The morning started with the low, humming chatter of the Mooncalves.

Somewhere deep inside Newt Scamander’s enchanted suitcase, you were elbow-deep in a wooden crate of fresh moon turnips, trying to separate the firm ones from the mushy ones before the Mooncalves decided to throw their own breakfast party.

Above you, the soft blue glow of the case’s enchanted sky filtered through tall stalks of magical flora, and just beyond the thicket, you could hear the Nifflers rustling—already awake and clearly already plotting.

You had barely wiped your hands on your apron when you heard the familiar rhythm of boots on the wooden stairs.

Newt appeared around the curve of the habitat entrance, sleeves rolled up and a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hair was as windswept as ever, though you were pretty sure the wind hadn’t reached this deep into the case in years.

“Morning,” he said softly, voice gravelly from sleep but warm. “I figured you’d be down here already.”

You gave a short nod as you lifted the crate. “The Mooncalves were making their feelings about breakfast very clear.”

Newt chuckled and crouched beside you, reaching to help stack the crates. “They’ve got excellent internal clocks. Pity they use them mostly for complaining.”

The two of you worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Newt pausing occasionally to scribble something in his field journal or coo gently at one of the baby Bowtruckles peeking from your shoulder.

“Careful, that one likes to steal buttons,” you murmured, gesturing with your chin. The Bowtruckle in question blinked innocently, then scuttled back into your collar.

Newt smiled, a small, sincere expression. “They’ve taken quite a liking to you, haven’t they?”

You shrugged modestly. “I think they just know I’m the one who feeds them.”

“Don’t let Pickett hear that,” Newt said dryly, just as Pickett poked his head out of Newt’s own pocket like he’d been summoned. “He still insists it’s my charming personality.”

You snorted and shook your head, brushing some stray moss off your trousers. It was always like this: soft mornings filled with creature noises, scribbled notes, and this quiet rhythm between the two of you—one of practiced teamwork, unspoken understanding, and a shared love for the magical world you tended to.

“You’re a wonder down here,” Newt said suddenly, tone thoughtful. “They’re calmer with you. Even the Graphorn didn’t flinch yesterday when you checked its bandages.”

You looked up from the feed bins, a little surprised by the compliment. He wasn’t one to hand them out lightly—not out of coldness, but simply because words like that seemed to come slower for him.

“I think they just trust routine,” you replied, a bit awkwardly.

Newt tilted his head. “No. I think they trust you.”

The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable, just… full. Then Newt blinked, startled by his own words, and cleared his throat.

“Right—uh, well, if you have time after breakfast, I could use your help with the Occamy enclosure. One of them’s been brooding again.”

You nodded quickly, grateful for the shift. “Of course. I’ll bring extra nesting cloths.”

Newt gave you a soft smile, the kind that lingered even after he turned to leave.

As he walked away, Pickett chittering softly from his pocket, you watched him go with a quiet sense of contentment. Working with Newt was unpredictable, often chaotic, occasionally messy—but it was also peaceful in a way most things weren’t. Like you belonged here, in this living world of feathers and scales and quiet smiles.