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'When is a monster not a monster?'
. . .
—
1904.
Malcolm Scamander loved his wife dearly - he really, really did. To him, she was angelic in every aspect of who she was, and in everything she did.
Still, though, there were times when he didn't understand her.
It was a morning in late spring; there was a balminess in the air, and the mists clung fiercely to the dew-dappled grounds of Kneazlehaunt Manor; with the haze spread across the little island of Alney and feeding into the River Severn, someone looking at the large home from the water might mistake it for a house built atop a cloud.
He was preparing for a day at the Ministry; he was supervising the installation of a statue there of his own design. Hoping to teach the boys a bit about his profession, he'd gotten both of them roused and dressed in their best matching jerseys and socks, with shoes perfectly shined and black jackets in pristine condition.
He and Beatrice were saying their goodbyes in the parlour, promising to be back by teatime, when Theseus came up with a start. The china gave a rattle as his feet fell across the freshly polished floor, his exasperated voice echoing into the rafters.
"Mum-- Dad-- 's Newt, he's--"
He didn't need to explain any further, however. With a slow creaking of one of the doors, Newt made his way into the pristine sitting room.
The china hardly rattled as Newt stepped inside - his footfalls, while less measured than Theseus', were softer, and more hesitant. He stood tall, however, with his shoulders back and head high.
If he had reason to stand so solemnly, it would hardly have been for his dress. He'd tracked dirt in across the freshly polished floor. Mud and hay clung to the knees of his trousers, while the elbows of his jersey were wrinkled from being rolled up - one clearly lower than the other. His hair was mussed, dirt and grass stained him all over, and one could detect the distinct odor of the family barn. In most respects, he looked to be an amusing distortion of his brother; the sole respect in which they differed was that Newt lacked a jacket.
The reason for this, though, was really quite simple. He held his jacket in his arms; within the jacket was swaddled a newborn Hippogriff. The creature - so large in adolescence - was strikingly small, with little sucking sounds echoing throughout the room as Newt fed him with a bottle.
Malcolm's mouth had fallen agape at this scene, and he immediately stepped forward, preparing to chastise Newt for his disobedience; he'd known that he was supposed to be dressed and ready to leave, and that he was in no way presentable - something he'd been instructed in throughout his life.
All Malcolm could get out, though, was a short, guttural "I-"; for between him and Newt stood his wife. Beatrice slowly stooped down, whispered something to Newt, and scooped the swaddled newborn into her arms.
"Newton and I are going to see Bessie-- he's going to help me take care of her. You two be back before teatime."
With that, Beatrice took Newt by the hand, leading him outside. From inside the parlour, Malcolm - mouth still open in confusion - watched as they slipped inside the barn. He could detect the exhausted mass of Bessie, that massive Hippogriff she was always going on about.
"Dad?"
Suddenly remembering that Theseus was there, he realized that his sleeve was being tugged upon. "Are we going?"
Blinking, Malcolm nodded. "Yes, son."
As they crossed the bridge from Alney Island, Malcolm couldn't help but wonder - as much as he loved the both of them - just what it was that Beatrice saw in Newton.
—
1911.
Newt cringed inwardly as the door slammed behind him. Professor Prendergast had placed him into detention once again. In hindsight, leaving in the middle of an examination to supervise the growth of the Bowtruckle saplings had been... short-sighted.
That's what he would say, anyway. Prendergast had been much harsher in his summation of the situation at hand. "Idiot" was something he was used to hearing; "degenerate" and "deficient" and "bungling" stung slightly more - the first times he said them, at any rate. He didn't need to repeat it as much as he had.
Newt had been relegated to polishing the brass and silver throughout the Great Hall; this had been done so as to prevent him from heading anywhere a creature could be dwelling. As such Prendergast retreated to his quarters for the evening, he thought ever so smugly about how he'd break his pupil from this habit.
Unfortunately for Prendergast, he had not reckoned with the ravens roosting in the Great Hall.
By seven in the evening, most of the brass in the hall had been polished; he hadn't finished the silver, but if Newt had to guess - maths were never his strong suit - he'd figure that he'd gotten about a third or so of the silver of it done. He still had time.
