26/11/18

Fantastic Beasts

Scarf

"Why's he wearing it indoors?"

"You know he's always been a bit loony, spends too much time in the Herbology shed talking to Bowtruckles."

"What's he doing? It's like he thinks it's a pet or something, look how he strokes it!"

"Somebody probably confunded him into thinking it's one of his creepy Occamys."

Sitting on the long wooden bench in the great hall, several spots down from the collection of gawking fellow second-years, Newt hunched himself over. His barely touched plate of food sat in front of him as he rocked back and forth, staring at his lap. His fingers were wound tightly into the knitting of his long grey and yellow scarf, which hung permanently around his neck.

Newt liked the scarf's soft, reassuring presence. It made him feel more protected as he walked down the long corridors, waiting for someone to knock him over or throw something at his back. He liked the way the tassels felt threading through his fingers as he stared numbly out the window in Professor Binns's history of magic lesson, or rocked himself anxiously in the dungeons during his potions class, hoping that Professor Slughorn wasn't going to force them to dissect any creatures to harvest parts for their concoctions.

In situations the likes of which he presently found himself, Newt found that weaving his fingers through the tiny holes in the knitting and squeezing the fabric tightly enabled him to ease some of the overwhelming pain caused by the near-constant barrage of noise and light. The roar of white noise created by the chattering students, the sharp clattering of utensils on plates, the echo of footsteps on the hard stone floor, Newt heard all of it. It hurt. All the time.

Unbeknownst to Newt, his classmates were not the only ones watching him rock on the bench and fiddle with his scarf.

At the high table, Albus Dumbledore sat watching his most interesting pupil. He wasn't hard to spot, even amid the sea of yellow and black that surrounded him. His was the only head moving back and forth in an unbroken rhythm, appearing not to acknowledge the existence of anyone around him.

From their first day in transfiguration, when first-year Newt had refused point-blank to transform his mouse into a snuffbox without the assurance that it could be safely restored, Dumbledore knew that Newt was a different sort of child.

On most days, the boy could be found at the far back of the class, at the only otherwise unoccupied table. He sat so hunched over that his nose almost touched the desk, and it seemed to Dumbledore that he never stopped rocking. Or playing with that infernal scarf.

On more than one occasion during lectures, Dumbledore had spotted Newt appearing to pay precisely zero attention as his eyes wandered around the room, body still rocking and fingers still weaving their way through the scarf.

Dumbledore would call Newt's name, making him jump every time, and ask him questions that he was convinced the boy had not been paying enough attention to know the answer to, only to have Newt, staring fixedly away from everyone in the room, repeat segments of the lecture back to his professor verbatim, neatly summing up the correct response to Dumbledore's query. The man had since learned that what looked like boredom and distraction in most children, was in fact intense concentration in Newt. He had also learned that Newt's odd and off-putting behaviour; his rocking, his humming, his permanently twitching fingers and flapping hands, and his permanent grip on that dingy old scarf, were in fact a distinct body language all his own.

Dumbledore had learned to read the joy and excitement in the hands that buzzed like Billywigs. He could see the anger and frustration in the clenched fists that tied the scarf in knots. He felt the anxiety, uncertainty, fear, that spilled through Newt's perpetual rocking. He knew that when the boy's hands reached his ears and a low hum started in his throat, like a warning Augurey, he was in pain, distress, misery. Dumbledore didn't know how or why, but Newt seemed to see things, hear things, feel things the rest of them couldn't, and he couldn't imagine how painful and frightening that must be.

All this data collection on the rare subspecies of Hufflepuff known as Newton Scamander meant that Dumbledore could tell from his place at the high table, neither of them was in for an easy transfiguration lesson that afternoon.

Indeed, as he left the great hall amid the crash and clamour of several hundred other children, Newt could feel a familiar painful buzzing in his head, a fuzzy, blurry sensation, like he'd been bitten by a Doxy. He clutched at his scarf, but even its familiar softness couldn't soothe him now.

Newt pushed through the crowd, hoping to just get to transfiguration without incident. He stumbled into the room, which was empty save for his professor, and a number of large hornbills which sat on the students' tables.

Seeing the large birds eased the tightness in Newt's chest a little, and, completely ignoring Dumbledore, he slid into his chair and smiled at his hornbill. It was a non-magical creature, but he still found it beautiful. Very slowly, Newt offered the back of his hand to the bird. The feathers on its head and neck rose with interest, and its eyes pinned curiously, but it did not move to get away.

Gently Newt touched its silky back. He stroked the soft black and white plumage, and the feel of the feathers beneath his fingers and the radiating warmth of its body filled him with a calmness that started to ease the tension and anxiety he'd felt earlier.

From his desk at the front of the room, Dumbledore watched the interaction, completely unnoticed by the boy or his new friend. It pained him to have to inform Newt that he was going to have to transform the bird into a water goblet. Fortunately, Vera Verto was an easily reversible spell, but even so, he knew it distressed Newt greatly to imagine himself ever harming a creature, even unintentionally.

