Like all mysteries Newt comes across, he's persistent to learn the truth about the strange happenings in America.

The elusive beast running amok along the eastern coast is a persistent thorn in Newt's side. He has pages and pages on it, filled with his own words and knowledge, crossing-examining every possible combination of sightings and lore. It's frustrating, knowing he's the most equipped for the job but still falling short when it comes to solving the problem. For he knows that he has to do more, has to get undeniable proof to give his words standing, and can't stay within Ilvermorny's borders to do it.

Newt keeps up-to-date with the happenings, reads the Muggle and wizard newspapers alike, hoping to strike gold in a pile of rubble. However, it's to no avail; the sites are cleaned up by government officials, the Muggles' minds wiped clean and his leads buried under hundreds of years of secrecy. By the end of the month he's set aside to find the beast, he's left no more closer to the truth, squandered by ignorance of muggles and the ever consistent scrutiny of one Mr. Graves.

"You're awfully interested in these disruptions, Mr. Scamander," he says one Saturday afternoon, having waited for him at the southern courtyard, leaning against the gate like their meeting was an everyday occurance. "Why do you keep traveling down the mountain?"

"No reason. Just curious about happenings with the Muggles." The courtyard is abandoned and Newt half expects his subordinates to jump out of the shadows at a moment's notice. He grips his case handle tightly.

"It must be a beast," Mr. Graves sounds like he already knows.

"It's not." Newt knows he right, but also knows that his facts would turn to dust in a debate with the man no matter how right he is. Madame Peregrine would listen, he just had to find the right time to tell her.

"You sound incredibly confident for a tourist. What do you think it is, Mr. Scamander?"

"I don't know…" Newt turns away then and hurries toward his cottage, his only place of solitude within this foreign place.

"Be careful, Mr. Scamander," Mr. Graves calls out after him, his voice dripping with suspicion. "Someone might confuse your interest for something more discriminating."

Newt stops going down the mountain after that.

He knows what's ravaging American Muggles is not a beast and knows that Mr. Graves won't believe him no matter what he says. From his previous encounters with higher authority, political and educational, his word has often been tossed aside or his expertise ignored in favor of the more violent opinion of those who didn't understand, but could scrounge up excuses better worded than he could ever dream of. And yet, the problem always arises that whenever he gets the chance, and the nerve, to discuss his findings. He's never been fond of intimidation, especially when it's used to control people, and his dislike for the American aurors rises with every interaction. There's not a soul who know of his notes and research except William, but he'd more expect to be drowned on school grounds than for the pukwudgie to spill his secrets. Still, the paranoia that he's been found out (for something that's entirely legal) keeps him tense.

Mr. Graves's suspicion is warranted when the owl's come with morning papers. Another attack on the Muggles. Grindelwald followers initiate a riot, killing five people. An invisible terror is stalking eastern coast, putting the populous in a right panic. What was once a problem overseas is now hitting closer to American homes and still, Grindelwald is nowhere to be seen. Newt can see the apprehension take over the faculty, sees it in Ms. Goldstein's face when she reads her daily newspapers, when he passes by a group of aurors, in the way Hector's mood is less than anything but cheerful. Headmistress Peregrine takes time before each feast to comment on the going-ons, calm and collected.

"Recent news has tarnished the beginning of the new year, but let us not cower and fear the uncertain future" she says. The hall always settles and seems to exhale at once, the very sound of her voice reassuring. "We will not be frightened and we will not lash out in fear. All I ask is that you keep your minds clear and your hearts open."

Even with Ilvermorny safe from the man, his presence pervades through the school in multiple ways. Americans display their opinions very openly, even when they shouldn't and Newt hears half-conversations that borderline disturbing as Grindelwald's words are argued over and considered. With each day, students take their sides and a schism begins to divide the student body.

Hector puts an end to a fight outside the kitchens, Ms. Goldstein ends another in the eastern courtyard, and Ephedra tells him she's never taken so many house points in a year. Newt hears some of the ghosts go on about the horrors of their lifetime, while a few of them recount their public burnings and hanging; most of them are not obviously marked, but Newt can see off-white marks in that would be bruises in another lifetime. Breeding fear doesn't help and that's exactly what the ghosts are doing, but Newt can't stop spirits who are still lost in their own stories.