He was just about to begin polishing one of the dishes suspended from the massive stone sculptures flanking the walls, when he suddenly heard a chirping. Standing on tip-toe on the ladder, he clung precariously to the sculpture, before peering inside. It was a family of ravens - a mother and her chicks. He peered deeper inside-- was the mother one he'd helped to raise?
"Eunice?"
With a squeak of recognition, Eunice leaned in, nuzzling Newt's nose with a familiar coo. The chicks - sensing from their mother that the large presence nearby was one to be trusted - resounded in a cacophany of chirping and twittering. Newt was overjoyed, beaming brighter than he had all day.
Here, at least, he had someone to understand.
That smile was dashed for a moment, when he felt a sneeze coming on; he'd forgotten how dusty the insides of these stone sculptures.
It didn't help matters that Newt had rather. . . infamously loud sneezes.
The ladder give way underneath the misbehaving Hufflepuff, and Newt found himself clinging for dear life to the stone. Breathless for a moment, Newt took comfort in the familiar chirping of Eunice, and the prospect of new friendships to be made in the forms of her chicks.
Their chirping was the sole noise in the Great Hall - until he heard the imperious tone of a throat being cleared.
"Do you need help, Master Scamander?"
It was Professor Dumbledore. He was hardly angry, like the noise had suggested - rather, it seemed that he'd been trying not to laugh.
Once Newt was down, the two worked together long into the night, talking of ravens, of bowtruckles, and how both parties agreed that Professor Prendergast was a right pillock.
Newt learned that, even outside his creatures, he had more friends than he realized.
—
1918.
The world around Newt seemed to be erupting.
The sounds of the mortars exploding, the whizzing of the bullets, and the stampeding of crazed, desperate bodies trying to make it another moment - to say it was overwhelming would be an exercise in stating the obvious par excellence. It was as if the world was exploding and imploding all at once; like a bowl of batter being mixed, before suddenly being shot up into the air.
It didn't help that he was alone.
It was a gruesome sight, the way that the dragons had done his company. Newt knew they knew better than that - they'd known how they had been treated, after all. Even as wild as the war seemed to make everyone, it was hardly an excuse for savagery. They were trying to help, after all - save them from the madness of it all.
At the very least, he was grateful that they seemed to be patient with him. Allardyce, Nimrod, Sheilagh; they'd all been rounded up and brought back by a couple of Magizoologists (they had been maimed the least - the one in the best condition was missing a hand) with the cooperation of a kind Muggle from the Lancashire Fusiliers who professed a deep love for the creatures. The messiness of straightening that out would come later - the fact that they were in a war was messy enough. It could be permitted.
Scrambling up a long, long slope, Newt peered out toward the horizon. There was a lone dragon, limping in the desolate wasteland between two trenches. There seemed, for the moment, to be a ceasefire.
Newt would hardly consider himself strong in any sense - but he knew he had to be. Plucking up every ounce of nerve within him, he suddenly found himself in a loping sprint, picking his way through blown stumps and cadavers alike, all moldering in the mires and craters.
The dragon seemed to be an acquaintance of Nimrod's; a distinct series of snorts confirmed Newt's inquiry into this. Both had similar markings, and looked to have been from a similar community based on her age and injuries.
Scaling the creature was no great issue; having been pacified with a surplus of cuts of lamb. Gently stroking her side, Newt began to apply a series of bridles and harnesses - nothing complicated or painful, but certainly confusing for the poor dear who had already been shocked and traumatized by the war surrounding her.
Seeing her distress, Newt produced his wand and gave a quick mumble of 'quietus' - and he began to sing.
It was an unusual song - he'd learned it long ago, knowing only that it was one heard among the dragons of Bulgaria. His voice was rougher and coarser, and more untrained compared to the cords of a dragon's; still, every bit of his vocal power was put into the tune, as mournful as it was inspiring.
Slowly, the anxious snorting of the dragon grew quieter and slower, and she reared her head back, seeking to nuzzle the wiry Magizoologist. Hugging her, Newt gave a rattle of one of the reins upon hearing firing begin again; they left in the nick of time, spiraling unseen from the trenches and back to the rendezvous point outside Deliatyn.
