The Constitutions of a Good Man

by Momento Virtuoso

Harry Potter thought his story ended in the Forbidden Forest. But when he wakes up, he's not at King's Cross—he's in a time he's only seen in photographs. Trapped in an unfamiliar past, Harry must navigate a new reality where every choice could change everything. New chapters are posted twice a month. AU. Time-travel. Currently on Book 1. Formerly: The Tragedy of Harry Potter

15. The Pieces and Where They Lie

A/N: Happy New Year, Everyone! I am alive and still writing. Few housekeeping notes. We have a new beta/editor in Menaka, who has done a wonderful job picking up where BoredBarrister left us off. First and foremost, I'm changing the title of the fic to "The Constitutions of a Good Man". This is the project title I have been using for the story. After writing up to 85% of book one, I decided the change needed to happen for at least readers who will only be getting 1 posting of the story. It will still be The Tragedy of Harry Potter though on page because that is the current book we're on.

I don't own HP unlike J.K.

AU Changes: Canon-character changes. OC Characters. Wizarding World & Fantastic Beast timeline.

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The Tragedy of Harry Potter

By. Momento Virtuoso

Edited by: BoredBarrister & Menaka

Chapter 15

The Pieces and Where They Lie

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Hogwarts,
September, 1977

Creon paced in the space in front of Dumbledore's desk, etching a groove into the floor, clenching and unclenching different parts of his body in fury.

On the Headmaster's desk sat an early edition of the Daily Prophet of the following morning, announcing the passing of the Militia Empowerment and Wand Deregulation Act proposed by Abraxas Malfoy. It was a time bomb of massive proportions, lying inert amongst the cluttered mass of Dumbledore's personal effects.

However, it was a few lines of words printed in the ink which were the source of Creon's fury: a damnation of the Hogwarts staff, words which incriminated Albus Dumbledore of concealing four more attacks entirely along with breaking news about Jeanne Wilkes's condition in St. Mungo's. But it was a lie. They had reported the attacks to the Board and they had reported the two missing students as well, but not a word was mentioned of Josephius Avery's or Brutus Mulciber's disappearance.

The print displayed a picture of Albus Dumbledore front and center, sitting calmly during the morning's session at the Wizengamot meeting, as if unbothered. The image dominated the page, larger than any other, even overshadowing the death of an Auror in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Below that, as if anchored together, was an interview from Abraxas Malfoy himself, stating how Dumbledore had concealed the new attacks in the school from the board of trustees in a bid to preserve his reputation after being dismissed from presiding over the Wizengamot two weeks ago. Malfoy's interview had somehow beat out his own legislation from making the front-page, with the whole world wanting to see some kind of stain on the world-renowned wizard's robes.

Creon stopped to glare at the Headmaster. "Albus, by morning, the whole of Britain, the colonies, and the rest of the wizarding world will believe you turned a blind eye to the students under our charge—your responsibilities!" Creon shouted. He turned an accusatory finger at the old man, pinning the blame firmly on Dumbledore's chest like a badge. "And you want to do nothing? Not even announce that we reported the four attacks yesterday? Not even an official statement how you are doing everything in your power to protect these students from future attacks?!"

Dumbledore's face was an expressionless mask. The electric blue eyes were concealed behind half crescent glasses that gave away nothing. Creon, however, made no effort to hide his emotions behind such a masquerade.

"Creon, my dear boy—" Dumbledore started before being silenced by a stern glare from the man. It was clear he did not want to hear another excuse.

"We're no fools, Albus. So please do not maintain the farce for my sake—you know damn well in this room I don't have to pretend to like you, nor you to like me. We aren't friends—so let us not maintain whatever pretense this is," Creon snapped and gestured between himself and Albus, sneering at the old man's kind, grandfatherly façade.

"Now, my dear boy—" Dumbledore began.

"No! Don't— Don't you dare! Don't even think of calling me 'my dear boy' one more time, you quack of a warlock!" Creon cursed, throwing his hands up in frustration. The kelpie etched on his arm remained still for once, watching the Headmaster now intently. "You lost that right many years ago," Creon said bitterly, poisoned by old wounds which festered from the very praise of the man before him.

Dumbledore shook his head. Gone was the quiet and shy boy he once stood beside in this very office.

"Creon, set aside your animosity towards me for a moment and trust in my guidance. You have in the past," Dumbledore reminded the man, watching Creon's scars seemingly pulse underneath his beard as he stewed.

"You have my loyalty, Albus. But trust in your guidance? Don't make me laugh. Why in the name of Morgana should I trust a single decision you make of my own freewill? How could I even do such a thing?" Creon stressed the question.

Dumbledore nodded. "Quite so. But what would you have me do? Abraxas has used his power and influence quite convincingly against me, and you'd have me—what exactly? Give him more spellfire to launch from his advantageous position?" Dumbledore finished, irking Creon further with the analogy. It seemed as if the Headmaster purposely tried to find new ways to crawl under his skin.

Creon bristled. "I would have had you take statements on the record from both Black and Evans, published statements that exist further than the realm of casual conversation! Then the same from Jennings and Bones when they wake too! Official statements—Albus. For Godric's sake—they're casting Unforgivables! On children! It's not a speculation of ours anymore! We needed ironclad evidence that the Board couldn't dismiss! Witness statements that Malfoy couldn't bury under a mountain of galleons and whatever bodies he stored in his closet. Once again, you let the man outplay you! But this time you do so by stepping away from the board!" Creon accused. "Better yet, you could have placed Aurors around the school! But no—Merlin forbid you let go of your paranoia about Ministry interference!"

Dumbledore shook his head. "If you think that approach would have been warded against Malfoy's influence then I'm afraid—you're wrong. If we had gone to anyone with that sort of evidence… well, I'm afraid the Board of Trustees would be lacking a few members as of tonight—perhaps even a department or two within the Ministry itself without a head if they opened an investigation," Dumbledore paused for a moment, taking his time to trace a finger over the black ink of the paper before him. He ignored the final comments for just a moment. "We are not dealing with dark wizards prowling the halls but, as you said before, children," Dumbledore pressed a firm finger onto his desk.

Creon bristled at Dumbledore, angry at the Headmaster twisting his words.

"This is the mastermind of lurking shadows, promoting children to commit deplorable violence amongst themselves, driving them to an edge to accomplish their goals. These attacks are not the works of master assassins… but children. How is it that every other lord and their heirs who have been reported missing have either been found deceased or remain missing, but the three in our custody are alive… and relatively whole?" Dumbledore asked.

"One is suffering nerve damage and the other is missing a quarter of her bones, regrowing them as we speak! I wouldn't claim either is 'relatively whole', Albus. It's a bloody miracle we don't have five Wilkes-like cases. We still have a culprit! In this castle! They will strike again!" Creon scoffed, derisively.

Dumbledore shook his head, sighing deeply as he stroked his beard.

"No, I do not believe they will. As it stands, their accomplices have vanished. Whoever they are will either be cowed or stood down by the real masterminds of their plot. It is simply a matter of finding them in the lull," Dumbledore stated.

Creon could hardly believe his ears. "Are you truly that ignorant? What reckless game are you playing, you daft man?! You've been outmaneuvered at every damn turn; backed into this corner! You fucking bumbled into Malfoy's trap the first time and now you're willing the second? Now, you expect—what? For it to somehow go differently this time?" Creon threw his arms out in exasperation, sending the kelpie tattoo on his arm into a momentary panic.

Dumbledore shook his head, looking towards the bustling silver instruments on his desk for a moment.

"We have discussed the victims at some length, but have seldom spoken truthfully of the perpetrators," Dumbledore stated, as if addressing an academic topic. "If we had caught Messrs Avery and Mulciber—if we were to catch their third member or any other—what would you do? As I said before, we are dealing with children… not assassins. Misguided children, much like young soldiers who follow their marching orders. Where does the blame truly lie? With the general or the individual soldier?" Dumbledore softly spoke, awaiting for Creon's response.

Creon paused in his immolating rage to stare hatefully at Dumbledore. "Don't—don't you dare turn this argument down that road. It's not the same," he spat.

Dumbledore raised a skeptical eyebrow at the man. "I should think it's exactly the same. I would have thought, of all people, you would understand—"

Creon jumped to his feet, his face red in rage, stretching the whites of his scars on his cheeks.

"IT'S NOT! I—" Creon jabbed his thumb into his chest. "—WAS IN A WAR!" The Defense Professor chuckled in confusion at the man who employed him. "We're in a time of peace… they don't have oaths. They made no vow to follow the command of a governing body, or an appointed general to wade through spell fire. There are no oaths—not to the blooming Queen or country. This is Hogwarts, sir! Not the bloody Battle of the Somme." Like a bull, Creon bellowed his next words outward. "There's no war! Not here!"

"No, you're quite right. It is not that kind of war… but yet it is still, in a way, a war of the mind. Would you have preferred me to imprison them rather than render them aid? If we can divert their current paths, Creon, is that not a noble cause to harbor a little suffering?" Dumbledore gestured to the newspaper before him. "They need not be damned—not yet, at least. There is still time for them so we must take advantage to seize it."

Creon pressed his nose between two fingers, sighing in frustration. "Blessed Eulalia on a cross, Albus! Martyrdom suits you quite well, Albus—a fitting cloak for your character. You're so keen to prevent a witch-hunt that you'll do nothing about the one at your own door! You'd make yourself to be a live morsel for Malfoy to consume—and for what?!" Creon shouted, slamming his hand down on the desk. The man clenched his jaw, as disappointment and anger surged through his veins at the old man's lack of reaction. He couldn't agree to such an end. "Jeanne Wilkes is braindead! You'd rather her tormentors never see justice, and instead you'd hold a torch of redemption for them?!"

He looked ready to leap over the desk to throttle the Headmaster. There was a piece of him buried with all his resentment that wanted to lash out. Creon's hand twitched at the thought of it. He stepped away from the Headmaster in frustration before doing something he might regret.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, I do not think that Miss Wilkes, or any of the other victims, should be denied their justice—but rather, that we do not hastily damn the actions of children," the Headmaster stressed once more.

"So, you'd rather damn yourself? The integrity of this institution? My integrity and that of every other faculty member living here under your charge?" Creon questioned.

Fawkes's beady eyes watched the Defense Professor warily, feathers ruffling at the agitation filling the room. A warning cry left the bird's beak to smother the emotion and while Dumbledore felt refreshed by the firebird's call, Creon refused to let the tension go. The kelpie adorning Renault's arm watched the bird just as warily, its long tail curling on itself as if ready to leap from the man's skin. Neither man paid any heed to the two creatures sizing each other up.

"I'm pleased to hear that you are concerned about my reputation in society, and that of the school as a whole, Creon. Have we truly grown on you in your short time back?" Dumbledore quipped, taking a candy from the bowl on his desk and popping one in his mouth, watching Creon intently. "Concern for my reputation, however, I think, is rather—shall we say, unnecessary. I, while not untouchable, only require my space in the Chocolate Frog series to live contentedly."

