Fantastic Feats and Who May Hide Them - Fantastic Beasts fanfiction

Creatures in Suitcases

Celia finished pinning her hair up in coils back toward her bun, then settled her hat firmly in the nest it created, and pinned that too. She wore a pale teal skirt and bodice, modest, with the hat to match. She then tucked her black wool jacket around herself, hoped the places she'd had to restitch the seams wouldn't show, and tugged on her shoes.

She wasn't sure why she did this to herself, put herself in his path so often, when he never remembered her from one day to the next. There were other loan officers she could speak to, but she'd specifically requested Mr. Bingley, the man who didn't know he was her father. He knew he'd fathered someone—at least two, actually—but he didn't know she was one of them. He didn't know his younger son had died just a few weeks ago. She had no idea if he had any white children that he cared about, but she knew he didn't care about the black ones.

Someone sprinted up the steps and Celia closed her eyes, praying it wasn't her door they were about to pound on. She jumped when the resonations of a rapid fist hammered against her door, sighed, and stomped around the many planted pots on her floor to yank it open. "What, Edmund?"

Edmund hurried in beside her and she shut the door, propping fists on her hips.

She repeated herself, "What, Edmund? I got a meeting, I can't wait."

He untucked a fist-sized, feathery mess from inside his jacket. "Look, I just came in from Pa's farm this morning. He had a bunch of roosters he was selling for meat, but they won't take this one. It's sick, got an infection in its lungs. If Pa takes it home he'll just use it for fertilizer. I thought I'd ask if you wanted it first." He smiled.

Celia's eyes widened. "Edmund, you stole a chicken from your pa? You know he counts them!"

"He wasn't going to get any money from this one anyway! They don't buy the sick ones."

"And what am I supposed to do with it now?" she demanded. "I'm leaving. They turn the heat off in here during the day while most everyone's gone."

He cast about, flummoxed. "Uh."

Celia growled, and thrust her brown suitcase into his chest. "Put a pot of water on the stove. Bring it to a simmer, not a boil. Just on the verge. Shit." She flew to her small kitchen table, throwing off papers and brown plant trimmings, reemerging with a small, square box with the old, cracked ribbon it had been tied in. Muttering again, as Edmund gently set the bedraggled chicken in the sink, she shook out a clean sheet of newspaper and folded it as attractively as she could into the box, then snatched her briefcase back from him and thumped it onto the table. She'd intended to bring a few different samples of her baking to the loan meeting, but now only one or two would have to fit. She chose the orange rolls and the cream pastries, and gently tucked one of each into the box, creased the newspaper around them, prayed they wouldn't get too cold in this November weather, and tied the box shut again.

"Water's simmering," Edmund announced.

Celia began putting all her other pastries back in their original dishes and yanked the cardboard divider out of the suitcase, lining it, too, with newspaper. "Hot water bottle under the sink, left side."

Celia fished around in one of her drawers, full of bits and bobs of string and things, and retrieved a sturdy braided twine and thumb tacks. So long as the outside of the case remained intact, she didn't mind poking holes on the inside. Edmund tossed her the water bottle and she hastened to tie it into one corner of the case, snipping the twine and knotting all the ends, pinning them securely. She then snapped the case shut, ensured no twine showed from the outside, hefted it off the table and shook it vigorously before throwing it open again. The bottle showed no signs of movement, and the tacks no sign of sliding. She nodded.