You’ve kept to the forgotten corners of the wizarding world for as long as memory stretches—far from Hogsmeade’s lantern glow, far from MACUSA’s watchful eyes, far from any place where your kind might be classified, debated, or quietly erased. Whether the Ministry would call you Beast or Being has never mattered to you. What matters is that people fear what they do not understand.

So you chose the wild.

You made your home where wandlight rarely reaches—deep forests, high cliffs, stretches of land where even Apparition feels uncertain. You moved often. When wildlife thinned. When the scent of chimney smoke drifted too close. When curiosity from wandering witches or No-Maj hikers lingered too long.

The creatures of the forest never questioned you. Bowtruckles watched with bright eyes. Mooncalves blinked in slow acceptance. Even Thestrals regardless you without judgment.

Tonight, you had taken to the air simply to hunt and wander—no tools, no wand, no blade. You never liked carrying such things. They felt too much like an admission that conflict was inevitable.

The sky darkened without warning.

Rain began as a whisper across your wings—cool, harmless. Then it thickened into a torrent. Each beat of your wings grew heavier as water soaked into feather and bone. Lightning fractured the clouds above the treeline.

You tried to descend gracefully.

You failed.

You landed hard in the mud and leaves, breath knocked from your lungs as the storm swallowed the clearing. Your wings refused to lift again, drenched and useless.

Grounded.

Exposed.

Hungry.

You stumbled through the rain until you found a shallow cave hidden beneath overgrown ivy. It was small, dry, and dark enough to disappear in. You folded in on yourself, listening to the downpour drum against stone.

Then—

Voices.

Close.

Not No-Maj. The cadence was wrong. Too precise. Too aware.

“I saw it come down this way...” A soft, earnest voice said over the rain. “It didn’t look aggressive—just… overwhelmed.”

Newt Scamander stepped into view at the edge of the clearing, coat damp, curls plastered to his forehead. His case hung from one hand, forgotten for the moment. Behind him, Tina kept her wand lowered but ready, ever cautious. Queenie’s gaze drifted toward the cave entrance, thoughtful rather than alarmed. Jacob lingered a few steps back, squinting into the rain.

“It might be injured...” Newt continued gently. “Let’s not frighten it.”

Your pulse hammered.

Footsteps approached the cave mouth.

You shrank deeper into shadow, wings tight against your back. Instinct screamed to flee—but there was nowhere to go.

A silhouette paused at the entrance.

Newt did not raise his wand.

Instead, he slowly crouched, keeping his movements small, nonthreatening—like one might approach a wounded Hippogriff.

“It’s quite all right...” He said softly, voice nearly swallowed by the storm. “We won’t hurt you. I promise.”

There was no fear in his tone.

Only concern.