There's not much he can do except continue on like nothing is different, act like a movement so radical it could undermine everything wizards have strived for for centuries. He goes on about murtlaps, what ingredients they provide, the way to identify how extreme of a reaction one is getting after a bite, how to treat it, and so on. No one openly speaks to him about Grindelwald and his fanatics, least of all the students, and so he keeps his thoughts on the matter to himself; creatures he can debate and defend for hours without fear of convoluting the mind of children, but politics is another matter entirely.

So it's that in mind that when he enters his classroom the following week and all the conversations die immediately, Newt is suspicious. Suspicious and maybe a little nervous, thinking of the last time they had come together and how he'd made sure to use the proper dilution of the Swooping Evil venom. Still, he doesn't comment as he makes his way to the front of the class.

"Alright," he finally says, setting his case on his table. "What were you lot going on about now?"

He expects someone to jump to their feet and tell him bluntly what ridiculous and slightly humorous general consensus they've come to, but no one does. They appear uneasy, a first for Newt. He's become accustomed to their resilience, his Americans, and to see the problems of the world begin to affect them is worrisome.

He takes a stab at the dark, hopes that his assumption isn't completely off, and tries to act as good as a professor Dumbledore was to him. "While I understand worry, you are all completely safe here. There's no reason Ilvermorny would be a target, so there's no use worrying over little nightmares."

From their seats, Charles scoffs, his expression tight, and even Mildred doesn't appear her normal self. The rest grumble and whisper some more, only half-reassured by his words. Even a small chance of disaster can cause dissatisfaction and anxiety within the masses, even if logic spoke otherwise, and children were often more susceptible to it.

It brings back the guilt again, building in the chasm of Newt's chest over what he's done. He's obliviated his own students and then told them to trust in his words despite his lies. None of the situation sits well with him.

That's why Newt decides to give them something to be happy about.

"About the report on dragons…I've given thought on it and decided that it's a smidge to high-level for you all. Best push it back," he says. "You'll have another week."

The mood changes quick enough. There's a loud noise as the entire room exhales in relief. "Thank Merlin!" Emil says, slumping in his seat. All of the back row begin chatting and laughing, while Harriets sniffs, shoving the assignment back into her bag, already done and expected to pass.

"We can go over it, if you like." Most of them find it agreeable while those in the back groan at the impending lecture. They'd wished for a free day, but Newt can't give it to them, not today.

The dragon on the board snorts and huffs, chalky flames rocketting out of its nose, and Newt hopes that this time it won't kick away the words he writes. "Cooperate or it's the eraser for you," he tells it sternly.

His misdirection works and soon enough it's a regular classday. They all gag over the four-compartment stomach and Newt knows that none of them were listening the first time he went through the material. He talks about the time lapse between meals that can extend to months, about the bacteria that grow within the one stomach compartment and which parts of the meal break down first. He's about to go into the excretion of the waste before he realizes that Emil is actually gagging (or doing s good expression of it).

Mildred raises her hand, but doesn't bother to wait to be called on. "What about the discussion on flesh-eating slugs? Can we be excused from that?"

Newt pauses. "Don't push your luck."


Ms. Goldstein is a good listener, a good outlet for Newt when he can't seem to understand. While Hector goes on about his aptitude in wandwork and what it means for possible attackers and Ephedra assures him of the secrets their faculty have up their sleeves in case of emergencies, Newt's more inclined to speak with someone who's more blunt about the situation.

"There's nothing here that Grindelwald would want," she says, just as Newt knew she would. It's good to hear that someone agrees with him. The happenings with the Muggles are strange, but nothing about it spells out the beginning of a revolution. Threatening non-magical people without an apparent reason seems too disorganized and chaotic for the villainous figure. "The school is well-defended and has hidden escape routes through the mountain."

"I didn't know that."

"They're only used as desperate measures."

"Why anyone would want to try a hand at storming a school is beyond me." He leans back in his chair, trying to imagine the scenario. "I wouldn't dare try it myself knowing Hector and Ephedra."

She gives him a sly look. "You've actually thought about it, Mr. Scamander?"

"Yes and no. I don't think I'd get very far. You'd probably stop me before I tried."

Ms. Goldstein seems happy about that.

From there the conversation turns menial before fading into comfortable silence. While Ms. Goldstein is on top of her work, Newt is certainly not. Even striking an assignment from the curriculum hasn't lessened his load as much as he'd like.

Ms. Goldstein examines the collection of texts he's stacked on the bookshelf, most of them foreign and infinitely better than anything the Americas had to offer, one finding her her interest enough for her flip through. Newt lets her go as she pleases while he finishes up on the reports.

