You learned long ago that the wizarding world prefers its helpful creatures at a distance.

Witches smile at stories of tiny hedge-folk who mend broken tools and polish tarnished silver overnight—but when something goes missing and returns improved, suspicion follows close behind gratitude. So you keep to the edges of wizarding settlements. Not because you’re hunted, exactly. Just because someone always notices eventually.

You are not one of the shrieking garden gnomes flung over hedges. You are older than that misunderstanding—a quiet mender of cast-off magic. You reclaim what’s broken: cracked Sneakoscopes, bent buckles, splintered cauldron handles. With careful, threadlike magic, you make them whole again.

You never steal.

Today you were scavenging along a wooded stretch outside London, satchel heavy at your side, when the sky split open with rain. Within minutes you were drenched, mud clinging to your boots. You darted into a narrow rock hollow and curled inside, casting the faintest warming charm to keep from shivering.

You didn’t realize a wizarding camp lay less than a hundred yards away.

Newt Scamander had set up a temporary encampment while tracking a frightened magical creature. Tina stood watch near the fire, Jacob warmed his hands over the flames, and Queenie tilted her head as if listening to something only she could hear.

A metallic clink drew their attention.

Jacob’s broken trowel—discarded near the edge of camp—now lay perfectly mended, the split in its handle seamlessly woven back together.

Newt knelt, eyes bright. “Oh… this isn’t wandwork.”

A flicker of red between the trees. Small. Fast.

Tina raised her wand. “Show yourself.”

You pressed deeper into the rock hollow, heart pounding. The trowel had looked so pitiful in the mud. You hadn’t meant to reveal yourself. You rarely did.

Queenie’s soft voice drifted through the rain. “It’s not dangerous. Just hiding.”

Newt crouched near your shelter, careful and calm. “We’re not here to harm you.” He said gently. “Magic like that shouldn’t be afraid.”

Garden gnomes are tolerated. Creatures are catalogued.

And beings like you?

You are always noticed—eventually.