Newt often saw men at the brink; understandably so. It was as if Hell had marched across Earth, tearing and gnashing up everything in its path. It seemed some days that the blackness of the torn earth and the roiling mud and decaying bodies would find them blown up so far into the sky they'd overwhelm everything with their darkness and produce the end of it all.
Newt wasn't a cynic, by any means - even amid all this, he considered himself a hopeful person. Realistically optimistic.
To some, it could seem foolish. Selfish, even.
But, a week after his last rescue, Newt found himself wiping down the newborn dragons - and he knew why he had to have hope. It would be utterly foolish - selfish - not to.
Who'd help anyone then?
—
1925.
Bandaging the Zouwu, Newt worked in silence. Eyeing the great beast, Newt looked back reprovingly at the Re'em that champed threateningly several feet behind him.
The Zouwu - a most friendly specimen by the name of Jiao - was in the care of a Magizoologist friend of Newt's. The friend had informed Newt that a Re'em - one he'd been seeking to protect from poachers - was up in the mountain ranges, and hoped that Newt could aid in recovering the creature. Newt was more than happy to oblige, and the fellow Magizoologist informed Newt that Jiao would transport him to the spot where the Re'em had been seen last.
If only Newt knew what he was getting into.
The Re'em's abode had already been sacked by poachers, and he was attempting - very feebly - to eke out an existence upon the steep, windswept cliffs along the mountainside. He was hardly interested in seeing yet another human, nor did it help matters when he found a creature with him; one he was unfamiliar with, and one he hardly cared to make the acquaintance of - unless it was for his supper.
As such, the Zouwu found himself scraped along the mountain's edge when he fled from the charging Re'em; Jiao, unfortunately, had dragged Newt along with him, and the Magizoologist was somewhat worse for wear. Still. . . he'd look after his scrapes once the Re'em was safe.
Newt attempted to get his bearings; the three of them were all on a fairly narrow mountain path - how was he to pacify the Re'em?
It was several hours before the Re'em spotted Jiao again. Newt was nowhere to be seen, and the Re'em had grown much hungrier in that time. Steeling himself, the Re'em pawed the ground and snorted.
Jiao seemed unimpressed, giving a playful wagging of his great tail.
Faster and faster, the Re'em charged up the path, panting and bellowing angrily as the distance between the two creatures grew smaller and smaller.
Just before he could sink his teeth into the waiting Zouwu's flesh, a brief flash of blue and brown crossed his vision. Instead of flying head-first into the Zouwu's neck, the Re'em was suddenly plunged into darkness.
When he awoke, it was beyond his wildest imagination. It was like. . . home.
The piercing blue skies, the pale, grassy plains of his home, the low clouds in the distance. . . was this the after-land his elders had spoken to him of? Had he - in his haste - knocked himself off the cliff?
And what of the Zouwu. . ? Even if he'd planned to eat him, he hadn't exactly wished to cause him any prolonged pain. . .
While the Re'em ruminated over the ramifications of what he'd done - and where exactly he was, for that matter - he heard a slight rustling behind him. Shifting, he spotted the human. He didn't have any cutting tools, or any guns, or anything sharp or shining. Just a very dull bucket, filled with fresh meats and crisp, leafy greens. Scattering it into a trough for the great beast, Newt stepped back, giving a small wave.
Sitting before the Magizoologist as he began to eat, Newt silently looked him over, gently treating any injuries that he found. As he sat treating a rather unsightly crack in the creature's horn, Newt whispered and snorted his apologies into the ear of the Re'em - he didn't want to trick him, but he didn't know how else to get the poor thing away from the dangerous cliffs.
The Re'em shook his head, however, refusing to accept the apology; he was the one that ought to apologize - and not just to Newt. He'd give anything to find out what happened to the Zouwu. . . his heart ached for what he'd done.
Newt, giving a knowing smile, pointed ahead. Jiao the Zouwu sat before him, feasting happily upon his own portion of food.
While the two great creatures made merry and reconciled, Newt tended to his wounds. Even though treating the dried blood stung, he couldn't help but smile, watching the two great beasts frolic happily in the plains.
For two creatures, they certainly seemed very humane.
—
1935.