"You certainly have quite the variety, Mr. Scamander. I can't even read this."

Newt glances at the book in her hand and recognizes it immediately. "It's in Mandarin."

She squints at the ink black characters that fall in neat columns, then at the rows of leather spines on his shelve. "What else do you speak? French? Chinese? Russian?"

"I'm passable in some of them, yes. It's helpful to know conversational phrases and I've found that most creatures can identify with the dialect most common of their territory."

For some reason Ms. Goldstein finds that funny. "Do you speak Celtic to kelpies? Or do they prefer cockney?"

Newt flushes. "You really don't think my accent is that thick, do you?"

"You're a proper English lad, you are." Ms. Goldstein's imitation is quite atrocious, her words drawled out like that of a cobbler. She puts more enunciation than she should, a waggle to her head, and then spouts random phrases that are nonsensical on their own. "A chip, chip, cheerio."

"Now I know I don't sound like that."

"A little."

He scoffs, but doesn't try to argue with her. He's come live with the jokes on his behalf and even enjoys some of them. "Better than you lot who can't pronounce the simplest of words right. You butcher them. Ske-dule." He grimaces the moment he says it, like he's broken an ancient proverbial rule.

The woman across from him laughs and it's enough to make him forget about what they were originally talking about; he even considers insulting his upbringing and try his hand at a few of the phrases he's heard her say time and again, all with the intention to make he smile. But it passes quicker than he expects and Ms. Goldstein turns away, shaking her head, unaware of the flowery thought that had bloomed in his head. Newt swallows a sigh and returns to his work. He thinks nothing of her scrounging around his things (with his case by his side, there's nothing to worry over) and it's peaceful.

"What's this?" she asks after some time. Newt looks up from his work and he immediately panics at the sight of the little wrapped box in her hands. His chair topples over in his rush to get to her.

"No! Don't—"

Too late, the lid flies off, letting loose a wild grito , loud and prolonged. Ms. Goldstein drops the box with a yelp, but can't escape the lasso that rushes out, fast and efficient and with a mind of its own, and Newt's not quick enough to draw his wand before it ensnares him too. He and Ms. Goldstein collides into one another, the rope happily wrapping around them and tightening until they're snuggly pressed together shoulder to hip.

"Sweet Mary Louis! What is this?" Ms. Goldstein's cheek hits Newt's chin and she tries her free herself like a trapped kneazle, easily making up for Newt lack of initial reaction. She arches her back and he's forced to follow along.

Newt freezes and feels Ms. Goldstein do the same. After the sudden commotion, the room is eerily silent, the snow outside cushioning any kind of noise from the wilderness. Ever so slowly their profiles line up. Newt swallows.

"Mr. Scamander." Her voice is calm, but Newt's not fooled. It spells out trouble for him, whether this inconvenience is his fault or not, and he feels like he's going to be paying for this dearly sooner rather than later. "Explain. Now."

He clears his throat. "It was, um… a gift from Hector."

"A gift?"

"Yes. He said it would, um…" Newt flushes. Snatch a date , Hector had said in the stables. He'd been warned by the man himself and still hadn't figured it out; he only had his own ignorance to blame.

"It would what exactly?"

Their noses brush momentarily and Newt wishes there was more space to move. "I'd rather not say."

Ms. Goldstein curses the man, says a number of incredibly colorful and convoluted things about his family and his wand, and Newt knows there's nothing to save him, professional jokester or not. A woman's wrath is not to be taken likely. "Well, can you please untie us?"

He would if he could, but there's another problem. He flexes his hands, only to discover that they're stuck just above Ms. Goldstein's hips, and he curls his fingers into fists, unwilling to attempt anything remotely improper. "I can't, er, seem to reach my wand."

"You can't—" Ms. Goldstein doesn't have any notion against such things, wriggling against his chest. The movement has them tittering for a horrible moment and Newt thinks that they'll topple over, and then they'll have a different kind of problem. "Oh, this is just great!"

In a worst case scenario, neither of them are able to reach their wands and are forced to wait for someone to come along and released them. That would be all well and good if it were Hector himself, or even Ephedra for that matter (Newt might be able to handle the teasing), but the likeliest possibility is his evening class walking in first, a embarrassing situation for the both of them. Newt might just prefer his current predicament than deal with the lashback of that.

