Chapter Text
Percival hears about the transfer student before he sees him. He’s a little displeased because Hogwarts was all too eager to hand over their misfits for the Ilvermorny professors to “tame.” It’s not, of course, because he thinks that the Ilvermorny staff were incapable of teaching them, but rather of principle—Ilvermorny did not deserve to become the dumping grounds for troubled Hogwarts students.
The first time he hears about the transfer is when the professors are chattering amongst themselves rather animatedly, although Percival didn’t realize it was about the transfer at that point. He had missed the entire house selection unfortunately, because a couple of the first years had decided to wander off into the Berkshire Forest unsupervised, on their first day no less. Needless to say, he was called to go retrieve them because even the strict Arithmancy Professor Wang acknowledged that Percival was, as the current students called it, “spectacularly good at putting the fear of Merlin in them.”
To be frank, however, he was a little relieved since he wouldn’t have to sit through a few hundred of the house selections—a process that he’d been meaning to appeal to Headmaster Cavanagh about, in regards to its tediousness. If they could divide up the students by alphabetical order and go do their selections in small groups, the student council members could take the groups on a tour of the Ilvermorny grounds when they finished or were not scheduled yet. After all, it wasn’t as if all the students were watching everyone else’s selection—they would simply find out when they got to their dormitories that night.
But, it seemed like the one selection he was all too happy to sit out from, was the one that he wished he could have seen.
“Caused all four carvings to come to life, he did! I haven’t seen such a beautiful house selection in all my years!” Professor Tortsney tittered animatedly to her Herbology aide, Holly Bresset, as they walked past him in the hallway—the latter even seemed interested despite her normally stoic countenance.
Percival knew he shouldn’t listen in but he hasn’t seen any of them this excited about a house selection since Picquery’s during their first year about a decade ago. From what he heard from Picquery during their sixth year (once they had been friends for some time), all four statues had changed their colors for hers. But for a selection to have one of the senior faculty be this enraptured, considering the countless selections she had supervised—how fascinating. Perhaps this year would prove to be more entertaining than it had seemed.
The second time is when he is eating breakfast at the faculty table in the cafeteria hall. Percival got used to eating lunch with his old professors around the third year of his advanced-level Charms apprenticeship. But ever since Professor Hoig tried to get him to spill the tea, so to speak, about all of his Transfiguration students and their going-on’s, ones that the faculty had a betting pool on, he decided to remain at the aides’ table for the most part. Percival needed to maintain his loyalty as an ex-StuCo vice president (though he simultaneously put in anonymous bets). In his seventh year though—now as the aide of Professor Laskov, the Charms professor —he feels that he could perhaps even call a few of them friends. He still shudders though, when he recalls the moment his oldest professor told him that he could call her by her first name.
He sat towards the end of the table with the other aides that morning, since he didn’t have the need to discuss anything with Laskov that needed immediate attention.
“Say, Graves, did you hear about the transfer from Hogwarts?” David Chavez, Wang’s first and second-year Arithmancy aide, asked.
Percival lifted his eyebrows and took a long, slow sip of his coffee before replying, glancing at the tan man over the rim of his coffee mug, “No, I haven’t. Second year?”
“Sixth year, actually,” Bresset, the Herbology aide, noted. “He chose Pukwudgie.”
“Chose? What was his other choice?” Percival asked, curiosity piqued.
“Didn’t you hear, man? He was the four-way selection stall this year. All four carvings moved for him!” Chavez exclaimed through a mouthful of beans, gesticulating wildly with his spoon. Percival grimaced slightly as small droplets of bean sauce splattered in his vicinity.
“They moved, you say?” Percival furrowed his brows while eyeballing aforementioned droplets and casting a wandless Scourgify, vaguely recalling the conversation he overheard between Tortsney and Bresset. That was almost unheard of—carvings had changed color for most selection stalls, rather than moved which occurred more often in single selections.
“You’re such a neat freak, Graves. It’s almost painful to look at you, you paragon of cleanliness.” Chavez swallowed and continued, “It was wild to watch in person. Definitely the most dynamic selection I’ve seen. I think the Thunderbird perched on his shoulder at one point.”
Percival’s eyebrows lifted.
Bresset snorted. “David, I think this is the most I’ve seen Graves express himself, ever. I wish I had one of those No-Maj cameras on hand,” she grinned, glancing over at Percival.
The Arithmancy aide barked out a laugh, “I think his eyebrows have done more exercise today than in that one classroom where he caught Williams and Liu—.”