Creon growled. "Be serious, Albus! This isn't an optional matter, it is one necessary! This is about the students! Our charges! Children for Merlin's sake—not whatever your public image is for the week!" Creon argued. "Have you truly considered the consequences? The far-reaching political ones? We have students from Ireland in our charge. What happens when the Irish Ministry comes to our door, claiming we are unfit to protect them? Or worse, if they lay blame at our feet? Would you be the reason a fifty-year ceasefire goes up in smoke?" Creon begged Dumbledore to see reason.

Dumbledore hummed to himself, nodding a few times as he considered the query. "I have concluded this. While I did not reach out to the Board for their own safeties I did reach out to my counterpart in the Irish Ministry, Alannah Fey. Mistress Fey met with me… which was quite surprising even to me." Dumbledore recounted to the wide-eyed Creon. "Some hours ago, after the Wizengamot hearing, I ventured to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and International Cooperation. I heard conversations between several concerned voices to the effect that the Irish Ministry was not answering any owl in regards to the suspicion that they had carried out attacks on some of the other lords and heirs. To my surprise, when I approached Mistress Fey about this," Dumbledore paused as if wrapping a bow-tie on the news. "She spoke of never once even hearing the names of the lords and heirs, specifically the Barclay Twins who have yet to be found, alive or dead. I was curious if they had been taken hostage by the Magical portion of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, who have cells active in areas of Scotland," Dumbledore revealed.

Creon's anger dissipated, leaving him exposed, as if stripped bare by a harsh wind. "The Irish… Abraxas—Fucking—Malfoy is attempting to play a political game of cat and mouse… and frame the fucking Irish? Is he mad?! I fought the bastards in the war! They'd make a Pepper-Up Potion burn you from the inside out…"

"I fear so," Dumbledore sighed with a nod as he removed his glasses from his crooked nose to clean them with the edge of his robe. "But I have done my best to assure Mistress Fey of Britain's commitment to maintaining the status quo. I have long advocated for an official peace with Ireland, but neither side seems ready to sit down for such a venture yet. Is it not odd how time seemingly heals no wounds?" Dumbledore asked Creon, like one would over tea.

"Speak of simpler matters, you loon," Creon moaned.

"Unfortunately, Creon, it is not a simple matter. No, it is one of intense complexity. These attacks within our school, the deregulation of wands, the tensions with Ireland—all of it is connected, Creon. Malfoy may be the face of most but he is not the mastermind of them all. That is a different snake altogether," Dumbledore stated, quite sure of himself.

Creon's face twisted at Dumbledore. "This isn't a riddle… whatever, this is Albus! It's not some puzzle box which can't be solved by anyone except clever old you! Master or no master, it doesn't matter, not to me. This is about real lives, children's lives! Lives that you are playing coy with. This all seems rather simple to me."

Dumbledore couldn't help the small smirk which broke across his lips at the word 'riddle', no matter how hard he fought to suppress it.

Creon's eyes, honed by years of experience in violent duels and war, caught the slight movement. It only stoked the fire deeper into his gut.

"As I said, Creon. A careful hand must be played against opponents such as these. They play a worthy game—one which takes calculation and consideration, for all the pieces, whether they are willing or not," Dumbledore stressed.

"You plot for too long… and for what? In the name of what?! How do you justify fighting greater evil at the cost of children?! Children, Albus! Mere children!" A bitter venom oozed off of Creon's tongue.

"YOU PLOT FOR TOO LONG!" Creon beat his chest fiercely, spittle flying from his lips. "How many years? How many years did you sit in this very school, like it was an ivory tower when you should have been out there on the continent fighting against Grindelwald where children- need I remind you-were dying?!"

Creon finally lashed out, standing, he seized the nearest object on the desk to him, a smoking vial of some mysterious liquid which glowed on and off. The Defense Professor lobbed it at the shelves, where it splattered, eating away at the bindings of potentially valuable books.

"Now, Creon. That is not fair a comparison," Dumbledore defended. He didn't even turn his head at the vandalization of his office.

A growl rumbled deep in Creon's throat as the kelpie on his arm swelled, its mane of weeds spreading across his arm like creeping ivy.

"Oh, that's a fair assessment, Albus. It's also one too kind for a man like you. Do I have to remind you that I was practically the same age as those hospitalized boys we spoke to earlier? A child fighting in a war that you could have ended any time you wished. All you had to do was step forward and do something," Creon retorted bitterly. The horrors of his time on the Continent bubbled just under his skin. He often had nightmares that were kinder to journey through than the actual reality he had survived. "You would rather save, who? Criminals? More than innocents? You would rather defend the damned in some pitiful act of self-atonement than perform the obligation—WHICH YOU HAVE BEEN ENTRUSTED—to defend the helpless. Well?" Creon asked, gesturing at Dumbledore, demanding he defend or justify his behavior but Dumbledore sat mutely behind his desk.

"It's the same now as it was then, you playing your little game of wizard chess with opponents only you seem to be able to triumph over. And heaven forbid your pieces, like myself, don't move to your liking across the board. Stop playing with the pieces—move yourself for once! You'd rather anyone but yourself get your hands dirty… and that's why Bones and Jennings are still comatose. Whatever happens to them, that's on you, Albus. Not their attackers, not anymore."

Creon began his pacing again in the rut he had been shaping earlier in front of the desk, tearing a trench into the floor like a desperate soldier bracing for shellfire.

"What else would you have had me do then, Creon? What you liken to a game, I call strategy. Rash choices may win battles, but they also lose wars." Dumbledore stated coldly as he gestured to the unpublished article before him and then between the two of them.

"Strategy—rash? I wouldn't have you be strategic or rash! I'd have you be kind! To the victims! But instead, you're more benevolent to their tormentors," Creon accused. "They may be children but Albus at some point responsibility and justice must be demanded! Unforgivables," Creon reminded the Headmaster dramatically. "There is no innocence there, not anymore. Not in that."

"Creon, we are not just dealing with students going awry… but a whole ideology led by someone with clear intentions to pervert and twist our society!" Dumbledore shouted, growing frustrated with the Professor and his attacks on his character. Dumbledore wanted the irate man to see the larger picture across his desk.

Creon shook his head, tired of hearing the old man's theories.

"Oh Merlin, here we go again. Pureblood supremacy! It's an old game, Albus, no matter the name behind it be they—Gaunts, Rosiers, or Malfoys. It's just the same hydra, rearing another new and more ugly head. Creon exclaimed. "There is no new Dark Lord in the shadows behind this one!" Creon said firmly.

Dumbledore's eyes lost some light, taking a more serious edge to them. 'He can't be blamed— he's spent so many years running from this land. He doesn't know of the pox that has come to flourish here,' the Headmaster thought.

"Creon, there is a Dark Lord! A mastermind who has infiltrated the recent movement and picked up where Grindelwald left off! Whether we wish it or not, we are at war," Dumbledore began, but Creon slammed both his fists down on the desk, rattling the smoking and tinkering silver instruments which adorned it once more.

"If so, then it is not our war! Surely it is not mine! Let the Unionists throw spellfire against the Irish too while they are all at it," he insisted.

Despite the Headmaster's efforts, Creon refused to believe him—or to act on his behalf. He wouldn't go to war again for the man in front of him.

"Our time is over, Albus. Let it go. The world the next generation broke after Grindelwald isn't ours to fix. Even if so—what does it matter to me? I've been traveling the deserts, jungles, and mountains of the world for the last twenty-five years. The world passed me by a long time ago."

"Do you not believe that we still possess a duty to those who have come after us? To preserve the world, Creon?" Dumbledore asked, hoping to plant a seed.

Creon only sighed, shaking his head in frustration.

"I'm a muggle-born, Albus, proud and true. Let the purebloods wage their wars—they'll realize, eventually, that they need Muggles-borns to survive. Across the pond, the Magical Congress is already learning this, and in the Far East, China's Wizarding Council works alongside its own Muggle counterpart. If this war promotes a better world for the future of Muggle-borns and Half-bloods, who am I to argue against it? Change will come, Albus. Eventually," Creon said with certainty.

The Headmaster tapped his fingers on his desk, his eyes flickering to the magical instruments. Many sat scattered in disarray across his desk. The old wizard considered what he knew to be true; he thought of revealing more to the irate professor and weighed the pros and cons of the information, the cards he had kept close to his chest.

Perhaps he needn't reveal the whole hand, not yet. Not this early in their game. 'He's bound—he has no choice,' Albus thought, torn between regret and conviction. He wanted to spare the man pain, but it couldn't be helped.

"Perhaps you are right," Dumbledore muttered thoughtfully but the Headmaster shook his head finally at Creon's morose view. "It would promote the change we both wish for in the world. But if so, I must ask, how many healing spells are you willing to cast to mend such a broken thing?" Dumbledore asked with a shift in tone from questioning to knowing.

"How—do you know? Argh! Damn you, old man! Fine. I'll humor you and play your game." Creon wanted to shove the Headmaster's theory down Dumbledore's throat instead. "If what you say is true, then this is just another vendetta you're picking with a new Dark Lord! If you're so steadfast against them, Fight them like the last one and be done with it! Don't drag the rest of us along with you, glutton for despair." Creon declared, growing tired of the supreme sorcerer's verbal machinations.

Dumbledore sighed to himself. 'Another card it is, then.' he thought.

"It would appear that would be a level course of action but, alas, it is not only my fight," Dumbledore claimed, meeting his fellow professor's eyes. "I did not summon you or indenture you to this school to fill a position that I could not manage. You were brought back because if this was ever anyone's fight, it would be yours, first and foremost. More than any others, even myself."

"Albus—what in the nine-circles of Hell are you on about?" Creon questioned skeptically, seeing the sincere regret in the Headmaster.

"The Dark Lord I fear… you know him, Creon." Dumbledore said, meeting the professor's gaze. His voice grew heavy, each word carefully weighed. "Personally, I dare say."

Creon's mind raced, his thoughts stumbling over themselves. He didn't know who it was nor did he want to believe the old man, but something in Dumbledore's eyes, that damned regret, gnawed at him. He tried to remember every face from his time at Hogwarts—any wizard who could have broken bad but none came to mind.

You both share many qualities. Much like yourself, his world and prospects did not extend past the walls of an orphanage until my arrival. But you also share a history—there is no easy way to say this," Dumbledore swallowed. "You are perhaps attached to one of the first casualties of this war, having lost something long before its formal declaration." Dumbledore confessed.

Not knowing what to make of the Headmaster's revelation, Creon narrowed his eyes as his back his arm, the Kelpie's gaze shifted to one of curiosity, its head torquing to the side. "Stop with the double speech, you two-headed snake! That could mean nothing. I went to school with hundreds, thousands of other students. Tell me a name or drop the subject," Creon hissed in warning. How Dumbledore had ever ended up as a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin, he could not fathom.