Suddenly Ms. Goldstein's hand presses against the bone of his hip and Newt's body seizes up like he's been hit with a full-body bind. "What are you doing?" His voices comes out higher than he'd like.

"I can't reach my wand, but I think I can reach yours."

"I-I don't think that's necessary—I don't like, um—"

Ms. Goldstein glares at him and there's nowhere to run, nowhere to look but at her. "Do you want to get out of this or not?"

Yes, he'd very much like to 'get out of this,' as she so eloquently put it. That's why he keeps his mouth shut, his eyes averted to the ceiling, and counts to ten. He tries his hardest to ignore the fact that he's pressed against a woman's he's barely met only a few months ago or how Ms. Goldstein's breath is right against the sliver of skin just above his collar.

Ludicrously, the idea to congratulate Hector in his planning springs to mind. How was he to know when Newt and Tina would meet, much less be in the same room when his gift was opened? Better this than with another member of the faculty. Newt's unsure if he's thankful for the scenario or if he'll ever be able to speak to Ms. Goldstein again.

Her brows are furrowed in concentration, her gaze directed somewhere at his jaw as she squeezes her hands through the rope and reaches his holster, and Newt refrains from jerking away and toppling them over himself. A few tries and Ms. Goldstein manages to reach his wand and slip it out of his holster. She waves it only for nothing to happen and groans, and Newt feels the sound very acutely. He has the sense to be apologetic over the uncooperation of his wand. "Go on. Take it."

The touch of her fingers has his tingling. He struggles to remember the right spell until finally , the rope falls to the floor limp with a flick and they immediately step apart. Newt looks at his shoes, unsure of what to say and not particularly inclined to say anything at all. He'd rather just escape to his case and lose himself to his creatures.

Ms. Goldstein wordlessly gathers the box and hands it to him.

"You can, um, say that you found me," he says quietly. "Or maybe it'd be best if we didn't mention this to Hector. He might try again."

He's slightly worried when he notices the redness in her cheeks, coupled with the thunderous expression on her face, the beginnings of a storm about to ravage an unsuspecting port. "I'll deal with him."

Newt's tempted to ask what she plans to do, but is interrupted. He spots something that most definitely isn't snow or a tree through the window. A gaggle of students coming down the mountainside, Mildred leading them like usual.

Ms. Goldstein follows his line of sight and spots them as well, her previous anger melting into panic. She knows just as well as Newt they couldn't possibly pass of the moment as anything other than awkward and neither of them in any shape to act normal in front of a group of children, especially gossiping ones. "You can leave through the greenhouse," he tells her before he realizes it.

A quick glance up from the floor and he catches her eye fleetingly and there's an understanding between them. She reaches out, but seems to rethink what she planned to do. Instead, Newt's given a fleeting smile. "Thank you."

She ducks past his office and through the door just as Newt begins to hear the high voices of his students. He fiddles with the januscope in his pocket and tries to ignore the slight pull he feels that's directing him to follow after.


Newt is heading to dinner when he sees Hector and can only stop and stare at the sight.

Hector genially waves at him as if nothing's wrong. "Ha! I knew it'd work! Did you and Tina cash it for long?"

"Can you please hurry up to the infirmary?" Mr. Hidalgo crosses his arms and glares at the man over his shoulder. He's at least a head shorter and stuck to Hector's back the way he is, his feet barely reach the ground. "I'd like to eat soon."

The westerner ignores the man's complaints. "I expect a detailed tale when I unstick this slug."

"There's nothing to tell," Newt says while Mr. Hidalgo grumbles, offronted. Hector doesn't believe him and Newt accepts that this is one fact he'll never get through.

"She's a real spitfire, ain't she?"

Newt flushes, but doesn't offer a retort. Instead he watches the man hitch his personal hitchhiker higher and proudly make his way down the hall, waving off the jokes the ghosts and portraits throw out. Pickett gives a startled squeak when the rugs pulls themselves out from under him and he stumbles down the stairs.

The students are already starting their meals when Newt sits himself beside Ephedra, who's already in the middle of a discussion about what can be done to make a sticking charm last as long as three days. They don't mention Hector, nor Mr. Hidalgo, but during dessert the man himself comes waltzing into the Hall with his arm slung around the potions professor's shoulders and he takes in the students' applause like a performer during an encore, and it feels as if he's returns from a year-long quest than a trip to the infirmary for a stubborn spell. A man of the people, his easy smile lifts the mood in a way that no one could, isolating this one moment into one more comfortable.