“I thought I said we wouldn’t talk about that incident again, Chavez,” Percival hissed quietly, rubbing at his temples as if that would make the blasted memory disappear faster. “I wish I could have Obliviated myself.”
“Did we? I don’t remember promising that,” Chavez responded cheekily. Percival gave him the side-eye while taking a vehement gulp of his now-lukewarm coffee.
“Poor sap, though,” Bresset murmured, turning the conversation back to their original topic, “transferring over in his sixth year, during this time no less.” Percival and Chavez nodded grimly in agreement.
It would not only be hard to adjust to Ilvermorny’s curriculum—which didn’t deviate too much from Hogwarts’, but was still different in certain aspects—but it was only a week ago that No-Maj Britain had declared war against No-Maj Germany. The American wizards learned through the newspapers that the British Minister of Magic, Evermonde, passed an emergency legislation forbidding British wizards from taking part in the war. His decision was a topic that consumed the passing conversations of the entire wizarding world and was starting to draw invisible lines between those of opposing beliefs. There had never been a war of this scale before within their lifetimes, both No-Majes and wizards alike.
Although many British wizards disagreed with Evermonde’s decree silently, clear by the reports of miraculous happenings on the No-Maj battlefields, the majority of the American wizards frowned upon the British Minister’s decision, especially considering the fact that one of the Ilvermorny founders was a No-Maj himself.
It would be difficult for many of the British wizards to uphold the statute and not intervene, Percy thought to himself, mouth thinning into a tense line. Their breakfast conversation after that seemed more subdued. War was a joyless shadow hovering over them all.
It was only a matter of time before it reached them too.
The third time he hears of the transfer student is when he overhears his second year students gossiping during his Charms class. Duhamel and Wilson, a Thunderbird and Horned Serpent respectively, were two of the chattiest students he’s had (the displeasure of teaching) in the three years he had been teaching first and second-year Charms. He’s probably heard most of the rumors circulating the student body through them, though he’s sure they don’t know of that fact. They picked up rumors faster than a Jackalope runs from a sudden sound.
Percival was circling the room, observing their progress on a wandless Wingardium Leviosa when his ears tuned into their conversation. Naturally, he hovered around Duhamel and Wilson a little longer than he did the other pairs because he wanted to make sure they stayed quieter.
As he drew closer, he heard the tail-end of Duhamel’s whispers. “— and they found him near the beast cages, petting one of the Kneazles through the bars! Can you believe it?” Percival, in fact, could not. Kneazles were known for aggression toward wizards they deemed untrustworthy. For a student to approach one unsupervised, Percival grimaced at all the possible things that could have gone wrong. But which student—
“He’s rather quiet—I don’t think anyone has heard him speak. None of the Professors has called on him in class yet, so we don’t even know what he sounds like. I’ve always wanted to hear a real British accent!” Wilson whispered.
“Katrina told me that he’s gonna have to take mandatory counseling sessions with Professor Holbrook. They think he might be…depressed,” Duhamel said the word as if it’s one of the Unforgiveables.
Graves lifted his eyes to the ceiling. He really needed to have a strict word with the sixth-year representative for breaching the confidentiality of student privacy.
“Can you blame him though?” the Horned Serpent whispered back. “Hogwarts kicked him out before his last year. And think of the prices for an international portkey—he can’t go back, even for winter break!”
“Not that he would want to, with the war and all,” Duhamel replied. Their conversation paused and Percival took the opportunity to clear his throat, somewhat menacingly, taking small satisfaction when they jumped and got back to their wandless spell practice.
After all the talk about the Hogwarts transfer, Percival did not imagine that they would meet like this, although he probably shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Mr. Graves, I apologize for disturbing you,” Headmaster Cavanagh said from the classroom doorway while Percival was grading during his Monday prep period.
Percival dropped his quill promptly, snapped to attention and greeted him stiffly, “Headmaster Cavanagh.” His eyes went immediately to the mop of bright red hair hidden slightly behind the imposingly tall Headmaster.
Cavanagh noticed where Percival’s eyes flickered, stepped aside and placed his hand on the shoulder of the owner of the aforementioned red mop. He said a warm smile, “Ah, I almost forgot to make introductions—you probably haven’t met Mr. Scamander yet, since he isn’t in your classes. This is Newton.” He pats the student on the shoulder, “You may know him as the transfer student, yes?” Without waiting for Percival’s confirmation, he barreled forward, “I’ve decided that you would be the best candidate to help Mr. Scamander reach proficiency in his wandless work, since they are not a regular part of the Hogwarts curriculum. I assure you, his Charms are quite exceptional—so it should be quick work! I leave him in your capable hands, Mr. Graves.”
