Dudley Dursley sat in his art class, bored out of his head. He usually enjoyed the class, to his great amazement, but ever since his encounter with the Dementor in the alley before the start of the term, he'd been lacking his usual enthusiasm for the things he most enjoyed before.
He found Piers Polkiss and the rest of his gang to be a complete waste of time. He no longer got the thrill of beating up those who were smaller or younger than himself. He'd been shown by the dementor just how terrible of a person he truly was. He was wracked with guilt and, for the first time in his relatively short life, self-doubt. For him, every day was as if there were no sun, merely shades of gray. He was desperately seeking something, anything, to anchor himself to.
Instead of Mrs. Phipps, the teacher that entered the room was a breath of fresh air. She was like the first spring breeze after a long, damp, dreary winter. Her dress was unconventionally bright, especially for a Smeltings teacher. She wore her light blond hair in a messy bun with tendrils of hair that had already escaped the confines of her yellow and black scrunchie and wore comfortable oxfords. Dudley liked her immediately.
"My name is Miss Scamander, and I will be your substitute teacher until Mrs. Phipps returns. She had an unfortunate accident with a streetcar last night and is in hospital."
She strode over to the board and wrote her name with a flourish. Dudley frowned vaguely, trying desperately to keep from looking stupid. Scamander, Scamander. Where had he heard that name before? Oh, well, it didn't matter, he told himself, as he brought out his sketch book and charcoal.
"Today, I have a special exercise for you. I want to get to know you better, so I want you to use your imagination. Please draw something fantastic, something imaginative."
The students grumbled as they began to busy themselves, trying to think of something to create, but Dudley didn't hesitate. He instantly began to draw with his charcoal. He bent over his paper closely, breathing upon his creation. "I wish I could make you move," he whispered to his figure, remembering Harry's newspaper pictures and photographs of his friends and family. Despite himself, he found himself enamored with the magical photos and, when Harry and his family were away, read the Quibbler from front to back, spellbound by the magical world his cousin was part of.
"How'd you make your drawing do that?" his seatmate, Piers, demanded, prodding him. "That's some neat trick, Big D. What kind of technology are you using? Holding back on us, are you?"
"Huh? What are you talking about, Polkiss? Shove off and leave me alone. I'm not done." Dudley said angrily. He put down his charcoal, then looked down at his paper. To his horror, his figure was drifting lazily about the page, tattered robes fluttering in a non-existent wind.
"Piers? Dudley? What's going on? You're disturbing the others," Miss Scamander said icily as she sauntered over, hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw Dudley's attempt, gently took his work, and folded it in half. "Dudley, please go to my office. Piers, please report to the headteacher." She wrote a note and thrust it into Pier's blackened fingers. Scowling, Piers did as he was told.
Dudley followed Miss Scamander into her temporary office with his head down in shame. He knew he was in trouble. He was going to be expelled for certain, and his father would be none too pleased that he had a son that could do abnormal things. Funny business, he called it.
"Mr. Dursley, I said to use your imagination, did I not?" Miss Scamander asked pleasantly, yet there was an underlayment to steel to her voice that sent shivers up his spine. Yes, yes she had. So, this horrible thing wasn't a figment to his imagination?
"Yes," he said meekly. "but I thought I was imagining things when I saw this in the alley near my house. It nearly killed me, but my father had me convinced I was seeing things, that my cousin Harry had influenced me in the wrong ways."
"No, that, dear boy, is a dementor," Miss Scamander said gently. "Why aren't you at Hogwarts?"
"Because I've never done anything magical before in my life," Dudley said miserably. "If I'm magical, then I'm a really late bloomer."
"You could still go, you know," she said softly. "It doesn't happen often, but it has happened before. You have what's called ancient magic. It's an extremely rare gift."
"No, thanks," Dudley said stiffly. "With my luck, I'd get sorted into Slytherin House. I would sooner die. Harry might not think it, but I do listen to what he tells his friends. That, and I read his mail when he's not looking. I don't like the sound of that git, The Dark Lord. You-Know-Who."
Miss Scamander laughed delightedly. "Well, your magic is only going to become more and more chaotic and harder and harder to control. I'll talk to my great great Uncle Newt and we will see what we can do for you."
"That's where I've heard your name before," Dudley practically yelled, then quieted down to a whisper. "That book, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Harry forgot it his second year and I read it. And here I thought it was great fiction."