Newt sees the proud gleam in Ms. Goldstein's eyes and thinks that Hector is right about one thing. A real spitfire.


There's a soft knock on the door. Newt unlocks it while remaining at his desk, trying to remember which pile of papers is what and if he's already gone through them or not.

Normally he's not one to stay late and would prefer to retire for the night to go through feeding rounds, preen the feathers Frank can't reach if he has time, but Hector's prank left his more than a little frazzled and unable to focus on much besides the most intense of chores. It reminds him of being stuck at his desk at the Beast Division after a particularly riveting adventure, an imaginary ball and chain that keeps him grounded.

"Evening, Mr. Calderon," he greets as the boy falls unceremoniously onto the stool across from him. Pickett is scampering from one end of the desk to the other, determined to help him locate the list of items he needs to have restocked. "You've been quite busy, I hear. This is your third detention this week."

Robert hums in agreement.

"Hector told me you forwent a duel for fisticuffs. Any particular reason why?"

The boy shrugs. Newt sighs and wonders how he's supposed to connect with him, must less rehabilitate him and bring out the obedient child within when he himself is still desperately holding onto the troublemaker within and the freedom it represents.

"It was an unfair advantage, but the kid was as wild as a bucking griffin," Hector had said about the disagreement. Newt thinks back to his old school days and the problems that he faced at the expense of their peers, recalling the names and rumors that Leta faced with a stubborn vengeance and a dangerous disregard for safety. Bullies, it seemed, were universal.

"I was never one for fights—that's not to say I didn't have one once in awhile—usually out of my control. I wasn't the most popular chap—something to do with my less than normal personality… that and my odd habit of dissecting horklumps and the like." He finds his list under a stack of ungraded papers meant for the fifth years (he would have to look at those at some point). "Was this fight about something particular?"

Arms crossed, Robert glares at the side wall. "This sap in Potions wouldn't pipe down about something he didn't know anything about. When he didn't stop, I got him right in the kisser."

Newt considers the answer, head bobbing from side to side. "I can't say I condone your actions, nor can I say violence is never the answer—for, in some species, it is—but might I offer some advice?"

The boy still doesn't look his way, but nods nonetheless.

"It's been my experience that as long as there are people on this earth, there will be fools eager to talk about how they know best." Newt thinks of his past classmates, his fellow colleagues, and, sometimes, even his family. "And, well, if we stopped our lives to confront every individual who thought themselves better, then we wouldn't have much time to live at all, now would we?"

Robert twists forward suddenly, face passionate. "You don't know what he was saying, Professor! He had no right—"

"He had every right to speak his mind, just as you do. It's both a curse and blessing—having the freedom to speak whatever we wish." He tries to appease the boy with a smile. "We mustn't let their words get to us."

"Aren't you… don't you worry about what other people might say? What they think of you?"

"My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice. I won't allow myself to suffer because of words that may or may not be true." No more, he tells himself.

Robert doesn't respond, merely glaring at the ground, and Newt doesn't speak.

He doesn't mind the silence. Past experience has taught him that he'll get an answer if he's patient and, although Robert is not an angry bowtruckle, Newt assumes that the situation is similar enough. He takes the time to look at the last of his papers, reports on the effect of spells on magical creatures; most of them are adequate, a few going above and beyond his expectations for a simple assignment. He marks them accordingly, waiting.

"Professor…" There is a hesitation in Robert's words, as if saying them will release a bomb upon them. "What do you think about Grindelwald?"

Newt pauses, but only for second. He starts back up quickly, but not fast enough to roll past the moment. "I assume this was what the argument was about?" he asks, focusing on the remark he writes on a less than thought out essay. Besides the scratch scratch of his quill, the sounds of the forest outside are almost silent. "Questioning the loyalties of others."

"Yes," Robert answers, face going frantic in the moments leading up to their shared eye contact. "I wasn't… I mean… you know…"

He does not know, but takes a guess anyway. "I'm not one of Grindelwald's fanatics, Mr. Calderon, if that's what you're asking."

The boy stutters, embarrassed. "I-I didn't…"

"It's quite alright. I understand—tensions are high and no one is safe from inquiry, even students."

Newt sets aside the rest of the papers, abandoning the work in favor of something more physical. With his list in his hands, he scrounges around the classroom for the supplies.