Just before he made it past the doorway, Cavanaugh hollered, “Don’t worry, your time will be compensated on your next goblin wire!” And, as soon as he came, the Headmaster took off, leaving Percival and the transfer student in his wake.
“Well,” Percival said a little dryly, “it is nice to know that the Headmaster is his usual, fast-paced self.” He nodded at the transfer, Newton, “Please, take a seat, Mr. Scamander.” The redhead complied silently and chose a desk towards the middle of the classroom. He seemed anxious, not at all hiding the tells—fidgeting in his seat and fiddling with the hems of his robe sleeves.
“I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Mr. Scamander,” Percival recalled all he had heard as he circled his desk to the front, hands folded neatly behind his back.
“All good things I hope, sir.” Scamander’s quiet response startled him. Percival hadn’t expected to hear a verbal acknowledgement. He caught a glimpse of a nervous smile on the redhead’s face.
“Yes,” Percival replied, “of course. All good things.” He cleared his throat. “The Headmaster mentioned that your Charms are quite good, so we will focus on the fundamentals of wandless casting.” He extended a hand, “Your wand please.”
As every wizard and witch might have done—initially, that is—the student hesitated before handing it over to him. When it entered into Percival’s possession, he noticed the difference in heft—it felt heavier than any other wand that he had encountered previously. He also took note of the smooth, pale exterior of the wand, untextured like most others.
“You have…an interesting wand, Mr. Scamander.”
Scamander’s eyes lit up, as if he were surprised. “You noticed right away, sir.”
“Indeed, I am often in the habit of confiscating wands for poor behavior, I’m afraid. So, you’d imagine I am quite acquainted with the standard weight of wands.” He set the wand down on his desk, thus setting aside his curiosity, and promptly rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get started then. Mr. Scamander, what do you know about wandless magic?”
“W-well,” the redhead twiddled with his fingers, “I do know that it can be quite dangerous if not executed properly.”
“That is true.” Percival nodded. “It is perhaps the sole reason we use wands—to use as a proper conduit for our magic to behave in such a way that will not harm us.” He paused for a brief moment, considering his next question, “Then, Mr. Scamander, what do you think is the reason Ilvermorny teaches such a volatile method of performing magic, from Year One and up?”
“I’ve been considering the answer to that since my arrival, Mr. Graves,” Scamander responded, almost immediately, “Hogwarts does not even entertain the notion of teaching wandless magic. Even though Dumble—I mean, that is, Professor Dumbledore—was immensely good at it, he never so much as spoke about how we might be able to do it.”
Percival had heard of a certain Dumbledore— famous even in the American wizarding circles for his discoveries regarding dragon blood. He hadn’t known that the renowned pupil of Nicholas Flamel had accepted a teaching position at Hogwarts.
“Wandless magic has been part of our curriculum since the founding of our school,” Percival informed him. He turned his attention back toward responding to his original question, “But despite the…triteness of keeping tradition alive, the reason we teach wandless magic is because in certain, dire situations, we may find ourselves without our wands.” He paused before stating concisely, “In other words, we teach it as a means for self-defense.”
“I see.” Scamander seemed lost in thought at the revelation.
“How did it go?” Headmaster Cavanaugh approached him later, after dinner that same day. They made an intimidating pair as they strolled down the hall leading up to the Headmaster’s office. Students parted like a proverbial Red Sea so they could walk unhindered.
“He is quite talented, Headmaster. It’s a wonder why he transferred from Hogwarts in his final year—if he is as intelligent as he demonstrated during my brief time with him, then I assume the professors there would have jumped at the opportunity to keep him there and make an apprentice out of him.” He cast a cursory glance at the Headmaster to gauge his reaction.
Cavanaugh huffed out a laugh, “Quick as usual, aren’t you, Percival?”
“I aim to please.”
The Headmaster let out a small hum of amusement. They carried on for a little bit down the corridor in silence before Cavanaugh spoke again, this time more solemnly, “Mr. Scamander has lost quite a lot, although he may not show it. He may lose even more if we are to trust the reports of the goings-on in Europe.” His countenance darkened, no doubt at the thoughts of the looming threat the war posed. “I cannot divulge the full reasons that he was made to transfer,” Percival’s eyes narrowed at this specific wording, “but I can say that things are not what they seem.”
Meaning that, perhaps, Scamander wasn’t supposed to be at Ilvermorny in the first place.