Unless you were his enemy, you never had to worry about Newt Scamander doing anything to harm you. You could trust any promise he made without hesitation—a reputation not even Dumbledore had managed to earn.
After all, Dumbledore was famously calculating, even with his own people. He might call you a friend, but you'd still be just another piece on his chessboard.
"Alright, Tom," Newt said softly. "And please, just call me Newt. It's my honor that you accepted my invitation. Come in, my boy."
Tom nodded and stepped through the heavy iron gate. Guided by Newt, the two of them walked along the garden path.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air felt fresher. From outside, it had seemed that the front door of the villa was only a few steps beyond the gate, but once inside, it revealed a short yet meandering path, lined with lush flowers and greenery.
From the blossoms came a faint fluttering of wings—a host of flower fairies were hard at work, each carrying tiny wooden buckets as they collected nectar from the blooms. Without the slightest hesitation, Tom reached out and snatched up one of the fairies' buckets. The small container, which had been heavy for the little creature, instantly transformed into a cup in his hand. He raised it to his lips and downed the sweet nectar in one gulp.
The flower fairy glared at him in outrage. That nectar had taken her ages to gather.
"No need to thank me—I've merely lightened your load," Tom said, handing the bucket back to her.
Nectar collected by flower fairies was naturally purified—perfectly clean and brimming with health benefits if consumed regularly. It wasn't hard to imagine that Newt's spryness at over ninety years old might have something to do with it.
The old magizoologist merely smiled, making no comment on Tom's behavior.
Tom, in turn, felt no need to hide his true nature in front of Newt. The purer a person was, the more sensitive they tended to be. Newt could read intentions—good or ill—with uncanny clarity. You could call it the heart of a child.
For Newt, the line between "good" and "evil" was never sharply drawn—unless, of course, you were a poacher, the sort of person he despised most. But dishonesty and insincerity? Those would shut the door on his friendship instantly.
As the fairy flew off in a huff, Newt watched her go and said quietly, "These flower fairies are a colony I rescued in Inner Rasga. Muggles had overrun their home, turning it into an industrial site. I'd meant to find them a proper habitat, but they decided my garden suited them and settled in."
He spoke with a hint of helplessness.
"Maybe this is the best place for them," Tom said with a smile.
Newt's love for magical creatures wasn't like Tom's. Tom tended to collect the ones he liked, giving them a comfortable home almost as if they were pets.
Right now, inside Tom's enchanted card box were not just unicorns, but also puffskeins, augureys, occamys, and bowtruckles—all creatures he adored. And his collection was only going to grow.
Newt, however, focused on preserving the balance of magical ecosystems. He would nurse rescued creatures back to health, then release them into the wild where they belonged.
...
Of course, that wasn't always possible. Some traumatized little creatures refused to return to the wild, preferring the comfort and safety of Newt's care. And Newt was never one to drive away those who had nowhere else to go.
Ironically, the more he released, the more magical creatures seemed to end up in his care.
As they walked on, a few mooncalves hopped shyly out from a grove of plane trees. They seemed eager to approach Newt—until they spotted the unfamiliar Tom. Then they shrank back, peeking out from under the trees, their enormous, bronze-bell eyes fixed warily on him.
"Mooncalves are a bit shy. Don't take it personally," Newt said.
"I know. There's a colony in the Forbidden Forest—apart from Hagrid and Professor Sprout, few can get close to them."
They strolled along, pausing now and then, until Newt's sharp instincts picked up something strange.
It wasn't odd for timid creatures to avoid Tom. But when even the bold, friendly types—like tree frogs, crups, and nifflers—were keeping their distance, that was unusual.
Newt sniffed the air delicately, his expression shifting to surprise.
"Dragon scent?!"
This time it was Tom's turn to be startled. "You can tell that just from a sniff? Newt, are you sure you're not actually some kind of magical creature yourself?"
His draconic aura was well hidden—only animals with especially keen instincts could detect it. Humans shouldn't have been able to sense a thing. And yet Newt had not only noticed it, but identified it—by smell?
"Of course I'm not a magical creature," Newt said quickly. "I'm just… more sensitive to animal scents than most. But even if you've been around dragons before, why would you still smell like one now?"
"Well… that's actually related to why I came to see you." Tom didn't hide the fact that he needed help. "I'll explain the details in a bit."
"No problem. I'll do whatever I can to help," Newt said at once.
He didn't even ask what the request might be. The thought that Tom could be planning something dark or dangerous didn't even cross his mind—Newt wasn't the kind to see shadows where none existed.
"Oh, right!"
Tom slapped his forehead. He'd been forgetting something, and it had just now clicked.
Six credits—deducted.
Study Space—open.
Inside, Grindelwald was currently using the Meditation Room. Without hesitation, Tom used his authority to forcibly pull him out.
Grindelwald, still lost in thought, was utterly baffled when the Meditation Room vanished from around him, replaced by the outside world. And then he saw the old man standing before Tom, smiling shyly.
Even after decades apart, Grindelwald recognized him instantly.
"Scamander, I hate you!" he roared.