"We'll be feeding Chizpurfles to the venomous tentacula today. Collecting the regurgitated shells will be relatively simple—now, picking off some leaves, that will pose a real challenge." After some contemplation, he snags a small medical kit from the shelf. "After that, I'll make us some tea and we can talk more about this boy from potions—"

Robert grimaces.

"—or would an extra lesson on carnivorous plants be more of an interest?"

The boy smiles and Newt can't help but give one in return.

"I thought so."


His conversation with Robert was a warning, yet Newt doesn't heed it.

There's schism between the student body and, while there's no obvious division or rivalry, it only worsens as the days go by. Hector and Mr. Hidalgo's temporary attachment lifted spirits, the good mood lasting longer than Newt might expect, but it doesn't overshadow reality. The students aren't stupid to the going ons of the world, can't be calmed and swayed with candies and laughs for all their childhood years.

Newt tries to keep up the facade that everything is just as it's always been, if only to help with the Headmistress's united front. He's supposed to be the authority figure, the person who the students look to in times of crisis and, while that's quite a big leap for him, he tries to take a note from his brother. Aurors were often hypocritical slaves to the law, but they did organize and keep numbers under intense situations with the right leader, and Newt has to grudgingly applaud them on their efficiency (not that he'll ever tell Theseus that).

Except sometimes things don't turn out the way they're supposed to no matter how determined one might be. That there's nothing he can do to stop a collision course with the unwanted future because no matter what he does, he can't control it or the people that inhabit it. They're unknown variables in a complex equation, ones that don't act as he does and doesn't see what he sees. Sometimes people don't like how he sees the world and it makes his view of wizardkind a little less kind with every clash.

It starts with an innocent question.

Newt's walking around class as his students finish their write-ups on the reproduction system of marmites, offering help and direction when needed, and stops at one table in particular. Mildred, for all her fire and confidence, is the least artistic person he's ever met; if he squints carefully, Newt assumes her drawing is that of lobalug, if a bit deranged-looking. It's one of their calmer sessions, a relaxing day for them all in face of the tension that plagues the school, but Newt should know that things don't always go according to plan, least of all for him.

Charles is the least involved in the class (even less than Estella), so it's a surprise he willingly brings up a personal inquiry. "Professor, what creature would require more bulk for feeding: dragons or manticores?"

Newt does a string of calculations in his head for the question being asked, making personal assumptions, and comes to the answer fairly quickly. "That would be dragons."

"But you told us they only eat once a month."

"Yes, but they are rather ravenous. They're often used in wizard warfare," he says, "but the fact is dragons almost always try to eat their handlers. Whether or not they can go without food for weeks, they prefer to be fed more frequently."

"Have you worked with dragons before?"

"During the war, yes. I was with the dragon division working with Ukrainian Iron Bellies. Eastern front." This tidbit of information isn't new, already come up when they first started on the discussion of the fiery beasts, but he supposes that not everyone was listening. "They were sent to a reserve when it was disbanded."

"So they aren't used for that sort of stuff anymore?"

Newt grimaces. "Well, there are still some settlements where Iron Bellies are being trained. There's a belief they can be tamed and ridden by wizards."

"Can they?"

Newt thinks back on his days with Corps and the trouble he came across with his superiors. "Tamed? No. Ridden? Occasionally."

There's some murmuring at that, the possibility and recklessness of such a feat as riding a dragon a sort of thrilling fantasy. He even considers diverging a story about crossing Czechoslovakia in a nighttime flight, but thinks better of it.

Not everyone considers the positives of riding man-eating creatures. Charles takes the more realistic route of thinking. "Rumor has it Grindelwald's looking for magical creatures." It's abrupt and blunt.

At the infamous man's name, there's gasps. There's no taboo against speaking of Gellert Grindelwald, but there's a general consensus that no one's to speak his name else bring up disputes and mismatching opinions. Newt feels it as well, the ill will the string of words present, and is momentarily shocked at the abrupt turn the conversation took. "I'm well aware of the rumors, Mr. Trimble. But still, rumors are rumors, seldom holding but a grain of truth."

Mildred appears tense, blatantly glaring at Charles, but says nothing before turning back to her work. Newt offers her a copy of his own notes, especially the illustrations he'd drawn, and hopes that she can copy as best as she can by the end of the class. A quick look at the rest of his students and most of them go back to their work, albeit a little more distracted. Charles does not.

