His Perfect Imperfections - Newt Scamander X Reader 🍋

Part One

NOTICE: Mild sexual references, trauma. 

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A low growl breaks you from your thoughts, eyes snapping open to the sudden disturbance in the magical den of beasts, 'I haven't heard that sound before.' You look down to the newly formed bumps spread across your arms, making the tiny hairs stand on end.

You sit up from your comfortable cocoon in Newt's hammock; not a soul in sight besides yourself leaves you uneasy about the sound source as you gaze around. Nothing peculiar was in the room, just worn books with spines frayed and fringes of pages crimped from use, accompanied by vials littering the shelves filled with unknown contents, probably one of Newt's many concoctions from beast essence. And the highest shelves were bare of any creatures to make such noises, only a flash of sapphire as a rogue Billeywig buzzes around, weaving between bundles of dried herbs and the preserved animal carcass the Hufflepuff feeds his carnivorous children. Somehow, they enjoy the leathered jerky.

After a quick check under the hammock, you swing your legs over the side, leaving you feeling like a child searching beneath your bed for the boogie man. I mean... magic is real; what's to say he isn't either? Your sock covered feet pad over to the desk, and nothing seems out of place, not that you would probably notice if it were. It looks like a bomb went off! Papers filled with creature analysis and research journal entries splay across the rickety desk, its pencil legs surprisingly sturdy enough to support the weight of his life's work. Looking at the layers upon layers of Olympic rings in tea and coffee stains marking his designated teacup spot causes your lips to quirk up. This is something you admired about newt, entertained by the similarities he possesses to the animals he surrounds himself with... shy, gentle, inquisitive, he is truly a man of habit. You could imagine the countless night's Newt has fallen asleep at this very spot, recalling and jotting down notes feverishly of his findings while it's fresh, he couldn't help himself when he encountered a new or rare creature with that eye-opening awe he has selectively for his lovely children.

Your fingers brush over some of the documents, the parchment crinkling under the pressure. One caught your eye, and not because you were mesmerised. No, but because you were utterly mortified.

It's universal knowledge that Newt has an unconditional love for all creatures, but you couldn't in a bazillion years, love this beast. Never.

Rats have never appealed to you, scabby, disease-ridden, sewer parasites. And they still don't tickle your fancy as a magical animal species. The creature — Murtlap — is an aquatic rat-like creature with a peculiar growth on its back, like a sea anemone. Even though you feel grubby just looking at the animal, you found some beauty in Newt's illustrations scribbled between the haphazard notes. Sitting down, you read over Newt's reports closely taking note of each stroke, the boldness of the ink indicating his heavy hand while writing. The text was surprisingly easy to digest considering the complexity of the subject, his handwriting was fluid across the page, consistently cursive and elegant, surprising for a man so enthusiastically clumsy and complacent. This was by far your favourite finding at his desk.

'You are an interesting man Mr Scamander'.

Another growl breaks you from your reading, this one seeming far more ominous as it calls from the opened door of the office. You quickly scramble to your feet and turn toward the door. Nothing. 'Maybe it's a new beast Newt didn't tell you about?' you think to yourself as you reassure your nerves that they are all in habitats sleeping at this hour. You don't know if it's the still air in the case or the situation, but your body remains consumed with a bone-chilling frost, unease evident. "This is what I get for snooping in his case without him around."