Dumbledore smiled slightly to himself as he watched Newt slowly disentangle his fingers from his scarf. Animals were the only thing the professor had ever seen that were able to make Newt relinquish the comfort of that scarf.

It seemed the hornbill had noticed too, for it leaned down and its massive beak nipped curiously at one of the threads that had unravelled slightly.

Newt did something totally unexpected then. He smiled warmly at the bird, then reached around his shoulders and pulled the scarf off. He draped it in a pile beside the hornbill's perch, and offered it the tassels, waggling them playfully.

The bird fluffed up its feathers in excitement as it tugged and played with the strands, making Newt laugh.

The pleasant calmness was not to last however. Moments later, the other students began swarming in, chattering and stamping and laughing and being too rough and making too much noise.

The sudden intrusion upset many of the hornbills, some of whom flapped and squawked loudly in protest.

Newt rested a protective hand gently on his hornbill's back, murmuring soothing words to it as it swung its head around anxiously, taking in all the newcomers.

Suddenly Newt's chair lurched forward and his hand slipped, causing the bird to flap and scream with fright.

Newt began to feel that buzzing tension from lunch return as he looked around to see a large Slytherin boy smirking at him as he passed. Newt hated double transfiguration with the Slytherins. Well, to be fair, he hated double anything with the Slytherins.

As the last of the students trickled in, Dumbledore raised his hands for attention. "Good afternoon everyone. As you recall, last class we discussed the Vera Verto spell, which turns birds, rodents and felines into water goblets. Today we will be practising that spell. If you could all watch me please." He turned to the hornbill that sat on a pedestal at the front of the room, and Newt swallowed anxiously.

Newt knew the bird would be fine, that it could be de-transfigured easily, but it didn't stop him from worrying about what the experience of being turned into an inanimate object must be like for the poor creature.

Dumbledore brandished his wand and tapped the hornbill three times. "One, two, three, Vera Verto." The bird twisted and morphed, and a second later, a sparkling crystal glass sat in the spot that the animal had previously occupied.

Excited murmurs rippled through the class, but Newt swallowed again as the buzzing increased in his head. He looked at his bird, and it blinked back at him trustingly, unaware of its fate.

"Right, now I'd like you all to practise on your birds, and raise your hand when you've completed the spell successfully," Dumbledore said. "Begin."

Suddenly the room was filled with shouts, punctuated by the shrill screeching of the anxious hornbills.

Newt stared at his bird, unable to move. He felt sick. He couldn't hurt this creature, he couldn't. The buzzing got louder, and he flinched as one of the hornbills close to him screamed. He put his hands over his ears and his rocking began in earnest. He could feel his breathing slipping out of his control as it picked up speed, coming in ragged gasps.

Suddenly a voice beside him made him jump so hard he almost fell out of his chair. "Mr. Scamander, I'd like you to try the spell please," Dumbledore said kindly but firmly, "it won't hurt the bird, I promise, and I will personally de-transfigure every one of them once class is over."

Newt opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak. All he could manage was a whimpering moan as his fingers began tapping the sides of his head rhythmically.

"Pick up your wand please Mr. Scamander," Dumbledore said, a little more firmly.

Shaking, Newt stretched out a hand for his wand as bile filled his throat.

Suddenly from the front of the class, there came a sickening sound. The buzzing of the students stopped as the tinkling of broken glass caused them to look around.

Newt forgot how to breathe. He stood half-raised from his seat and stared with horror at the shards of glass strewn over the floor. The shards that used to be a bird. "No." Newt whispered, his throat dry. "No."

"It's all right Mr. Scamander, I can fix –" Dumbledore began, but he was interrupted by an ungodly scream.

"No!" Newt shrieked. He snatched up his wand and gripped fistfuls of his hair in both hands, yanking as hard as he could as he stumbled in a blind rage towards the blundering idiot Slytherin who had smashed the glass. "You!" he screamed, pointing his wand at the boy, tears streaming down his face.

"Expelliarmus!" came a cry from the back of the room.

Newt's wand flew from his hand and skittered across the floor. He turned and saw his teacher lowering his own.

"Newt," Dumbledore said gently as he approached the enraged boy, "let's step outside for a moment."

Newt ignored him. His hands went back up around his ears as he sunk to his knees in front of the broken glass, rocking slowly and sobbing as his fingers continued to tug at his hair.

Dumbledore looked at the tiny figure now below him. He sighed and reached out a hand. "Come on." He rested the hand on Newt's shoulder, and it was as if the boy had been electrocuted. He jumped to his feet and screamed, clawing at his face and beating his head with his hands. Dumbledore knew he had to get Newt out of here; the rest of the class was stirring. Stuffing his wand into the pocket of his robes, he reached out with both arms and grasped Newt as tightly as he could around the chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted the boy's small frame clean off the ground and struggled towards the door with him. "Everyone keep practising your spells," he huffed, "and if I hear any of this being discussed later, it'll be a hundred points from both houses, is that understood?"

Most of the heads in the room nodded solemnly as Newt continued to scream bloody murder.

