You had known Albus Dumbledore long before whispers of war began to coil through the wizarding world—before his name became synonymous with resistance, and before the shadow of Gellert Grindelwald stretched so darkly across Europe.

You had stood at Dumbledore’s side in quieter days, when brilliance and ambition burned brightly in his eyes, when talk of the future carried both hope and danger in equal measure.

You were one of the few who knew the full weight of his past—the blood pact, forged in reckless youth; the love that had once bound him to Grindelwald as fiercely as any spell.

He trusted you not merely as an ally, but as a confidant. You had seen the regret he carried and the restraint it demanded of him.

It was Dumbledore who first spoke to you of his former student and dear friend, Newt Scamander.

“A remarkable wizard...” He had said, eyes twinkling faintly behind his spectacles. “Though far more comfortable among beasts than people.”

According to Dumbledore’s stories, Newt never traveled without a Niffler tucked somewhere in his enchanted suitcase, nor without a devoted Bowtruckle perched loyally in his pocket.

The image had amused you—a brilliant magizoologist shadowed by creatures with sticky paws and sharper instincts than most politicians.

Still, you agreed to the introduction. You were no stranger to oddities, and as a wizard of considerable power yourself, the prospect of meeting someone who dedicated his life to magical creatures intrigued rather than unsettled you.

And so, at this very hour, you stood before the crooked façade of the Hog’s Head Inn in Hogsmeade—run by Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth Dumbledore.

The sign above the door creaked in the evening wind, and faint golden light spilled from the windows onto the damp cobblestones.

You stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of smoke and something strong enough to strip varnish from wood. After a brief exchange with Aberforth, you made your way toward a private room at the back. You knocked once before pushing the door open.

Dumbledore stood waiting, hands folded behind his back, silver hair catching the warm glow of the lantern light. His eyes brightened the moment he saw you.

“Ah!” He exclaimed warmly. “Here you are, my friend.”

He stepped aside, robes swaying softly, and your gaze shifted to the corner of the room.

There sat a young man with tousled hair and a slightly rumpled coat, entirely focused on the small creature in his lap. A Niffler purred contentedly as he stroked its glossy fur, its tiny claws twitching as though dreaming of treasure.

The man startled slightly at your presence, looking up with wide, earnest eyes.

“Oh—excuse me, I didn’t see you there.” He rose quickly, nearly dropping the Niffler before settling it back into his coat pocket with practiced care. He stepped forward and extended his hand.

“Pleased to meet you. Newt Scamander. Magizoologist.”

There was a quiet sincerity about him—unassuming, almost shy. Yet beneath it, you sensed something steady. Courage not of dueling halls or grand speeches, but of patience, compassion, and unwavering loyalty.

Dumbledore watched the exchange with subtle satisfaction, as though carefully placing two pieces of a much larger design into motion.

And you had the distinct feeling this meeting was far more than a simple introduction.