Newt doesn't say anything more and let's the boy mull over his thoughts, hoping that he reaches a conclusion after class is finished and that it's not entirely violent in nature.

Humanity is like a coin, Newt thinks, able to flip with an easy toss. Good to bad, friend to foe. He has hope, he really does. He hopes the world will change for the greater good. He hopes he can show his fellow wizards that not everything unknown and a nuisance has to be eradicated, but knows that he has to start from the bottom up. Start with the small things and slowly show that there's nothing to fear, from the grumpiest of kneazles to the rowdiest of nundus.

Like many of his hopes, reality has a habit of dashing them.

"How many hands would they need to control half a dozen of dragons?"

"I wouldn't know." These questions feel like a interrogation and would like nothing more for them to be past it and onto more important and safe subjects. They're currently behind schedule, so the quicker they get back to the assignment at hand, the more time he has to teach (and the quicker this class can be over). "As far as I'm aware, they don't see my profession as all that important."

Newt has never ignored that fact that his work and love of creatures are seen as less than to most wizards, Gellert Grindelwald undoubtedly included; he's never met the man (nor does he want to), but what limited preaching he's heard in the passing and blaring from newspaper print that Grindelwald and his followers have adopted makes it clear that those with a voice care not for those who lack it. What's disheartening is the fact that it's being taken to by so many who don't know better and he can only assume—hope that fear is the cause.

"Could he get by with less? If the hands were good at what they do?"

"I don't think so," he says. "Even if Grindelwald wanted to keep dragons, it wouldn't be through natural means. There were rumors concerning the treatment of magical creatures during the war on the Western Front. Many of of them were under the imperius curse, forced to fight."

"That'd be an easy way to capture them, wouldn't it?" Charles insists. "Just cast the curse and keep at it from there?"

"What?" Newt blinks, not understanding. "I-I wouldn't know…"

"Charles! Quit it," someone hisses urgently, except Newt doesn't know what's happening. He thinks he's missing something, like all the children know what's really being said, but won't tell him. The underlying meaning is overshadowed by the unsettling inquiries.

Despite the warning, Charles continues unhindered. "It'd be best for everyone if they were controlled, wouldn't it? I'm sure lots of dragonologists do it and lie to not get caught."

The words ring similar to a old memory, bringing him back to the Eastern Front and with an assemble of men and women who didn't care for the creatures they were using. Newt remembers fighting tooth and nail against their cruel recommendations, tired on the flimsy line of what was justified as inhumane when concerning dragons, ignoring their reasons. It's best for everyone, they'd say, they're just beasts. The setting and people are different, but the feeling he gets is the same.

Newt has the sudden desire to organize his herbs, and he does just that. It's an easy escape from facing his students. "Magical creatures aren't humans—they're wilder, running on instinct. Even under the curse, getting them to obey wouldn't come without problems. They would be fighting back every step of the way and their handlers would most likely be covered with injuries showing just that. Dragonologists get burned on a good day, so you can imagine how dealing with a cursed dragon is like."

"You don't look like you have a lot of burns, Professor. How did you deal with dragons?"

Newt feels himself freeze, a frozen statue of a man he doesn't know. Needles prick his muscles, stabbing mercilessly at his heart in the hopes of its failure; it doesn't break, no matter how much he wants it to, but it does splinter. Cracks of grief mark him, hurting him with the implication of those words.

They are his creatures and he loves them; loves them with all his being, has done so since he was just a small boy grasping at his mother's skirt as she feeds her beloved hippogriffs. He can't blame them for the pain they give, not when they don't mean it—for that is another reason to love them. The scars are what make them his , and just the thought of returning them, of raising a hand against—

"Class dismissed."

The room is silent. It's so odd and jarring that Newt's almost regretful he uttered the words. Almost, but not quite. Charles' mouth is open, tirade cut and forced back down his throat with Newt's sudden showing of backbone. Eyes from every angle stare at him and there is confusion, but also shock. They hadn't thought he would fight back.

"But we've still got half an hour left!"

"You were going to show us the fire crabs by the pond!"

He tries for a smile, but fails spectacularly. "Maybe another day."

Not bothering to gather his papers, or clean up for that matter, Newt grabs his suitcase. To leave his students unattended in a classroom would be an infringement on school policy, but that's not something he cares about right now. The desire to escape hasn't been this strong since his expulsion; he feels the same, ashamed, unable to look anywhere but the ground, suffocating under the presence of people he doesn't want to be near.

So he leaves.