In the basement, beyond the bright, beautiful habitats of the creatures dwelling there - but not too far beyond - there was a great, grassy expanse. Wildflowers were rampant, and redbuds and cherry trees swayed in the gentle breeze. The sky placed upon the ceiling and the walls was a sweet, rich blue; the sort of blue seen only in summer sunsets, tinged at its periphery with pink and orange.
On this particular day, however, it was hardly as cheerful as it appeared. Dougal loped through the basement, clapping with a great consternation, waving his furry hands to call all the creatures to attention.
From her pool, Pandora the great Kelpie emerged. Latimer the Leucrotta and Patrick the Augurey stood solemnly at attention. All manner of creatures - Diricrawls, Graphorns, Erumpents, and Runespoors; Occamies, Chupacabras, Ashwinders, and Fwoopers; Horklumps, Jarveys, Unicorns, and Thunderbirds - were peering from their habitats, some mournfully, some pensively. From the smallest of Crups and Kneazles, to Aziza-Asma-Yanka, the largest of the Runespoors; each kept a silent watch.
Silently, their friend appeared. In pristine braces and a crisp white shirt, the sound of his boots clicking across the stone floor was its own kind of funerary dirge.
Swaddled in his worn tweed jacket, bruised and battered - but loving cleaned - was Dives the Niffler. He'd accompanied his friend from New York to Paris; they'd met in his first travels for Augustus Worme, back in the alleys of Leningrad.
Recently, Newt had discovered a trafficking plot being undertaken by several of Gellert Grindelwald's acolytes. Working in tandem with the Ministry of Magic, it had been thwarted, and Newt had been able to liberate the Thunderbirds being trafficked - many of them were asleep in the suitcase, slowly recuperating.
Their salvation had come at a price, however. It was Dives that had ultimately sourced their location, due to the gold foil torn from champagne bottles being swigged by rowdy Acolytes, celebrating their success.
They were not celebrating alone, however - they celebrated in the presence of Grindelwald himself. It did not take long for the whole scene to dissolve into chaos when Theseus and his men fell in upon the drunken Acolytes. Grindelwald, true to fashion, evaded capture as always.
But not before scooping up the Niffler that had thrown a wrench into this operation. He was sure to make sure Newt's eyes met his before he drained the furry cretin of his life.
Within a moment, he was gone, having pocketed his dagger with the same cold stare as always; leaving only the poor remains of the faithful companion in the snow where his feet had once been.
Newt knew he had to have hope.
Who would help anyone without it?
He'd received his orders from the Niffler that night; not in words, but in deeds.. Defend all the creatures he could. Don't count the cost - even a Niffler knew that. Even to the uttermost, defend them, nourish them, serve them. Go and do likewise.
Marching into the rolling green expanse, Newt picked his way past wildflowers and headstones as he approached the highest point of the plain. Stopping, he listened as the creatures slowly gathered behind him. He didn't turn back to look - he couldn't offer them any more consolation than he already had. It was grim, but they were together. That was enough.
Placing his jacket and Dives gently onto the ground, Newt produced two books. From one, he read the same rite as the burial of a child - it only seemed proper, after all. From the other, he didn't read - rather, he tore several pages from it. It was a notebook, detailing the feeding habits regarding each creature, and notes he'd taken over the years. For Dives, they were extensive. Newt had already made copies of them, after all - as good as Dives had been, he hoped to provide him rest in the knowledge of his friend's love; and if not the knowledge, then the physical proof.
Gently placing Dives' remains onto the worn paper, he began to slowly dig into the ground.
Soon enough, Dives was at rest.
Rising and wiping his hands on trousers, Newt placed his spade into Dougal's hands, watching as the Demiguise loped off to store it in one of Newt's myriad workspaces. Watching as the creatures slowly made their way back to their habitats - and to bed - Newt was surprised to see Tina standing among them as they dispersed.
Silently making his way down the hill to greet her, he gave a teary smile.
Through tears, she managed to reply.
"--'s what it's all about, huh?"
Newt gave a quiet nod.
"We've all got to stay together - even when someone dear leaves."
With a faint smile as tears spilled downward, he watched as Tina guided his hand to the faint bump rising from the fabric of her blouse.
"And when someone new arrives."
The two silently made their way back upstairs - but not before ensuring all the creatures were settled in comfortably.
—
. . .
'Oh, when you love it.'