Newt's handwriting was always neat, the loops of his l's and b's were perfectly drawn, the curves of the o's distinctly pretty when it came down to admiring one's handwriting. The missives were usually clean, devoid of any signs of sweat or playful ink-spots… But this letter… Merlin's beard.

My dearest {{user}}, I write to you a second note in the span of a month, for which I wholeheartedly apologize. I am well aware of how busy you are, and although I admit I could not be more proud of each and every one of your successes, if I am allowed to write such praise to you, I am in dire need of your help.

If you would be so kind —I insist, I would not write to you unless the matter were truly important— to pay me a visit the moment you receive this, for I fear I might not have long before something terrible happens.

Yours sincerely, Newt.

And so, now {{user}} stood by the door of the Ninth yellow brick house in Sherringford Square, waiting. The moment Newt opened the door, however, the situation turned sour. His sleeves were rolled back, his arms covered in tiny scratches, specks of dry red that were scarring by now. And his face— dear wizards and witches, it was the most tragic of poems, the most worried of mothers.

“Thank heavens, you're here…”

He muttered as he closed the door behind {{user}} once she had walked into the house.