Finally Dumbledore wrestled Newt into the hallway. He wasn't fighting as hard any longer and seemed to be wearing out. Dumbledore released him and he crumpled into a silently sobbing heap against the wall. His hands went to his chest and groped the lapels of his robes. His face took on a look of panic as he searched his immediate vicinity frantically, continuing to feel around his neck and shoulders for something that was clearly missing.

Dumbledore realised it at once. He pointed his wand towards the open door of the transfiguration classroom. "Accio scarf."

In seconds, Newt's tattered grey and yellow scarf, which had been sitting on the table with his hornbill, zipped through the air and into the professor's waiting hand.

Dumbledore handed Newt the grubby garment, and the boy snatched it desperately with both hands, burying his face in its folds as his frightened sobs turned to exhausted ones.

The transfiguration professor heaved a heavy sigh as he watched Newt fold into himself. This had been an awful afternoon, but it wasn't quite over yet. He looked around at the empty space and called, "Bigsby!"

There was a sudden loud crack, and a withered old kitchen house elf appeared. "Can Bigsby help Professor Dumbledore sir?" the elf asked, bowing low.

"Yes, Bigsby, could you go and see Professor Slughorn and tell him I need a vial of calming draught as quick as he can get it?"

"Of course Professor, Bigsby is honoured to help good sir," the elf said, bowing again as it disappeared with another crack. Newt flinched at the sound, but gave no other indication that he was aware of anything outside himself.

Dumbledore raised his wand once more and murmured, "Legilimens." Instantly he was engulfed by the overwhelming storm of static that made up Newt's thoughts and mind. It was like trying to fly a broomstick through a raging snowstorm; blinding, frightening, confusing. Was this what Newt experienced all the time? No wonder he behaved so strangely!

Trying to push through the chaos, Dumbledore reached out mentally. "Newt, it's me, it's Professor Dumbledore, can you hear me?" He could feel Newt's panic start to rise as the boy pulled his face from his scarf and looked around in alarm.

"It's all right," Dumbledore continued calmly, "I've cast a spell that allows me to speak with you telepathically, I thought this might be easier than trying to talk."

Newt's eyes widened as he stared at his professor. "Really?" he thought, "you can hear what I'm thinking right now?"

Dumbledore smiled and nodded. "I've sent a house elf to fetch you some calming draught from Professor Slughorn," he explained, "then I want you to go to the hospital wing to rest."

"But the hornbills!" Newt thought frantically as he prepared to stand.

"They're all right," Dumbledore replied, trying to carry calmness into Newt's mind with his words, "I'll take care of them myself, and you can come by to check on them when you're feeling better."

Another sharp crack made Newt jump again as the house elf returned, clutching a glass vial and looking quite pleased with himself. "Bigsby has brought the potion just as the kind professor asks," he said, holding it out.

Dumbledore took it. "Thank you very much Bigsby, when Mr. Scamander here has drunk it, would you be so good as to escort him to the hospital wing? I need to return to my class."

"Of course Professor," Bigsby said, bowing this time to Newt, "Bigsby is happy to help the injured young master."

"I don't need that," Newt thought, wrinkling his nose at the inky looking substance in the bottle.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, "I'm still inside your mind Mr. Scamander, and the chaos in here is enough to overwhelm even me. It's not every day that I find myself an unworthy match for the anxieties of a twelve-year-old child."

Newt looked down at the floor with embarrassment as his fingers wound themselves through the knit of his scarf again.

Dumbledore watched as Newt performed this familiar ritual, and he was amazed at what he felt vicariously through him. The boy's anxiety seemed to physically drain away as if a plug had been pulled, and Dumbledore had the strangest urge to plead with him to never relinquish the scarf again. He had no idea why such a simple object was able to relieve so much emotional weight, but he could not deny the effect it was having.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he pressed the vial into Newt's hand. "Go on, drink that, get a few hours' sleep in the hospital wing, then you'll be right as rain, just in time for your detention tomorrow evening," he thought. At that, he felt Newt's anxiety flare again.

"Detention?" Newt demanded as the fuzz and static started to increase again.

"Well you did threaten to attack another student," Dumbledore thought mildly, shrugging his shoulders. "I thought a few hours helping me clean out the animal cages would teach you not to do it again."

The static began to fade as Newt gave a small, sheepish smile. "Okay Professor," he thought, uncorking the bottle. He pinched his nose shut, screwed up his eyes, and swallowed it in one gulp, shuddering as it went down.

Dumbledore disconnected the Legilimency spell and stood up, offering a hand to Newt, who got shakily to his feet.

"Now Bigsby, if you would be so good as to escort Mr. Scamander here to the hospital wing, I must get back to my class. I expect they'll have started transfiguring each other into flobberworms by now." He paused, "oh, and Bigsby?"

"Yes Professor Dumbledore sir?" Bigsby asked as he gathered fistfuls of Newt's robes, ready to drag him bodily down the corridor.

"Do make sure that Madame Reikei doesn't try to take his scarf while he's sleeping, won't you? He's quite fond of it you know."