Chapter 470: Leta Lestrange
The fire crackled and popped, and the cat on the table was busy burying its
whiskers into a glass jar. The foam of the butterbeer was fizzing away, while
outside, the snow continued to pile up.
"You look far too old." Leta held her butterbeer mug aloft, the pale yellow
liquid masking Newt's face.
"Mm," Newt replied, still unable to meet her eyes directly. He seemed to want to
say something, but now that the moment was here, the words he had held back for
years remained trapped in his throat.
"You should have been angry with me," Leta said, staring at the misty white
outlines of the distant mountains.
"I have never been angry with you," Newt's tone was stark, rigid.
The two fell into a silence that made the black cat feel as though they were
speaking two entirely different languages. It tilted its head, slowly piecing
together the story. The Hufflepuff senior had once taken the blame for Leta, an
act that led to his expulsion from Hogwarts. But Leta, back then, had lacked the
courage to tell the truth. Even years later, she still believed Newt ought to
hate her; she was the one who had cost him his place at Hogwarts, the one who
had prevented him from ever finding a respectable career. Had it not been for
Dumbledore, then the Transfiguration professor, opposing the school's
punishment, Newt might not have even been allowed to keep his wand, much like
Hagrid. And for a wizard without a wand, the fate that awaited was all too
clear. It was no mystery why the Hufflepuff senior's life had been such a
struggle.
As Newt himself had once said, one of his reasons for writing Fantastic Beasts
and Where to Find Them was: "Augustus Worme of Obscurus Books offered me the
opportunity to write an authoritative guide on magical creatures. At the time, I
was merely a low-level clerk at the Ministry of Magic, so I jumped at the
chance—first, to supplement my meager salary of two Sickles a week, and
second, to travel the globe in search of new species during my holidays."
Two Sickles a week. For a wizard living in the magical world, that was nowhere
near enough. And that was without even mentioning the Hufflepuff senior's
lifelong dream of traveling the world to study magical creatures.
Snow drifted against the window of the cabin. Struck by the heat of the hearth,
it melted into rivulets that dripped down into the white flowers below. Leta had
gone into the kitchen, leaving Newt speechless, left to stare only at the cat.
The black cat was drinking butterbeer. It had a particularly amusing way of
doing so; it opened its mouth wide and let the butterbeer flow in from the
tilted glass, not like a normal cat at all. Newt couldn't help but smile,
watching the cat for the longest time.
"If there is something you wish to say to Lady Leta, please, say it," the black
cat said, setting down its mug.
Newt went silent. Confronted by the cat's question, he realized he didn't know
how to begin.
"Your time is running out." The black cat watched as the mist began to
thicken—rising from the coast, from the garden, and swirling into the roaring
fire of the room. The Lands Between were ushering them out. The cat tallied the
time, realizing its stay in this realm had grown even longer. It understood that
this was likely linked to the sudden legend of the black cat that had manifested
here. It was strange, really—how easily a wizard's soul could fall in love in
the Lands Between. Be it for a phantom rumor or a legendary cat.
The black cat fixed its emerald vertical pupils on Newt, who felt as though he
were being seen through. He felt he could resist, but he had always been an
honest man.
"You should tell her." "W-what?" "You aren't even telling the truth to
yourself." "What?" "Mr. Scamander..." "Dear Bastet, please, stop making me run
in circles." "I mean, your heart is truly complicated." "A wizard's heart is
always complicated." "Lady Leta is filled with guilt." "Why?" "You are..."
The black cat understood. The Hufflepuff senior was too honest and kind; he had
willingly accepted the consequences of his choices and never resented anyone.
But Leta did not see it that way. In other words, the Hufflepuff senior could
only sense that there had been a misunderstanding, but he never knew the crux of
it. And Leta, naturally, could not bring herself to speak of it.
What the black cat realized with a start was that this conversation was perhaps
an entire lifetime too late. No wonder Mr. Scamander had been so persistent.
Clattering sounds came from the kitchen as Leta meticulously prepared something.
The black cat looked at Newt with a gaze he couldn't comprehend. As he stared
blankly, wondering what the cat was thinking, it had already bolted into the
kitchen.
"Dear Bastet, or should I call you the black cat who rules over luck and
dreams?" Leta, commanding the pots and pans, paused and turned to look at it.
The black cat shook its head, unsure which title it was denying.
"What are you looking at? When did such a wicked wizard come to the Lands
Between?" Leta gestured at the pots and pans. Only then did the cat notice that
this place seemed to have been damaged before; some bowls were shattered, and
cabinets were missing panels. This was the first time the cat had found traces
of a conflict between souls in the Lands Between. What could possibly hurt a
soul?
