In the wizarding world, a dragon was the ultimate measure of strength—a true dividing line.
A witch or wizard who could barely hold their own against a dragon was already considered exceptional. Someone who could subdue a dragon single-handedly? That was a rare figure, one of the elite.
And slaying a dragon alone? No matter the country, no matter the age—such a feat would crown you a powerhouse.
"But you're still just a child," Newt said quietly.
"That's exactly why I should face more challenges now," Tom replied without hesitation. "If I don't learn how dangerous the wizarding world can be, am I supposed to wait until something really happens and get caught unprepared?"
Give Newt three mouths and he still wouldn't have been able to argue his way past Tom's reasoning. In the end… he could only let the boy have his way.
They didn't leave Thunderbird Town immediately—it would have looked far too suspicious. Besides, in the desert's daylight, cover was scarce, and anyone tailing them might hesitate to make a move. So, sticking to their original plan, Tom wandered through nearly every shop in town, buying armfuls of souvenirs.
There was a carved Thunderbird model, a quill made from genuine Thunderbird feathers, and even a crystal sphere said to record the sky-splitting storms the mighty bird could summon.
By evening, after a hearty feast at a Texas-style barbecue joint, they finally strolled lazily out of the little town. Moments later, they mounted their broomsticks and soared into the night.
Arizona summers were blisteringly hot, and even at night, flying fast on a broom brought only a dry, heated wind.
They kept low—just ten or so meters off the ground—and half an hour passed without incident.
Then, over a vast plain scattered with the towering silhouettes of saguaro cacti, the earth split open.
Beams of magic burst upward, streaking toward them.
In a heartbeat, Tom leapt off his broom, wings of black feathers unfurling as he switched to a Flight Charm. With a sharp beat, he twisted through the air, narrowly dodging the spells hurled his way.
It seemed he was only being caught in the crossfire—those curses were misfired shots meant for Newt. The sheer number aimed at Newt was several times what came at him.
Newt yanked sharply upward on his broom to slow, and from his coat pocket wriggled out a tiny Occamy—one that swelled in an instant, its serpentine body thickening until it was broader than an ancient oak. The great creature coiled protectively around him, scales turning aside the curses without so much as a scratch… though the assault only enraged it.
The moment Newt landed safely, the Occamy surged forward, scattering the attackers with a single lash of its massive tail.
Newt's case snapped open, releasing a waiting force of magical beasts—a Graphorn, three Kneazles, and a deadly Nundu.
With a flick of Tom's hand, a blazing fireball tore through the night like a meteor, illuminating the battlefield and revealing their ambushers: eight wizards in position, with three more riding brooms hard out of the distant darkness.
The Occamy had two pinned immediately, the Nundu kept two more locked in place, while the Graphorn—slow but relentless—pressed down on one with its massive hooves, locking him in a battle of brute force. Meanwhile, the three Kneazles darted and split into duplicates, leaving the remaining attackers flailing helplessly.
Seeing that Newt had the situation well in hand, Tom's gaze shifted to the incoming reinforcements.
With a snap of his wings, he shot forward like an arrow. The broom-riding wizards fired at him mid-charge, but he weaved through their spells with predatory grace. In moments, he was on them.
He locked one attacker—the fastest—by the throat, yanked him clean off his broom, and slammed him into the hard ground.
The impact knocked the man out cold instantly.
"Leyn!" one of the others shouted, voice thick with a German accent.
Tom's eyes narrowed. Germans? He filed away the thought and kept moving.
"Piertotum Locomotor!"
With a sweeping whirl of his wand, a nearby saguaro cactus stirred to life. Its twin arms thickened into monstrous limbs, each palm bristling with dagger-like spines.
The shouting wizard hurled himself off his broom, tumbling across the ground in a desperate bid to escape the giant hand's strike—barely making it.
His companion wasn't so lucky. His broom darted aside, but his poor flying left one arm exposed; a cactus spine speared through it and wrenched him into the air. His scream tore across the night.
A Blasting Curse smashed apart another wizard's Shield Charm, and hidden in its shadow, a Stunner shot home with unerring precision.
In mere seconds, the would-be reinforcements were down—before their comrades on the ground could even breathe.
Tom didn't kill them. He wanted answers—specifically, who had sent them after Newt. A few conjured ropes bound the three together, and his wand disappeared into his robes.
Back on Newt's side of the field, the fight was ending. His seamless coordination with his beasts left the enemy overwhelmed and falling one by one.
When Tom returned with his captives, only a single wizard—a middle-aged man, the strongest of the lot—was still resisting. Apparition mid-battle had spared him from being boxed in, but that advantage ended the moment Tom laid down an Anti-Disapparition Jinx. The Occamy coiled him up in an instant.
They didn't Stun him—he was the only one left who could talk.
The man's glare was venomous. Newt's brows knitted tightly.
"Sir," Newt said, his voice firm but calm, "I don't believe I've met you before, nor had any dealings with your companions."
The man bared his teeth. "Scamander—be it fifty years or a hundred—the Saints will never let you go!"
Newt's face paled. And Tom's expression… turned oddly intrigued.