"Earlier, you mentioned the word 'Riddle'. I, myself, solved one just recently." Dumbledore quipped, pushing his glasses up his crooked nose. "It's a name I unearthed, not long before I sought your return to the castle."

Creon huffed and dropped into the chair before the Headmaster's desk, weary of pacing.

"Would it kill you to ever speak plainly? Please do so now, for my sake, but more so for yours," Creon wondered if he could draw his wand on Dumbledore before being blasted into the Floo System.

Dumbledore nodded to Creon, his fingers sweeping across the desk. In their wake, a stack of papers materialized, seemingly conjured from thin air. Creon could see the old printed writing across several. Some bore magical insignias, rich with ornate flourishes, while others were plainly muggle, their lettering simple and unadorned: a letter from a matron at an orphanage in London, a baptistry paper from a church, then various magical documents pertaining to O.W.L scores, N.E.W.T.S, a letter of Recognition from the current Potions Professor, Horace Slughorn, and even one from the former Headmaster, Dippet.

"Your name," Dumbledore said simply, gesturing toward the pile.

Creon shifted through the papers, lifting each one up and scrutinizing the print and handwritten notes of authenticity. He picked up a document, a birth certificate stamped by Wool's Orphanage, with the hand-scrawled letterings of 'Tom Morvolo Riddle'.

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"When I retrieved young Mr. Riddle from Wool's Orphanage in London, I hoped he might be like you. You were already through your first year by then. Such promise…" Dumbledore whispered, his voice soft with regret, as he recalled the image of a cruel young boy who claimed trophies of his victims. Tom Riddle had been a stark contrast to the man sitting across from him now. "I made a grievous error of judgment that day, and that seems to be an error I've been doomed to always repeat."

Creon shook his head in exasperation. "Why in Parnassus would you believe that? That I was a good model for orphaned wizards and witches, Albus? I couldn't even figure out Owl-post for three years—I couldn't even manage spell casting back then."

Creon felt more self-conscious than he had in years. Though world-renowned for his exploits, he had grown into someone unrecognizable from the certain child he once was. Except now Creon wasn't sure if he was that man any longer or something new and void entirely. He wanted nothing more than to retreat into the shadows of the room.

"Because, Creon, despite everything, you have always been, at your core, kind—even on your darkest days. That is more true now than it was then," Dumbledore smiled softly at Creon. For a moment the image of the man blurred into one much younger. "Riddle—he does not possess such a gift. Not even the faintest trace of it. He is not kind and he offers no humility. He knows nothing of their soft and harsh lessons and because of this, he is cruel, unrelentingly so," Dumbledore stated. "That is why I trust you now, as I did back then, even without saying so. As I told you by Miss Wilkes' beside—you have always been the right choice to defend the innocent."

Creon couldn't help but feel the fire and ice for the man's praise. Warmth for ever being shown such commitment but disgust in equal measure for receiving it from Dumbledore of all people.

"Albus, there's something I—" Creon tried to confess.

Dumbledore waved him off. "None of that. Whatever it is, I forgive you. Let us not waste time on such things," he said, turning back to the stack of papers before him.

The Headmaster, however, had no patience for Creon's brooding.

"I did not know what Tom would become but even during his time here in the castle there were… shall I say, rumblings?" Dumbledore mused thoughtfully. "The title of 'Lord Voldemort' was one spoken inside these very foundations in his later years. I looked into the hearsay and gossip at the time—but ,of course, I found nothing incriminating. I was only led to a group of clandestine upper class Slytherins, each of them an heir to a Noble and Most Ancient House, except for their ringleader. They fashioned for themselves an order of sorts, much like the Christian military orders which populated muggle society in prior centuries. The 'Knights of Walpurgis', they called themselves. Named after an extinct pagan celebration on top of Mount Brocken in Germany, where witches and wizards once gathered to plan evil deeds—usually targeting Muggles, Muggle-borns, and other purebloods with whom they had feuds." Dumbledore explained. Stretching his hand out, he summoned a book from across the room.

Creon's eyes scanned the yellow-tanned pages which showed illustrations of naked witches and wizards dancing and celebrating as they bathed in the light of their bonfires and the moon. "They named themselves after a ritual that's been dead for nearly three centuries?" Creon frowned thoughtfully.

"Another head of the hydra," Dumbledore chuckled, closing the book before them.

"Tom Riddle. I only ever knew one Tom Riddle. He was an insufferable little twerp. Decent enough before I left, but by the time I returned as World Champion, he'd become something else entirely, hadn't he?" Creon grunted tensely, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair's arm.

"Yes. The boy we are speaking of is known today as Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore answered softly.

Creon's eyes stung at the confirmation. His breath caught, ragged and uneven, as though his chest could barely contain mind churned, the name repeating endlessly until it was burned into his memory. He remembered the boy—charismatic, a few years his junior, with dark eyes, dark hair, and sharp features. For all Creon knew, that boy had only ever spoken vile things, never once raising his wand in true malice.

"And you're sure—absolutely certain—that Riddle is the one?" Creon asked, his voice nearing fanaticism as he jabbed his finger into an old photo of Tom Riddle on the desk.

Dumbledore nodded, his expression marked by a frown of feigned sadness, though his eyes betrayed no such emotion. This was the precipice he intended to lean Creon toward.

"Yes," the Headmaster confessed softly. "I am still uncertain how to trace the act itself. But Tom has recently styled himself as the true heir of Salazar Slytherin—a second coming of Gormlaith Gaunt—to solidify his standing within the pureblood believe him to be precisely that. Yet, I remain uncertain how he ties into such a dark and storied bloodline," Dumbledore explained, producing more documents.

Creon's eyes followed the lineage: From Slytherin to Peverell, to Gaunt, and then branching into Sayre. The bloodline diluted over generations, eventually connecting through adoption to the Boots. Many names had faded with time, but a few stood out: Salazar himself, the Peverell connection through a forgotten daughter, and a black space beside one 'Ilverma'. Famous names emerged—Gormlaith Gaunt, her siblings, and Corvinus Gaunt from two centuries past. The last clearly recorded name was Marvolo, noted as a four-year-old at the document's last update.

"Marvolo is his true middle name. But his connection to the man? I know nothing of it," Dumbledore answered, noting the placement of Creon's eyes, and the question on his lips.

"He was four… and this document hasn't been updated since 1880? So perhaps a grandson? A grand-nephew? A distant cousin or a branch lost to time?" Creon gestured at the smudged, incomplete had scribed the work had done impressive detailing but it seemed they cared not if it was eventually swallowed by time.

"Who is to say? Despite his lineage, little exists to track the man. He didn't even attend Hogwarts. Only Father Time knows what truly became of the man or what he is today, if he is still amongst us," Dumbledore shrugged.

"And your book? That handy little list of every potential new student? Have you gone through that yet? Marvolo would have had progeny, surely?" Creon asked, jerking his head to the space where the Registry sat across the office, earning a frown from Dumbledore.

"No," Dumbledore shook his head. "But that is because I already know it contains no recorded Gaunts… the last recorded Gaunt in the Registry is an Alcyone Gaunt, better known as the "Shushed Lord", dating back to 1564. For some reason, it is the one surname which deters even the esteemed magic of the Founders. Rowena's Quill, famously infallible, seems to be rather fallible indeed, no? It is a curiosity for every headmaster and headmistress to muse over, almost like a rite of initiation," Dumbledore smiled, remembering his time discussing with the portraits around them the oddity of the Quill and the Book of Admissions.

Creon slumped back in his chair, at a name 'Marvolo' burned itself into his memory, like a brand. slowly seared itself into his mind like a brand. Perhaps it was time to overturn some stones—missing persons and legendary objects had never eluded him before.

"... If this is true, then he was the real culprit all those years ago. I questioned his alibis at the time, but Tom managed to convince old Armando of his innocence—by delivering a culprit of his own." In hindsight, I fear we were all taken in by his charm at some point or another," Dumbledore said, his gaze slipping away from Creon's unyielding stare. "Even though I held onto my suspicions for years" Dumbledore confessed. "But like all old history, they faded to the recesses of my mind. I saw no need to chase ghosts—until recently."

"It was never Hagrid… and none of you listened," Creon growled, the urge to throttle Dumbledore rising once again. "And you suspected—knew? After all this time? How long for Albus? Was it years—or months?" Creon asked, his voice quivering before steadying.

"Years," Dumbledore answered stoically, his eyes grimacing. Watching as Creon's gaze faltered, his resolve fracturing further.

Creon hissed at the answer, breathing deeply and back out again in rage.

"I wanted to spare you. But it seems even my own kindness is sharp like a cruelty. I am sorry for that, forgive me, my boy—Creon," Dumbledore corrected himself.

In that moment, Creon saw every one of Dumbledore's years etched into his face—the deep-set lines, the heavy bags under his eyes, the weight of a life lived in quiet couldn't help but think that perhaps this is what Merlin looked like before his flight into Esplumoir.

"Too late, Albus—you're always just that. Too late," Creon spat, unable to look the man in the eye.

Dumbledore had always been a mentor of sorts for him. Now, acid churned in Creon's stomach, corroding the pedestal his younger self had built for the man. Creon knew what the man truly was, he had long known Dumbledore to be a Machiavellian manipulator but yet there was still a starry-eyed child inside him who had hoped that it was not so. The acid turned to anger in his veins. A violence rose up inside his core as if from hibernation; Creon could not tell who he wanted to wield it towards more. Dumbledore or the man he had once known as Tom Riddle.

"You wanted a soldier," Creon said, his voice cutting like a blade. "That's all it ever was, wasn't it? Dragging me out of isolation for this appointment. Out of all my achievements—every talent I cultivated, every good deed I risked my life for—you sought me for the worst of them. You could have just told me upfront… I could have respected that, Albus even if I couldn't deny you," Creon stated coldly. "When you asked me to inspect Wilkes' condition, what was that then? A test? Did you even genuinely need my expertise to diagnose her? Was I just humoring another one of your curiosities?" Creon didn't want to be a soldier for Dumbledore. He was too old but perhaps that made him perfect for the Headmaster's machinations; even old soldiers had a use still on battlefields. They were meant to come up behind the young and starry eyed recruits, to pick them up off the ground after the spell and dragon fire had descended like a howling nightmare. To prevent them from being spell-fodder for only a moment longer.

Dumbledore sighed, his expression unflinching in the face of his own error and shame. "Yes," Dumbledore admitted, his voice heavy. "Yes, to all of it. I needed the soldier who gave Gellert pause and lived to tell the tale—a man who could stand against someone like Tom. Your observation over Ms. Wilkes was necessary," Dumbledore admitted. "But I won't deny—I was curious whether such cruelty would unnerve you and whether your immense knowledge extended to the realm of healing." Dumbledore swallowed his shame, suppressing the memory of the shy, stuttering boy who had once sat in Creon's place, decades ago.