"Quite the opposite of what you describe," the black cat said, jumping onto the
tabletop.
"No one here likes me either, and perhaps you never liked me, either." Leta
continued her work, opening a tattered oven.
"That is incorrect. I never thought you were wicked," the cat said.
"Then you are the exception; everyone else thinks I am wicked. They are right—I
am truly evil." Leta's voice was very soft.
"Lady Lestrange, there is no one who should not be forgiven, including yourself.
Even if you are guilty."
Leta laughed. "Are you comforting me?"
The black cat neither admitted nor denied it. It merely hopped onto Leta's
shoulder, keeping her company as they watched the snow on the window melt into
the rising heat.
"No wonder everyone likes you," Leta sighed.
The black cat stood its tail upright, bewildered.
"But you can never truly understand a wizard, dear Bastet. Not unless you were
like me—exactly the same." Leta had never intended to discuss these things with
a wizard, but the one standing on her shoulder was a cat. Her gaze drifted into
the distance. For so many years, those memories had haunted her nightmares.
It was a night in 1901. Inside the ship's cabin. Young Leta woke in the bottom
bunk, while her brother, the infant Corvus, screamed in his crib. The lights
flickered once and died—young Leta did not move; she continued to stare at the
screaming infant. Figures ran past in the corridor outside. Young Leta walked
toward the crying baby, noticing the door of the opposite cabin slightly ajar.
The baby Credence was sleeping soundly inside. Young Leta slipped in and swapped
the two infants.
"I never meant to hurt him, I only wanted to be rid of him for a moment, just
for a little while..."
The black cat opened its vertical pupils, utilizing Legilimency, and heard the
mature Leta's voice.
The ship in 1901 began to pitch violently. Young Leta's mother snatched up the
infant Credence; in the chaos, she didn't realize the babies had been swapped.
The cabin door was suddenly thrown open, and a young woman with dark hair ran
in, wearing pajamas and a life vest. Credence's mother burst in, slipped into
her own cabin, and scooped up the infant Corvus, failing to realize the switch
as well.
Young Leta, Irma, and the baby Credence were in one lifeboat. Credence's mother
and the infant Corvus were in another. A massive wave surged, and young Leta
watched helplessly as the other boat capsized. Several survivors surfaced, among
them Credence's mother, but there was no sign of Corvus... Credence's mother
took off her life vest, letting herself sink beneath the water... She never
surfaced again.
Young Leta's gaze peered into the sea, past the drowned woman, seeing the dark
silhouette of the infant sinking. The drowning baby fell through the green,
glowing water, finally coming to rest in a tomb.
Leta projected this illusion. It had haunted her for a lifetime, and now, she
showed it to the black cat.
"It is not your fault," the black cat said.
"Then whose fault is it?" Leta asked.
"No one is at fault in the face of disaster." The black cat fell silent.
"I am a monster, dear Bastet. Newt met a monster he could not love." Leta seemed
to have no intention of leaving; she placed a small dried fish before the cat
and watched it.
"Thank you, but I am not a cat," the cat said, pushing the fish away with its
paw.
"Oh, very well. Great Master of Dreams, Messenger of Luck, Bastet who symbolizes
war and family—will you partake in my offering?" Leta asked with a smile.
And suddenly, the black cat realized: they were in love. Leta and Newt,
throughout those hazy, subtle moments they shared at Hogwarts, had given birth
to love.
"Grandmother Milan once said..." the black cat began. Leta instinctively focused
her attention on it. "...when she was young, she did not yet understand how
contradictory human nature was. She did not know how much affectation lay in
sincerity, how much baseness was hidden within nobility, and perhaps, how much
virtue could be found within evil. For every person who sees wickedness, another
glimpses virtue."
Leta fell silent. She tilted her head, pressing her cheek against the black
cat's whiskers.
"You have learned many truths of the wizarding world. There are those who know
many truths, yet fail to be a good wizard," Leta sighed after a long silence.
"You should tell him," the black cat said. "Tell him what?" Leta asked. "Tell
him you are sorry."
"But he ought to hate me," Leta looked lost. "He has never hated you."
The black cat realized they had been running in circles for an entire lifetime.
"I am grateful to you—we both are—but you need not comfort me." Leta clearly
didn't believe it. The cat fell silent once more. Mr. Scamander had chosen
silence at that time, and Leta, because of her own cowardice and guilt, had
chosen to flee. Two sixteen-year-old wizards had been left with nothing but a
regret that could never be spoken, buried alongside a love that never had the
chance to grow.
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