling images of fangs, claws, venom sacs, and obscure taxonomy notes about blood-drinkers.

“You recognised us,” Edward said.

“I recognised your scent,” Newt corrected softly. “It’s similar to some apex feeders I’ve studied. The unnatural stillness. The way the animals outside fall silent when you pass.”

Charlie glanced between them. “Is this some kind of cryptozoologist nonsense?”

Bella gave her father a strained look. “Dad…”

“I’m not an idiot, Bells. I know you all have secrets. I just figured if I didn’t ask, you wouldn’t lie.”

Newt shot her a very subtle incredulous look that clearly read: You haven’t told him?

Bella shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s complicated.”

Charlie folded his arms. “And when did my house become a guest lodge for strays—whatever you lot are?”

Newt cleared his throat. “Your porch is excellent for nesting Thunderbirds.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Newt turned pale. “Oh no. I—I didn’t mean to intrude, I swear—I’ve just been… working nearby. There was a Snidget migration mishap. And then we rescued a sick Mooncalf. And then—well. One thing led to another. And we built a nest box in his shed. And then we kissed on the porch during a thunderstorm and—”

“Newt,” Charlie interrupted with quiet exasperation. “Breathe.”

The Cullens stared.

Rupert the Niffler attempted to grab Esme’s bracelet. She gently swatted him away, smiling despite herself.

Bella looked between Charlie and Newt, then back at Edward, who just gave her a wry little shrug and an amused look at the Niffler, now trying to pick the buttons off his coat.

And before Carlisle could comment, something brushes his knee—soft, unseen.

A soft shimmer. A ripple in the air.

A Demiguise appeared, fur silver and eyes deep as dusk. It padded onto Carlisle’s lap and pressed a paw gently to his sleeve.

Carlisle froze. Then smiled, faintly. “It likes me?”

“Dougal.” Newt nodded. “He only shows himself to those he trusts.”

The Demiguise has returned.

And Charlie reached into his pocket and tossed him a small banana without looking.

Esme, who watched Carlisle tentatively brushing the Demiguise’s soft grey fur and feeding it strawberries, said softly, “You look happy, Charlie.”

He glanced sideways at Newt, who was gently scolding a Mooncalf as it looked like a levitating dumpling peering through the window.

“…Yeah,” Charlie said, smiling faintly. “I really am.”

 

Later…

Edward stepped from the trees like he’d been carved from mist and shadow. No footsteps, no breath. Just there.

Newt didn’t look up. He flicked his wand with a faint swish, and a note floated from his journal to the inside of his case. The clasp clicked shut behind it.

Edward’s voice came low. “He doesn’t know what we are.”

Newt didn’t answer immediately. He pocketed his wand and turned slowly. “I gathered that.”

“Do you intend to tell him?”

Newt tilted his head, curious. “Do you?”

Edward’s jaw tensed. “He’s Bella’s father. That makes him part of our family. And you’ve drawn him into a world he doesn’t understand. You’ve made him vulnerable.”

A pause.

“You think I made him vulnerable,” Newt said softly.

Edward frowned. “He’s human.”

“Yes,” Newt agreed, voice calm. “And yet here you are, threatening a wizard in the dark while his back is turned.”

That pulled Edward up short.

Newt looked him over—slowly. Not unkindly, but clinically. His eyes weren’t glowing or harsh. But they were assessing in a way that made Edward feel momentarily… less.

Not prey. Not exactly.

But not entirely safe, either.

Newt stepped closer, the rain hissing softly around them.

“You smell of blood,” he said gently. “Old and restrained. But beneath it—venom, bone marrow, and something cold that makes kelpies shy away.”

Edward tensed.

Newt continued, voice low but steady. “You walk like a wolf that hasn’t decided if it will bite. You watch like you’re waiting for me to become a problem.”

He paused. “That’s fine. That’s wise.”

Another step closer. Still calm. Still maddeningly composed.

“But understand this, Mr. Cullen: I don’t just work with dangerous creatures. I am one.”

A flash of gold behind Newt’s eyes—his magic rippling, barely contained, bending the air for a single moment like heat above a flame.

“MACUSA has files on your kind. Feeding records. Disappearances. I studied them before I came here. I knew what I was walking into.”

Newt’s voice dropped, almost tender. “And I came anyway. For him.”

Edward was very, very still.

Newt adjusted his coat collar and stepped back, eyes softening. “But if it helps you sleep, I would never let harm come to Charlie Swan. From me. From my creatures. Or from you and your kind.”

Edward blinked. “You’re not what I expected.”

“No one ever is,” Newt said simply.

From inside, the sound of a frying pan hitting the stove echoed faintly. Charlie’s voice followed: “Newt! Did you hide my spare tongs again? Or did that raccoon–thing steal them again?”

Newt smiled, finally.

“Coming!” he called—and turned to go.

Just before he stepped inside, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Some creatures are soft-spoken,” he said, “until the ones they love are threatened. Then they stop being soft at all.”

And with that, he disappeared inside, leaving Edward alone on the porch, rain dripping from his hair, heart unsettlingly still.

—

As the Cullens was about to leave, Rupert clambered onto the porch roof with a stolen watch. Charlie watched with a sigh and turned to retrieve it.

Newt murmured, almost too softly, “I didn’t mean to take him off your radar.”

Alice turned back, her voice quiet. “Maybe it’s good he is.”

She nodded at Charlie, who now had Rupert clinging to his shoulder like a raccoon on a lighthouse keeper.

“Charlie always liked his peace. You gave him a different kind.”

Newt smiled—awkward, radiant.

Notes:

Thank you! Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. 🫰Kudos to let me know!
Do check out my other stories here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumos_child/works

Comment what you want to see me write next! ☺️

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Fantastic Beasts