Creon shook his head furiously, his eyes squeezed shut at Dumbledore's admission.

"I've told my superiors, the minister, reporters—even the goddamn Supreme Mugwump of the Morrigan-cursed ICW—that wasn't me," Creon spat, his words searing the air like scalding steam. "Whatever you think occurred between me, and that—man. It's a lie," Creon stressed, desperately trying to ward off Dumbledore but not fall into the pit of the memory.

Dumbledore's eyebrow raised at his employee's denial. "I'm sorry to say I only know what occurred between you and Gellert through what Newt would reveal. Mind you, he did not tell me much rather he—" Dumbledore was silenced by Creon bursting to his feet.

"Stop—right there." Creon grunted.

The two men locked eyes, one a tidal wave of resentment while the other was a calm ocean of patience.

Dumbledore couldn't help but inspect the twin scars along Creon's cheeks, he saw that one was longer than the other as if the gash had been abruptly stopped.

"You wanted a soldier who can stand against Grindelwald?" Creon snarled. "That wasn't me, Albus. For once in your life, you should have hedged your bets. I don't know why he didn't kill me that day. I certainly angered that heterochromia-eyed bastard enough to warrant it. I don't know what you think I can do here, Albus," Creon admitted.

"And yet, you stood against him, truly, and survived. How?" Dumbledore asked again, his eyes unwavering from the damage marring Creon's cheeks.

"If you want to know so bad, you should have asked him yourself before you blasted him off the face of this earth in that duel," Creon countered, unwilling to indulge the Headmaster's curiosity.
Dumbledore swallowed, nodding his head at the man's answer as thoughts rolled in his mind. "If only I could," Dumbledore lied.

"If you want me to put a dark lord down, Albus. Do it yourself first. I'll be happy to avenge your corpse as I kick it on my way past," Creon sneered uncharacteristically, but his face straightened into a grimace as if something was paining him.

Dumbledore's eyes raised in curiosity behind their glasses at the man's expression as if changing his inner-thoughts, Creon sighed in relief.

"You may have my wand, Albus—for whatever fucking twisted purpose you need it," Creon said, his voice ice. "But remember this: I'm no house elf to be ordered about, and I'm not some relic you can polish up and hang on your castle wall at your convenience."

The Defense Professor turned on his heels to exit from the room, to put as much distance between himself and the Headmaster. Just as Creon wrapped his hand around the handle of the door to the stairway of the Guardian statue, Dumbledore called out to him for two last remarks.

"Stifling, isn't it?" Dumbledore asked, his gaze lingering briefly on Creon's chest, as if seeing something beneath the surface.

Creon's hand shot up, gripping something beneath his shirt—a reflexive, almost protective gesture. "Not in the slightest," Creon bit back.

"And finally, upon the case of Mr. Evans which we spoke of earlier. Do not let tonight be any reason to not take the boy under your wing… orphans often fall where we least expect them without guidance. I think the boy needs much healing, which under your guidance, he may find," Dumbledore's words haunted back to their conversation.

Creon looked back. He wanted to throw a spell at Dumbledore for his request after everything they had fought over but the piece of him that craved peace won over that urge. He rubbed his chest absentmindedly.

"You know I'm a terrible teacher, Albus. I'd just turn the boy into another soldier. Are you truly in need of more already? If I didn't know any better. I'd question your intentions as a leader of this school. It's quite the recruitment ground, isn't it?" Creon sniped, disagreeing whole heartedly with the man's mysterious intentions. Creon didn't trust Dumbledore's intentions to not weaponize another like himself.

"I have faith in you, my dear boy. I am mortal, and if being wrong about you is my sin, then I shall atone the only way I know how… by believing that you can do your very best," Dumbledore repeated, earning another look of discomfort from the Defense Professor.

Dumbledore watched Creon depart in a hurry, sighing to himself. The long-tenured educator felt an urge for a drink followed closely by the desire for familiar company. His burdens were heavy and it had been some time since he had indulged.

---

Hogsmeade,
September, 1977

Albus Dumbledore couldn't help but think he needed a drink, especially after his latest clash with the newly hired Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Walking down the long ,winding path from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade Village, the Headmaster arrived at a familiar, almost familial establishment: The Hog's Head Inn.

Situated just off the main thoroughfare of High Street, the Hog's Head appeared immune to the passage of time altogether. The boards of its timber were smudged and unpolished but not a single plank showed any sign of decay or a nail rust despite being laid down over a hundred years ago by Jasper Trout. Only the paint-chipped sign hanging outside the door had succumbed to the elements.

The interior was much the same—untouched by time but marked by the grubby hands of vagrants and patrons alike.

As Albus opened the door to his brother Aberforth's tavern, smoke from cigarettes and pipes billowed out into the cool night air of Hogsmeade, carrying the unmistakable aura of a disreputable inn. The roar of patrons spilled out from the doorway, shattering the evening's silence.

Albus Dumbledore's appearance in the pub caused little stir. The Headmaster only turned a few heads, some who took notice of him did so behind cowls, enjoying a pint, while others openly displayed their visages in grouped circles with a game of cards. In an establishment of such ill repute, it was an unwritten law that one would mind their business. Each patron was to their own or their partners.

The Headmaster of the nearby school approached the bar, dusting off the stool slightly before he sat down. Looking forward, Albus was met by eyes twin to his own, but they weren't electric or welcoming but rather frosty and disinterested; full of spite and diamond dust for his very being.

"Hello Abe, it seems business has been going quite well recently. I must say, it's a lovely night in the village to be sure," Albus greeted his younger brother cordially.

Aberforth offered no reply, silently washing a cup and drying it with a dirty towel he had snatched up, ignoring a clean one within arm's reach.

Aberforth set the glass in front of Albus, then reached under the bar for the cheapest swill he kept—a special reserve for his elder brother. Aberforth's glare never left Albus' face as he poured the liquor into the stained cup.

Albus watched silently as his brother spat in his drink, a customary additive Aberforth had made for him some odd fifty-years now since coming into possession of the establishment. Accustomed to the treatment, Albus nodded in thanks, lifting the cup with a smile and raising it in a toast.

"If only weaker men had your strength and dedication, brother mine, I'd wager the world would be better for it," Albus said, toasting as he discreetly used his wand to cleanse the glass and its contents of Aberforth's spit and other impurities.

Aberforth shook his head bitterly, offering neither a response to Albus's praise nor a protest over his tampering.

Albus sipped the drink merrily, tapping his fingers on the bar. The rings on his fingers clinked against the wood in a rhythm that sounded oddly like "Hoggy Warty Hogwarts".

Albus looked up to his brother's stern eyes, their unyielding glare oddly comforting.

"I'm lost, Abe. Times used to be simple, but now they are anything but. A movement has radicalized itself beyond all reason, and the country teeters on the brink of tearing itself apart. No one is safe—not even my students," Albus confessed, his words a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

Albus felt at ease speaking his true mind to his brother. Unloading his doubts and worries onto another soul brought him a rare sense of catharsis. He knew his words would never be repeated, safeguarded by Aberforth's unwavering devotion to family—a loyalty far greater than Albus had ever shown, to his enduring shame.

Yet, Aberforth had never responded during these exchanges. For seventy-seven years, their conversations had been one-sided affairs— a silent bargain between the talkative and the taciturn.

"A man I've hired—Creon Renault. You'd know of him, I'm sure, Abe. I'm worried I made a mistake—not with his hiring him, per se, but the way in which I secured his consent. I had no choice. A firm hand is needed at the helm, but if I am there, who is left to man the sails?" Dumbledore asked, seeking a silent answer from his brother.

Aberforth turned his back on his brother, opting to clean his mirror facing the room.

"Yes, quite right, Abe. Well as I was saying, Renault is a disciple of Newt Scamander—someone you know well. This means we share a similar ideology," Dumbledore elaborated, adjusting his glasses higher on his crooked nose.

"While normally, I'd welcome this similarity—I believe we'll be all the weaker for it. Newt preached kindness and understanding, the virtue of always striving to be good. Renault is a good man—better than most, I'll admit—but what if good men aren't what this moment demands? What if it calls for dark men—to do dark things?" Albus mused, his tone tinged with unease. He looked up at his brother, who continued to ignore him, now cleaning another cup after abandoning the mirror, perhaps to avoid Albus' reflection.

"First the war… and now another one. I'm so tired, Abe. Tired of it all. I don't know if I have it in me to face another dark lord—not after—" Dumbledore stopped himself, swallowing the name he dared not utter, knowing it would stir something volatile in his brother. "But if not me, then who? It has to be Renault. But what if even he can't, Abe? If not us, then who?"

It was a question that had plagued him of late, stealing his sleep in the odd hours of the night. He would sit, watching the silver trinkets on his desk whir and tick, mirroring the relentless passage of time. It was a question followed by other questions. The dark lord behind the pureblood movement—was he wrong? Or was it, in truth, the second orphan he had personally ushered into the wizarding world? This thought weighed heavily on him, a personal responsibility for the turmoil that had unfolded. Those already injured and dead — the whole ledger of more yet to be filled out. He was responsible for the sickness infesting their land. He had called the plague ship home to Geneva but this vessel didn't bear rats but rather ideas. Toxic and multiplying in their own devilish ways.

"What would you suggest, brother? Do I trust in my own teachings and step aside, leaving the helm for another? Or should I take up the fight against this dark lord myself?" Albus asked, his voice heavy with doubt. His old body felt worn, his spirit akin to Thomas—seeking a miracle that would not come. "What inheritance do we pass to a younger generation— vendettas, feuds and wars? Is that all the world can accept?"

Aberforth offered no bodily gesture or verbal response to Albus' thoughts, electing only to turn his back on his brother so he could fetch a bottle to serve another customer. Dumbledore nodded at him, as if he had just been granted the sagest advice by the man's silence.

"Yes, quite so, I believe," Albus agreed. The Headmaster finished his drink, twisting the cup in his hand till his reflection came in view of the metal mug.

His face was aged. His beard, full and white. Aged lines marred nearly every crevice his face; scarring from the pox of time. His eyes were cataracted and failing. He was a wizard long past their prime, but still he was the one the world looked towards for guidance in everyday affairs.

"Headmaster, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, Grand Sorcerer," Albus recited softly, each title dripping with bitterness. He had rebuked them in his heart every time they were bestowed, grand badges of glory and power he had never sought, yet which had thrust into his unwilling hands.

Already, he had been rescinded twice as Chief Warlock, it wouldn't be long before he was removed from the position entirely. For all his feelings on the matter, it was a cup which he desired most dearly —if only for the political sway it afforded him to push his ideology along; even as part of him resisted sipping the wine it bore. What he truly feared, however, were the growing calls for his resignation and departure from Hogwarts. Already an article was being lined up to print the damning account of his 'inactions'.

