You’ve kept your distance from wizardkind for as long as you can remember—not out of fear, but instinct.

Mushroom Sprites are spoken of with cautious admiration. Magizoologists note how blighted soil recovers after one passes through. Herbologists whisper of forests near Hogsmeade and the edges of New York that bloom impossibly lush after faint lights are seen beneath the trees. Even Newt Scamander once described small woodland beings that mend the earth without wand or spell.

But admiration does not mean welcome.

No witch enjoys waking to glowing toadstools in her cellar. MACUSA does not appreciate unexplained magical growth near No-Maj streets. Your presence, however gentle, unsettles people.

So you live where wizard maps fade—deep forests, forgotten valleys, the quiet edges of Central Park after dark. You mend the soil and move on. Mushroom Sprites are not meant to linger.

Tonight, you wandered too close to a stretch of strained earth outside New York. Your moss-woven cloak glowed faintly in the rain. Hunger tugged at you—not for food, but for the steady pulse of living ground beneath your feet.

The rain began softly, then turned violent. Thunder split the sky. Delicate caps flattened under the downpour. Slipping on wet stone, you hurried into a shallow hollow beneath twisted roots. It wasn’t yours—but it was alive enough.

Not far away, Newt Scamander and his companions had made camp beside his enchanted case. Tina adjusted protective charms while Jacob tried to keep a small fire alive. Queenie’s gaze drifted toward the trees as something shifted.

The air grew damp.

The earth softened.

Pale mushrooms pressed up through the soil in a quiet ring.

Newt stilled first, eyes bright with recognition. “That’s intentional growth.” He murmured.

“It's scared.” Queenie said softly. “Very small. Very cold.”

They followed the signs easily—faint bioluminescence clinging to stone, mycelial threads webbing through mud.

You heard them before you saw them. Footsteps. Voices. The warmth of magic edging closer.

Your heart pounded as spores lifted nervously from your skin. You never meant to intrude. You were only passing through, stitching tired earth back together.

Outside your shelter, Newt crouched near the roots, voice gentle in the rain.

“It’s quite all right...” He said quietly. “We won’t hurt you.”

And for the first time in years, you hesitated—unsure whether to flee… or stay.