A teacher. A good brother. My love. These were all the things he truly wished to be crowned. He longed for history to remember him for a hundred years or so—cherished by loved ones and friends—before he was forgotten to the sands of time. Anything but the fate laid out before him: immortality. Immortality came with titles that repulsed him: Manipulator. Instigator. And most recent of all, tardy.

If defeating another dark lord meant earning more titles, Dumbledore wanted no part of it. At such a notion, the damning words of Creon in his office came back to him. Was Creon right, and he wrong? Or were they both mistaken, and the times truly called for darker men? Dumbledore hoped not. Yet how could he think otherwise when it seemed the only foothold in this absence of light?

Burdened with much, Albus decided to call it a night.

"Thank you for the drink, brother. And the enlightening conversation, as always. Till the next time—just put it on my tab," Dumbledore said kindly as he rose from stool and left the pub.

The Headmaster had quite the walk back to the school grounds and much to think about. One question played repeatedly on his mind as he journeyed to his bed.

'Oh, Gellert. What would you make of all of this?'

---

In the castle, shadows danced off the walls of the Defense professor's quarters as a large flame crackled and popped inside the grate of the fireplace. Creon's quarters were illuminated with the glow it's tongue gave off. He sat near its warmth, nursing a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand, tapping a steady beat on its surface with his index finger.

"Nine hells to him and bugger it all." Creon muttered. "Watch him, Creon. Be a mentor to a troubled youth that I never was. Damn you, Albus—and your infernal red-feathered pigeon of a phoenix, too. You pawned me off too, the first chance you got, didn't you?"

That's what it all was. Dumbledore, pawning off another troubled student on one of his proteges so that he could wipe his hand of the responsibility. 'A perfect alibi if another one of us goes dark—just like the last one.'

Creon tipped the crystal glass, letting the amber liquid burn its way down his throat. He swallowed hard, as if the bitterness could drown out the weight of the past few days. The attacks, the sudden chaos erupting across the country—all of it pointed to one grim truth: Creon was tied to this war, whether he wished it or not.

"Should have drowned that kid ages ago. Saved us all a lot of trouble. Would've done it nice and quiet —no witnesses," Creon mumbled to the flames, lost in years long since eclipsed.

For the first time in many decades, he was lost. There was no guidance. No one to look to for reassurance. He didn't know how to be a mentor. He didn't know the first thing about showing anyone the right path when he so seldom took the proper ones himself.

He'd rather stare down another dragon than spend a single evening mentoring a student in any form of apprenticeship. The idea was a revolt against everything he was; he wasn't cut from that cloth.

Pouring himself another glass of amber liquid, Creon's eyes squinted at the Kelpie tattoo staring at him expectantly on his arm, the green ink of its eyes judging.

"Oh, don't you start too. No, I'm not going to do it. That old codger can lengthen his wand and sit on it." Creon challenged the magical tattoo, raising his eyebrow, seemingly understanding the meanings of its sketched bickering.

The Kelpie swam around his arm and up to his wrist.

"So what? He's troubled and an orphan like I was. Doesn't mean I have to do a damn thing; go around rescuing every damned stray or monster I see like my own did."

The Kelpie's ears flicked downward, the creature snaking its tail down Creon's arm before coiling upon itself.

"Oh don't use that argument! It's beneath you. I'm not doing it still. Harry Evans — he can find his own way. Lad doesn't need me to show him right from wrong."

The kelpie uncoiled itself, shaking its mane wildly.

"What?! You saturated—" Creon brought his hand up, his fingers passing through his beard roughly before gently tracing over the scars of his cheeks. "We don't know what the boy wants! He could want world dominance like the other one—genocide on a global scale! He could want Albus choking on his supper, just like we do every time we sit down at that blasted table. And you accuse me of being afraid?! Claiming I'm scared and ignorant, really? As if I'd be afraid of another dark wizard."

The Kelpie stared up at the man expectantly. Creon held the beast's graze before breaking contact to lift his glass for another gulp of whisky.

"Argh! To the Ninth-Circle of Hell with you too! And Albus—Newt too! Damn all three of you. I'll do it, bleeding hearts, you lot are."

Creon stared into the fireplace, remembering a day and time when he had been truly scared, frustrated, and even alone like Harry Evans was now. He couldn't help but feel a kindred spirit with him no matter how tightly he locked that box.

He couldn't help but remember the words of the man— the Magizoologist who took him under his wing. 'No one can truly teach kindness. It can only be shown and, if we're lucky, emulated.' Creon dreaded those words as they floated in his mind. He was afraid that he wouldn't show a kindness powerful enough to be emulated, not like it had been shown to him as a child.

Sipping his drink, Creon lost himself to the fire, remembering a simpler time where he was a student instead of a teacher.

---

The Mis-Adventures of Creon Renault - #1
The Apprenticeship

Hogwarts,
April, 1937

In a chair much too big for his small frame, a thirteen-year old Creon Renault sat before the large desk of Armando Dippet, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hanging on the walls, bookshelves, and ornate stands, portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses chattered amongst themselves quietly as they gazed down at the scrawny boy, whose school robes resembled rags. Around Creon's neck was a bright yellow and black tie, which seemed to have been transfigured, glamored, or completely remade several times over. The Hufflepuff was a bundle of nerves, his gaze darting anywhere but at the Headmaster behind the desk. Creon didn't understand why he had been summoned to meet the Headmaster after dinner the previous night, just as he was leaving the Great Hall.

Noticing Creon's unease, Armando Dippet offered a kind smile to the third-year student.

"No need to fret there, young master Renault. You're not in trouble. There are some people who want to offer you an opportunity this evening. They'll be joining us shortly—Professor Dumbledore is escorting our guest into the school as we speak," Dippet said, offering reassurance with a warm smile. Having served as Headmaster for nearly fifty years, Dippet had seen countless students pass through the school's venerable halls. The educator saw himself as a public servant to each of them.

"If I'm not here for being in trouble, sir, then what kind of offer is this?" Creon asked softly.

Armando nearly missed Creon's question amid the constant chatter of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses. Casting a stern glance at the walls, the living Headmaster coughed loudly to silence the many painted figures.

"Well, young master Renault, I'm not entirely sure myself. But Professor Dumbledore assured me it's something extraordinary! I trust my Deputy Headmaster—and I think you do too—so we can wager it'll be quite the surprise," Armando replied with ease. Creon nodded his head slightly, a movement barely noticeable as if afraid of being seen or heard.

Armando's gaze flickered toward the stack of reviews from various professors lying neatly on the desk before him. Many of them described the Hufflepuff as timid as a fawn.

"Good! Then we shall find out together. I think that to be most exciting— news of such nature should always be shared amongst those friends and trusted companions," the old educator said, as if departing a sage-piece of advice for Creon.

Just then, the door to the Headmaster's office opened. Two men entered: one was the Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, and the other was a stranger to Creon but seemed all too familiar to Armando Dippet.

"Albus! What—why are you bringing him back?" Armando exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at the auburn-haired man. "Scamander was expelled, mind you—not to return to these grounds ever again!" the Headmaster seethed. "We've discussed this, Albus!"

Standing just behind Dumbledore, Scamander appeared to be a man in his early forties. He wore a dark peacoat over a crisp white button-down shirt with its collar pinned by a red bow tie. Over that was a brown leather vest with several pouches and a wand holster dangling from his belt. The man carried nothing else other than a tanned suitcase. His hair was dark auburn, tousled up quite messily as if it was a nest of some sort. His face was sharp, with rich cheekbones, and a small but prominent nose.

To Creon, Scamander appeared distinguished, more so than perhaps the sharply dressed professor accompanying him. The man was slightly hunched over as though the suitcase he carried weighed heavily. His head tilted downwards. He looked neutral, submissive, and overall harmless next to the striking figure of Dumbledore.

What Creon noticed most were his eyes. Despite often being cast downward, they were a light brown of hazel, with a richness that seemed to light up as they took in their surroundings, fascinated by everything they passed.

Their eyes met briefly, and the man carrying the suitcase nodded kindly to Creon in greeting. A low "hello" escaped the wizard's lips and hung awkwardly in the air.

Newt Scamander took a step back, his face flushing red as he looked away at the sound of the Headmaster exploding into another angry outburst. Creon watched as the man buried his face in his collar.

The action, while noticed by everyone in the room, was understood by only two. Both educators were knowledgeable about the many quirks of behavior which often possessed the famous Magizoologist. To Creon, it looked like Newt had conversed with something unseen.

Armando Dippet shot up from his desk in alarm, glaring between Dumbledore and Scamander. "Does he have something—" he began, only to be silenced by Professor Dumbledore raising a hand.

"No, nothing at all, sir. Settle please, my old friend. It's only for one meeting. Mr. Scamander has been thoroughly vetted for possession of a Jarvey—by me. He's here for young Mr. Renault, as the guest I requested access to the ward scheme for," Dumbledore explained, unperturbed by having gone behind his superior's back.

Ignoring the two faculty members bickering over his presence, Newt Scamander conjured a chair and sat next to Creon, who was watching warily, much like a startled Jarvey. Newt recognized the behavior—he'd seen it countless times in his own reflection.

"H-hello there. My name is Newt—Newt S-scamander," he said softly, extending his hand to Creon.

Creon shook the offered hand awkwardly. He had never read 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them', not realizing he was meeting one of the leading wizards in the field of Magizoology.

"C-c-creon, Creon R-renault," the student stammered, his head dropping in embarrassment at his stutter. Self-conscious and ashamed, the young Hufflepuff stared down at his dangling feet, missing the sadness that flickered across Newt's face.

Noticing the boy's nervousness, Newt mirrored his behavior in quiet solidarity. He began kicking his feet idly, fiddling with his thumbs, and looking down at the floor. Together, the two Hufflepuffs looked like scolded schoolchildren in front of bickering educators.

Curious about all of the commotion and its new surroundings, a small green head peeked out from the sleeve of Newt's jacket. A bowtruckle cautiously climbed out, avoiding the two faculty's gazes but not escaping Newt's notice.

Pickett, the bowtruckle, glanced up at Newt questioningly, as though bracing to be scolded and tucked away. Instead, Newt smiled warmly and gave a small nod, gesturing toward the shy and subdued Creon.

Creon felt something latch onto his foot. A bowtruckle dangled precariously from his shoelace, its root-like legs flailing as it struggled to pull itself up. Leaning down, Creon cupped his hand beneath the tiny creature, gently lifting it. With one hand supporting the other, he raised the wriggling little being to his face, cradling it like precious cargo.

Three pairs of eyes observed the scene silently.

Pickett, staring up in awe and slight fear at Creon, took a cautious step back. Creon attempted to show the creature he meant harm by holding a finger out to Pickett. The two leaves on top of the bowtruckles head perked up at the offer of the appendage, lifting its miniature arms and soon enough long vine-like fingers wrapped around Creon's own. The act brought a smile to Creon's face, and a soft giggle escaped from him.

Dippet watched on warily, held back by Dumbledore, who observed calmly. Newt keenly observed the smiles on both Creon's and Pickett's small faces. For a man who rarely smiled around others, he couldn't help himself. Creon's glee was infectiously spreading throughout the room.

"Thoroughly vetted, was he, Albus?" Dippet growled, frustrated by the lack of caution displayed by his staff member.

Dumbledore, however, did not look the least bit sheepish.

"It seems the wards will always allow a friend or two through now and then," Dumbledore said coyly, sharing a smirk with his old, animal-inclined pupil. The sight of Creon playing with a chirping bowtruckle warmed his heart. It was a joy to see the young boy finally come out of his shell after being so reclusive and shy. Dumbledore wanted to treasure the sight. He could recall the time he had gone to deliver the news to the boy that he was magical. It had been a one-way conversation which might as well have taken place with a wall for how many questions Creon felt brave enough to ask.

However, they needed to move on, no matter how touching the moment.

"Headmaster, I brought Mr. Scamander here to offer him an opportunity to one of our students," Dumbledore announced, nodding to the magizoologist. "An apprenticeship of sorts for Mr. Renault. To study abroad with Mr. Scamander this coming summer."

Headmaster Dippet gawked at his successor, while Newt sat frozen, stock-still, his mouth opening and closing without producing any words. After a moment of silence, Newt finally found his voice.

"W-w-wait, Dumbledore! A-apprenticeship? W-with me? You can't be serious. No, I- can't possibly. I don't know — how to care for—" Newt stammered, gesturing vaguely towards Creon who stared wide-eyed at the adults.

Newt was frightened. Send him into a poachers camp to rescue a litter of Nundu's? He could do such a task without an issue. Task him to hunt down a Chupacabra in the jungles of Latin America? He'd done that last week. Ask him to reintroduce a nearly extinct Erumpent population into the wild? He was the wizard for the job. But caring for a human child on his expeditions? That was entirely outside of his expertise.

Newt jumped up from his seat and hurried over to Dumbledore, pulling him aside by the arm but just not far away from Creon's earshot.

"Dumbledore—Albus, I'm sorry—Professor, I mean, sir. I can't possibly—" Newt whispered urgently.

Dumbledore rested a reassuring hand on Newt's shoulder, his blue eyes twinkling with a familiar warmth.

"My friend, it is only for a summer. I think that you'll find young Creon to be more of an asset than hindrance. Trust me, Newt—he is gifted, much like another student I once knew very well." Dumbledore's smirk softened as his gaze swept over his former pupil. "He only needs the proper—shall we say—environment," Dumbledore said, his tone deliberate as he nudged Newt subtly forward. hinted, nudging his former pupil closer to where he wanted him. "He needs this, Newt. And after all you've been through, I dare say you do as well."

Newt groaned, silently weighing his chances of slipping out of the castle with his creature-filled suitcase before Dumbledore roped him into yet another favor. Maybe Pickett could try his luck at the front gate, he thought half-heartedly. A soft voice pulled Newt from his inner turmoil.

"Sir, it's ok. I don't want to be a bother to— whatever it is you do," Creon said quietly, his voice clearer than Newt had expected. The young student turned to Dumbledore, his expression hesitant but polite "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore for the offer, I appreciate you thinking of me." Creon turned his attention to the bowtruckle in his hand which was gesturing rudely at Newt.

Newt wanted to kick himself. Creon's saddened tone stung, making Newt feel he'd rather face an angry hippogriff than keep acting like this under Dumbledore's and Armando Dippet's watchful gazes. It stirred memories of his own childhood, when his voice held the same hesitant tone. Back then, Theseus had been there to lift him up—but who did this child have?

Newt glanced at Dumbledore, who returned the look with a silent, pointed expression as if telling the man what he thought was right. Was having a student for his expeditions more daunting than tracking a warmonger across the world? Perhaps. Newt knew it wouldn't be easy but maybe it would be right.

"N-no. Don't say that," Newt stammered, stepping closer to kneel before the dejected Hufflepuff. "You wouldn't be a bother—not if you came with me as my apprentice this summer."

Newt felt just like one of the people he called 'blinkered' when they thought strange animals weren't welcome near them or society. "I'd be honored if you joined me as an assistant, Creon." Newt said, his voice steady now. "Anyone spoken highly of by Professor Dumbledore speaks so highly of must be someone truly special."

"Wait—Really? Professor Dumbledore speaks highly of me?" Creon stammered, his awe clear as he turned to the professor.

Dumbledore nodded in assent.

Newt leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. "The truth? He wouldn't stop talking about you—from the front gate all the way to the statue outside this office. Don't believe me? Go ask the statue," he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips as he gestured toward the doorway.

Dumbledore chuckled at hearing the small truth Newt gave Creon. "Like I said earlier. You'll be an apprentice to Mr. Scamander for the summer. He'd be responsible for you, so you have to listen to everything he says Creon, my dear boy," Dumbledore said, his tone warm as he used one of his signature phrases to put the young man at ease.

"And I wouldn't be a bother? I can go with you—? Like really go with you and see what's out there?" Creon asked in a rush, his voice rising with excitement. He was vibrating at the prospect of an adventure for the summer, to not return to the orphanage he called home. Creon had never traveled anywhere beyond Hogwarts. Each journey on the Hogwarts Express was spent daydreaming, his gaze fixed on the rolling hills, towering mountains, and shimmering lochs beyond the window—imagining the adventures waiting just beyond the horizon.

Newt nodded. "You'd be a great help actually— always need another set of hands to handle things sometimes with care — things like, well — like Pickett there," Newt chortled.

With a deft motion, Newt plucked the bowtruckle from Creon's shaggy hair, drawing a startled look from the boy. Creon hadn't even noticed the tiny creature's stealthy climb from his hand to his head.

A loud cough from Armando Dippet broke the moment, drawing all eyes to the Headmaster.

"While I hate to rain down on such a moment," Armando began, "But I must remind you that young Master Renault is not only our ward here at Hogwarts but also under the jurisdiction of the Muggle branch of our government. Mr. Scamander, you will need to secure permission from Creon's guardians at the Prescott Orphanage in the East End of London before he can apprentice under your care."

Newt nodded towards the Headmaster, recalling the mental map of London he kept stored within his head. "Of course, sir. I'll contact them immediately. If they approve, would it be possible to pick Creon up here at the school instead of meeting in London?" Both Dippet and Dumbledore looked oddly at Newt, only the former's eyes moved towards the case still firmly in his grasp like a lifeline.

"London— uh, is a bit too crowded for my tastes. I've tried to avoid big cities these last few years," Newt confessed, scratching his head as he avoided Dippet's accusatory glare.

The thought of chasing after escaped creatures from his mobile vivarium again made Newt shudder. He'd had enough close calls since his trip to New York a decade ago. His anxiety over the case hadn't eased in the past hour; every so often, he caught the faint sound of tinkering or scratching at its locking mechanism. Knowing it must have been his niffler, Teddy being nosy again. Newt gave the case a light shake to thwart the niffler's mischief. He grimaced, imagining the chaos if he didn't leave soon—chasing escaped creatures through the castle would surely give Headmaster Dippet a heart attack.

"I'm sure that can be arranged. I'm familiar with the Matrons there. I shall write to them for you, Newt," Dumbledore offered much to the magizoologist's agreement.

Newt turned back to Creon. "I'll send you a letter detailing the research we'll be conducting and include some reading material to prepare you—assuming, of course, I get permission," he added, casting an apologetic glance at the frowning Armando Dippet.

Creon's face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. "Where will we be going? Somewhere exotic? Brazil? Tibet? Australia?" he rattled off, his speech impediment vanishing in his excitement—much to Armando Dippet's surprise, though not Newt's or Dumbledore's.

"Close!" Newt replied with a grin. "We'll actually be here! In Scotland!"

Creon's wide grin faded into a deep frown at the realization he wouldn't be trekking through snowy mountains, dense jungles, or expansive deserts.

Newt burst into laughter at Creon's crestfallen expression, surprisingly unbothered by the boy's disappointment for once.

"Don't worry, you'll meet plenty of friends and there'll be much to learn," Newt reassured, with a grin conspicuously patting his suitcase. But he wasn't prepared for Creon to suddenly throw his arms around his wait in an unexpected hug. Newt froze, awkwardly lifting his arms and suitcase above his head—only to bump the case against his own skull.

"Oh! Oh dear, he's hugging me, Dumbledore—he's a hugger—Dumbledore—" Newt stammered, his voice tinged with awkward desperation as he looked to the professor for guidance.

The Transfiguration Professor only shook his head before gesturing for Newt to return the child's hug. With a reluctant grimace—thankfully unnoticed by Creon—Newt brought one hand down to pat the boy gently on the head. Newt had no idea how he would manage mentoring the boy in the coming months. He couldn't help but worry how cross his assistant, Bunty would be when she heard of the newest member to their traveling suitcase.

---

Scottish Highlands
August, 1937

For two months, Creon apprenticed with Newt Scamander, traveling across the Scottish countryside alongside the famed wizard and his assistant, Bunty Broadacre. Creon's primary responsibility was to care for the multitude of creatures housed in Newt's enchanted , in all that time as the weeks passed, Creon was never told explicitly what the role entailed or what Newt was teaching him. Newt assigned Creon books to study, but they all focused on magical creatures much to Creon's dismay.

Creon spent his nights pouring over books and his days learning from the experienced magizoologists as they demonstrated the intricacies of their profession. Throughout the summer, they traveled across Scotland, often staying in rustic inns before retreating into Newt's suitcase for their daily tasks.

It wasn't until three weeks in the journey that Creon learned their true purpose: tracking and documenting the devastation caused by a young Hebridean Black dragon. One farm had been torched with the livestock eaten while another was a smoldering cinder. To Creon, the dragon was a blight upon the Earth itself. A wrathful beast of destruction whose purpose was to torch anything living before it up and then consume what was left. In the wake of its devastation, Newt and Creon had come upon a forest suffering in burns from the throes of the Hebridean.

The wildlife had vanished. Whether in terror or fallen to the dragon, Creon couldn't tell nor would Newt elaborate. Perhaps Newt was trying to shield him, allowing him to cling to some semblance of childhood but Creon knew orphans never truly had one. The only time Creon wasn't bearing witness to misery was during his time at Hogwarts.

As they tracked the Hebridean, Newt requested that Creon tend and treat the injured wildlife that they found in the devastation. Newt watched over Creon's shoulder as he attempted healing spell after healing spell to no avail. It was a task doomed to failure with many of his techniques not taking hold on the injuries of the trees, deer, and other small creatures Newt pushed his way.

Creon struggled with magic in nearly every form. He could barely even wield his wand properly, as weak as it was. The piece was made of a green wood with waves etched into its length and runes decorating its handle. He could recall the day he had purchased the wand perfectly; he never dismissed the shock in Ollivander's voice at the wand that chose him. "Thirteen inches— oh, yes, a strong allegiance— but weak magic? A kelpie core," Ollivander marveled, bewildered that such a wand finally found its match.

'A weak wand for a weak wizard.' Creon ventured to guess that even with a strong wand he wouldn't be able to cast many spells with it, surely none as grand as what he saw the professors like Dumbledore perform on a regular basis. Newt had yet to instruct him on anything magical yet. 'My mentor—what a quack. He hasn't even taught me any spells. Just work, work, and more work,' Creon thought bitterly.

After his failure at tending to the wildlife, they had found the dragon and things had gone from bad to worse. Newt and Creon had followed a river-stream running parallel to a long-blackened scar in the Earth. Along the banks of the river, they nearly tread upon the dragon itself. Newt had managed to pull Creon back before he stepped into an unseen fissure in the ground, a crater where the Hebridean Black had been resting, napping peacefully after gorging itself on the local countryside again. It was as if a plague of locusts had merged into a single, fire-breathing entity. To all the residents of the highlands and lochs, the magical creature was a horned-devil upon the landscape.

Seeing the opportunity laid out before them, Newt and Creon devised a plan to subdue the beast together. Newt handed Creon a small pouch, armed with another of his own which held a powdered variation of a Sleeping-Draught capable of downing a full size Acromantula. Together, the pair had carefully maneuvered around the dragon till they were face to face with the growing famine, wands ready to cast if needed.

Everything had gone perfectly…until they hurled the bags of powder into the dragon's face. The dragon's system resisted the magically-crafted anesthetic longer than they had anticipated. The Hebridean erupted like a volcano, roaring in fury as it surged upward, then descended upon Newt and Creon like a pyroclastic flow—a mass of black and gray.

Wands were needed, but Creon's wand failed him, leaving him defenseless. Newt intervened to save him, but it came at a steep cost to his own body—a sight that filled Creon with both shame and horror.

For several heart wrenching moments, the situation seemed hopeless, devolving into a tense game of dragon-and-mouse.. Before it was over, Creon froze, paralyzed by the chaos unfolding before him. Newt was wrangling the young dragon by himself, leaping onto its back as he conjured chains to bind the beast like a set of reins. The magizoologist stood atop the furious dragon, calming it through sheer determination, even as fresh burns and scars joined his ever-growing collection.

Creon watched in silent awe as Newt slowly calmed the beast, stroking its head soothingly as he whispered softly to it.

"There, there—easy it does it. You're alright. You're alright," Newt cooed to the beast. The Hebridean's only replies were the short bursts of flame and smoke from its nostrils and the low rumbles hatching deep in its throat.

When Newt looked up to smile and commend Creon, he only saw the boy's retreating form, vanishing into the charred remains of the forest.

---

Creon retreated into the suitcase, swiftly after they had managed to shove the now docile Hebridean into the confines of the magically-extended travel bag. Without so much as a glance toward Newt or a greeting to Bunty, he hurried into the depths of the ecosystems.

In his need to dissociate from what occurred, Creon retreated into the man's suitcase as if to disappear entirely amongst the menagerie of magical creatures and so he did, finding solace beside a deep pool of crystal-clear water. Tucked away, far from the other ecosystems and enclosures. Yet it was The pool's resident that drew him there, offering companionship in the form of its presence and his reflection. Creon saw a kindred spirit in the creature that swam before him. It was a kelpie, a water-demon which inhabited the Isles. Its mane was long and tangled, composed of seaweed and grass. Its body appeared to be composed entirely of underwater foliage. Creon had studied the kelpie—a shapeshifting creature that often took the form of a horse or an aquatic dragon. The kelpie, in its horse form, rose every so often to the surface to inspect the young wizard.

In his loneliness, Creon had begun a one-sided conversation with the creature. "I know. I probably judge Mr. Scamander—I mean, Newt too hard but this isn't what I signed up for."

Dumbledore had said this partnership was meant to help him grow, but he didn't feel like he had achieved anything except a future N.E.W.T in Care for Magical Creatures. None of the goals he'd set for himself seemed any closer. There were so many—to see the world, to be braver. Creon wanted to be known as more than just the magically inept muggle-born orphan in class. He wanted to be actually seen.

"At least you can see me," Creon whispered, giggling as the kelpie neighed back to him. As quickly as it entered, the joy left his tongue.

"What good is a wand if I can barely cast a spell? I can't conjure, I can't fight—I can't even heal for St. Mungo's sake," Creon admitted bitterly, shaking his wand in frustration.

The kelpie gazed up at Creon before propelling itself closer to where the boy sat by the pool's edge. It raised its head and upper body out of the water, letting out a soft, low neigh. It shook its mane of seaweed, sprinkling the wizard with droplets of water.

Creon saw the deep scar on the back of its neck. "You want me to treat this? But I can't," Creon protested. The large kelpie neighed indignantly, slapping the boy in the face with its mane, making him splutter and wipe his eyes dry as water sneaked into his mouth and eyes. "Fine, fine! It's your funeral, you damned water-horse," Creon grumbled, pressing his wand reluctantly against the creature's plant-like skin.

---

Near the entrance of the suitcase, in a small cottage he had built for experiments and the rehabilitation of smaller creatures, Newt searched for his newly acquired pupil, his limp causing him to favor one side noticeably. The famed Magizoologist even checked an empty crate as if he was checking for a wandering niffler. Newt shook his head, frustrated by the absurdity of the comparison.

Perhaps he had been thinking too much, Newt chastised himself for considering Creon like another one of his creatures. He was a boy—not a niffler. A frightened young boy. While Newt often saw the vast cruel differences between humans and beasts, he often couldn't help but think of those close to him as creatures in their own peculiar way.

He needed to find Creon soon, recalling the way the boy had bolted after their encounter with the Hebridean.

"Bunty!" Newt called, calling his long-time assistant—a saint of a woman who had endured his eccentricities while caring for his creatures and occasionally for himself. He heralded several more times, peeking around corners and slowly searching the various biomes and habitats, hoping to find either his assistant or his apprentice—whichever appeared first.

Finally, Newt found the woman just as she was slowly sneaking up behind a large seemingly oblivious bird. Bunty scrunched her work-weary face in concentration, zoning out her entire world as she focused on being as silent as possible. Without hesitation, she lunged for the bird, catching a small Diricawl chick, one of a dozen she had spent hours corralling.

The new Diricawls hatchlings had all escaped their enclosure, intent on joining their mother in antagonizing the resident Nundu, Sheba.

"There you are, Bunty! I've been looking everywhere for you. Have you seen Creon?" Newt's sudden arrival startled the woman.

Startled, Bunty loosened her grip on the chick. The flightless bird let out a sharp cluck before vanishing from her arms with a soft pop, reappearing several yards away. Both pairs of eyes watched as the small bird wobbled away in a hurry fleeing from its captor.

"Morgana's blessings, you've no idea how long it took me to catch that one. They've matured today and they've been apparating about the place," Bunty groaned, wiping the sweat from her brow. She had been so close to rounding them all up, but now who knew how long it would take to wrangle the chick back.

"I'm so sorry, Bunty— I didn't mean for that to happen," Newt cringed in apology. "Here, let me," he offered, pulling his wand from the holster at his side.

"Levioso!" Newt chanted, flicking his wand towards the fleeing chick. Immediately, the small bird began to float towards him and Bunty, like a planet drawn in by gravity. The baby Diricawl cawed and flapped its wings, kicking its feet out in the air wildly; experiencing flight for the first time.

"Remember, they can't teleport on you if they're not touching the ground—it's the best way to keep them together," Newt explained, smiling as he shared his knowledge. "Yes, that's it. Come to Mummy, mummy's got you," Newt cooed, gently guiding the levitating chick into Bunty's waiting hands.

The chick's survival instincts were unmatched on solid ground, but in the air, it was utterly helpless.

As they returned the chick to its clutch, order was nearly restored in the suitcase. Newt turned to his long-term assistant. "I'm sorry for earlier— Bunty, have you seen Creon? I've been looking— but he's gone. And well— I can't find him," Newt said hurriedly, his words nearly tripping over each other.

Bunty blinked widely at Newt for a moment, processing the speed of his question. "Yes— he's with the kelpie down in the pool. Practically there every day at one point or another, sitting with it by the edge of the pools. Sweet lad, he's been helping apply cream to the creatures' injuries with me. Kelpies are always easier to manage with two people," Bunty said, though a note of perplexity colored her tone at the boy's fascination with the creature.

Newt thanked the woman before hobbling off in the direction of the pools, where many of the aquatic beasts were kept. Along the way, Newt scanned over the creatures he came across. He deposited a baby niffler from his jacket back into its den where it immediately began to sort through its pilfered goods.

As Newt neared Creon's location, his uneven gait slowed, on the stone stairway conjured by the suitcase's enchantments. Newt tried to mask his uneven steps as he approached the young wizard, coming to a stop only as he saw Creon kneeling next to the kelpie's pool.

Creon cradled the kelpie's head in one hand, carefully brushing aside its seagrass-like mane while his wand traced the deep wound on the back of its neck. His lips moved slowly and steadily. Muttering a long incantation under his breath, he held a vortex-like flux of magic steady at the tip of his wand. With considerable care, Creon controlled the spell's power so he didn't burn the kelpie with accidental spell fire.

Newt quietly watched the healer and patient. The pair had rescued the aquatic creature just a few weeks earlier, shortly after Creon began his had found the majestic beast washed ashore in a loch, wounded by a propeller blade from a muggle's boat. The fisherman either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared if he struck something on his way to his daily catch. The metal had bit into the kelpie's flesh and tore much of the vegetation which made up its hair and body. Creon had been the first to reach the creature, offering it comfort while Newt administered first aid.

Moved by the boy's disheartened reaction to his inability to help the kelpie, Newt vowed to teach him healing magic, seizing the chance to impart several lessons on treating creatures in the field.

Newt couldn't comprehend the bond between Creon and the kelpie. Unable to fathom, how Creon was able to calm one, wild as it was so easily. Befriending a kelpie was as good as inviting a watery grave—yet this one seemed docile under Creon's care. They were shape-shifting water demons, carnivorous tricksters, and notorious for drowning unsuspecting swimmers for a quick meal.

Newt couldn't help but admire the sight before him with pride flickering in his eyes. Watching his student apply what he had taught was both surreal and deeply gratifying.

Newt's presence was noted by the kelpie, which neighed indignantly before splashing both Creon and Newt. It smacked its tail down on the water's surface as it hurriedly dove to the depths of its enclosure to escape the presence of two humans at once.

The pair chuckled at the sight of each other, drenched from head to toe. With a flick of his wand, Newt dried them both as though the kelpie's assault had never happened. Newt gestured toward the spot next to Creon, silently asking permission to sit. Creon nodded in consent.

The pair sat next to each other in comfortable silence. The space around them was serene, an almost magical tranquility despite being inside a traveling suitcase. The walls surrounding them were a rough stone covered in vines and leaves which would not have been out of place within the lush jungles of Central America. To Newt, the pools always resembled a cenote from the Yucatán, their sapphire-blue water glowing faintly even in its depths. Beneath the surface, the kelpie swam in slow, uneven strokes, its movements mesmerizing.

"I was looking—well, I found—how is our friend doing?" Newt asked, his words stumbling as he awkwardly changed the subject. He rubbed his burned leg absently, wincing as the coarse fabric of his trousers irritated the wound.

Creon tensed at the sight, guilt creeping into his chest. He let out a heavy sigh, knowing he couldn't avoid this conversation forever.

"I'm sorry, Newt— I mean sir. I didn't mean to run away but after— I didn't think I would have been much help. Not after I got scared. Not after what you went through to save me," Creon's voice trembled, unable to look up at the man next him. He didn't want to see the disappointment in Newt's eyes; or worse, see the man's forgiveness.

After spending weeks with the eccentric, understanding and compassionate wizard and his kind assistant, Creon wished for anything but those qualities to be leveled at him.

Newt shook his head, dismissing Creon's apology as being even needed.

"No, don't do that. Don't apologize—for this, or for that." Newt gestured briefly to his burned leg. "Things… happen in the field. Beasts—well, they never quite do what we want them to," he added with a faint, self-deprecating smile.

"No! Don't—don't excuse me," Creon glanced up at Newt before lowering his gaze, as if trying to hide the shame written across his face. "I was s-s-scared, and I—I couldn't… that almost got y-you—" His voice broke, trembling uncontrollably, the stutter reverberating off the stone walls.

Creon's lips quivered, his words failing him. Regret, shame, and frustration surged through him as he silently gestured toward Newt's injured leg.

Newt sighed, wondering how he could pull Creon out of the emotional trench he was burying himself in.

"You were scared? I was scared too—but between the three of us, I think the dragon was the most frightened," Newt said with a small smile, recalling the beast's reaction when they caught up to it. The fledgling had panicked, startled from its slumber. To the dragon, they were nothing more than a threat. It had only tried to defend itself the only way it knew how—by attacking.

"I still got you burned for my mistake—" Creon began but Newt silenced him with a gentle hand.

"Yes, I was burned for a mistake—but better a burn than one of us ending up in a Hebridean's stomach," Newt countered. He had barely tackled the boy out of the way in time, saving them both from the dragon's flames at the cost of a burn on his leg.

"I think you were quite brilliant, though," Newt said gently. "You never turned your back on the dragon—and that means you never turned your back on me." He glanced at Creon hoping to lift the boy's spirits, but Creon shook his head, refusing to accept the praise.

"No," Creon said, shaking his head furiously. "I froze—I couldn't do anything—I just stood there while you took control. You conjured reins, subdued the dragon, and saved us both. And me? I didn't even cast a spell! Not for you, not for myself—because I can't. I can't do anything!"

The desperation in Creon's voice struck a chord in Newt, tearing something deep inside of him. He couldn't help but think that maybe Dumbledore was right. A frustration flared in Newt at the Headmaster's infallibility, though he wished he took the man's advice more seriously. He'd assumed Dumbledore only meant that Creon lacked confidence, not that the boy might struggle so deeply with magic itself.

At the moment, Newt couldn't teach the boy magic but he could try to rebuild his crumbling self-confidence.

"Creon, listen to me," Newt said, his tone uncharacteristically firm. "Being afraid isn't weakness—it's bravery in disguise. And as for my injuries—well, I'm used to them," he admitted with a small shrug. "You can't work in my field without picking up a few serious scars along the way."

"To me, it's weakness," Creon muttered, his voice thick with stubborn resolve.

Newt clicked his tongue—a rare show of frustration—as he glanced up at the cavernous ceiling above them, a black void lit by enchanted lanterns and scattered spotlights. He sighed inwardly, wondering how he could reach the boy and why Dumbledore could never just give him an easy task.

"Weakness—it isn't falling to our fears, Creon. In truth, it's being driven by them. Driven by them to do terrible, terrible and—unspeakable things. To be weak is to not show mercy to that dragon or whatever else terrifies us." Newt thought about the things that terrified him for a moment. "If we were weak—if you were weak—we would have killed that dragon instead of sparing it," Newt lectured, pausing for a moment before continuing, considering the weight of his next words.

"Bravery—true courage isn't knowing when to take a life, but rather knowing when to spare it."

Creon lowered his gaze, shame welling up inside him. "I just don't want to be afraid anymore, of failing, of everything. I'm scared I'll never be good enough at anything—especially magic. I'm scared I'll never be accepted in this world," he admitted, his voice trembling as a gentle quiver shook his lip.

Those were his deep-seeded fears, planted and nurtured by those around him—punishment for the "crime" of being a Muggle-born. For the "crime" of just being another orphan. Creon loved the wizarding world and everything about it. But where did he fit within it? What could he possibly grow up to be to earn his place within its borders? With his lack of talent and the stigma of being an orphaned Muggle-born, Creon knew his chances were slim. Without a pureblood sponsor to write a letter of recommendation, he had little hope of pursuing a prestigious field of study—or even securing a low-level job at the Ministry.

Newt could practically read Creon's thoughts on his face. The years of studying and learning behavior paid its dividends for the magizoologist to glimpse inside the boy's head without Legilimency.

What greater fear exists than the one society shackles you with? Newt mused. He understood Creon in his own way—what it felt like to be an outcast, the odd one out. Perhaps the pureblood supremacists were right in one sense: Muggle-borns were like magical creatures—each fantastically misunderstood.

"I want to be strong— I want to be brave— I want to be talented at magic. I don't want to be afraid anymore. Not of bullies, cruel matrons, or dragons." Tears welled in Creon's eyes, and he hurried to wipe them away before Newt noticed, but it was too late.

"Creon— we all have fears. And that's ok. It doesn't make us any less weak, afraid, or even dare I say, inept. Fear doesn't diminish— it enhances. It drives us and makes us all act on it in many ways— all differently. But if we're brave enough, strong enough—and perhaps lucky enough to have a spark of talent—we don't have to let fear control us. Instead of making us ignorant or cruel, fear can make us wise. It can even make us kind," Newt explained, his gaze following the kelpie's languid movements in the water alongside Creon's. "That's my life's work, you know? It's not just a book," Newt said, pulling out the handwritten draft of his groundbreaking work. He shook the cracked leather cover at Creon haphazardly, as though it weren't the original manuscript of one of the most important texts in its field. "This— It's about kindness. If I can teach even one human, wizard or muggle about my beasts. That there is a way to live alongside them in harmony— that a bridge between us and them can be made; between civilization and savagery. Then it would have served its purpose— even if it only ever reached one," Newt thought of that reality, that dream he held tightly.

"I don't understand? You wanted to teach me about kindness? I know about that— I'm kind enough. When you took me from Hogwarts, from Dumbledore, I was hoping you'd teach me magic. Dueling. Tracking spells. Spells I could use to change myself—to change the world," Creon protested, his tone bordering on petulant.

Newt chuckled at Creon's attitude— and his misunderstanding. Another rare smile sprung on his face; smiles which had been growing more and more common over the summer.

"You want me to teach you spells that change the world? I already have." Newt replied, sidestepping the topic of kindness for now.

Newt gestured towards the pool at their feet, where the kelpie was slowly emerging from the depths, the scar, like a brand, was clearly visible in its mane and on its skin. "I taught you healing spells — which, I'll admit, you hadn't been very successful with until now. But look at our friend here, the one you just treated. A healing spell can be just as powerful, just as world-changing, as the Killing Curse," Newt said, as though sharing a long-lost secret of magic. "If you heal something— even its smallest part like a person's finger, the wing of a tiny botfly, or a dragon's tooth—it's all the same. They're all important. From the smallest creature to the largest, if you heal something, you've changed its life. And nothing is more important than that."

Newt motioned for Creon to look down into the pool. Together, they watched the kelpie gliding through the water, its movements so smooth that not even a ripple disturbed the surface.

"Now—about kindness. You healed our friend there. I may have taught you the spell, but the act itself—that was all you. No one can truly teach kindness. It can only be shown and, if we're lucky, emulated. You did that entirely on your own," Newt said, his voice full of pride for Creon.

Creon didn't know what to say, but a warmth blossomed in his chest at Newt's explanations. The kelpie, as if sensing his mood, rose from the water until its neck was visible, nudging Creon's foot gently with its snout.

"Remember, Creon, what truly matters when it comes to magic is the intention behind the act. That's what changes the world—and, in a way, changes us too," Newt said as he pulled a piece of paper from his jacket.

Creon took the parchment, reading it over. It was a supply-list for his upcoming year at Hogwarts. It was nearly time for him to return to the castle. Creon didn't want to go back though, he wanted to stay with Newt and Bunty, caring for all the creatures he'd grown to love.

Once again, Newt seemed to read Creon's thoughts with nothing more than a glance at his expressions.

"Don't worry about the future, Creon. There's a place for you here— with me and Bunty. Next summer or Yule break— whenever you want an adventure," Newt offered. In truth he had enjoyed the time with the muggle-born orphan. Newt had always shared his knowledge through his book and seldom never with people often directly.

Creon looked up at Newt, desperately wanting to take the man up on his offer. "Can we go somewhere other than Scotland next time?"

Newt laughed loudly at the question. "Yes, yes. We'll go somewhere other than Scotland— perhaps, America?" Newt thought of bringing his new pupil to see Tina and how she would help him. "She'll take care of the rest," Newt mumbled to himself with a small smile.

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A/N: This chapter was a fun challenge for me when I wrote this back in July. I had wanted to write a dialogue exclusive chapter and it really formatted the way I've been handling it since. However, this chapter is also a special edition of the fic with Creon's backstory. We'll be having a few chapters like these spread across the story. I wanted to test the water of this format with my OC before attempting with a more important one. I hope you all enjoyed it.

If you liked the inclusion of these kind of scenes, I can either tack them onto the ends of chapters like Sayre Journals, or I can put them into chapters by themselves. Whatever works best for you, readers. They usually run about 4k or so a scene for Creon and my other character.

I've been reading from reviews/comments that a lot of you skip over the Journals. While that breaks my heart, I will say that's ok but they will continue nonetheless. The Sayre Journal is a way for me to world build, introduce my own headcanons and tweak JKR's canon. However, they do include many things which WILL BE very important later. So don't read at your own peril.

As always, thank you for reading. If you see some leftover grammatical errors, let me know & I'll get to editing them out.

~ MV