Theo first heard his full name spoken on a rainy afternoon.
He was seated near the window, knees drawn up, watching droplets race each other down the glass. The sky outside was a dull, patient grey—the kind that felt as though it would rain all day without ever deciding to stop. The suitcase rested nearby, closed but humming softly, its familiar presence grounding him.
Newt stood at the table, sorting parchment. Tina's voice drifted from the kitchen, low and calm.
"Theodore Theseus Scamander," she said.
Theo flinched.
Not outwardly. Not noticeably. But something inside him tightened, sharp and unfamiliar. No one ever called him that. He was Theo. Always Theo. The name Tina had used felt heavier, fuller, like a coat meant for someone taller.
Newt turned slowly, eyes soft behind his glasses. "He's old enough to hear it properly now."
Theo didn't look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on the rain.
"Theseus," he repeated quietly, testing the sound of it.
Tina came to sit beside him, not touching, just close enough to be there. "It was chosen carefully," she said. "Both parts were."
Theo waited. He had learned that silence made adults speak more honestly.
"Your father was Elias Scamander," Newt said gently. "My brother's son."
Theo knew that much. Elias was a name that existed only in photographs and pauses in conversation. A presence defined by absence.
"And your mother," Tina continued, "was Maribel Hawthorne. She became Maribel Scamander when they married."
Theo nodded slowly. The names settled in his mind like stones dropped into still water, sending quiet ripples outward.
"They were kind," Tina said. "Thoughtful. Careful."
Too careful, Theo thought—but he didn't say it.
"They worked with magical creature transport," Newt added. "Negotiation. Relocation. Protection."
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
"They believed," Tina said after a pause, "that most people could be reasoned with."
Theo's fingers curled slightly into his sleeve.
That was the part he already knew—not in words, but in shape. Kindness that stopped just short of caution. Hope that lingered a moment too long.
"They were ambushed by smugglers," Newt continued. His voice didn't shake. That somehow made it heavier. "Your parents hesitated. They tried to talk. To de-escalate."
Theo swallowed.
"They could have escaped," Tina said quietly. "They chose not to. Not right away."
Because they thought mercy mattered more than safety.
Theo didn't remember them. Not their faces. Not their voices. Not fear in their eyes. That absence had always bothered him—not because he wanted the memory, but because everyone else seemed to carry it for him.
"I don't feel anything," he said suddenly.
Tina's breath caught, just slightly.
"When you talk about them," Theo clarified. "I don't feel sad. Or angry. It's just… quiet."
Newt crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes. "That's all right."
"Is it?" Theo asked.
"Yes," Newt said firmly. "You were very young. Grief doesn't always arrive loudly. Sometimes it waits."
Theo looked back out the window.
"And Theseus?" he asked. "Why is that my middle name?"
Newt hesitated.
"That was your father's choice," he said. "He admired my brother deeply."
Theo had met Theseus Scamander only a handful of times. Tall. Straight-backed. His presence filled rooms without demanding attention. He spoke little. When he did,
"Theseus believes," Tina said carefully, "that hesitation can be deadly."
Theo absorbed that.
"Your name," Newt said, "was meant to remind you of balance. Compassion and resolve. Care and action."
Theo considered that, staring at the rain until the lines blurred.
Theodore Theseus Scamander.
It felt like a weight—but not an unwanted one. More like a promise he hadn't agreed to yet.
Later that evening, Theo sat alone beside the suitcase. He opened it slowly, letting the golden light wash over him.
Twig twitched its fingers in greeting. Shimmer peeked out from behind its hoard. Lum glowed softly. Twitch lifted its head, eyes sharp and assessing.
Theo rested his hands on the edge and spoke quietly.
"My name is Theodore," he said.
The creatures didn't react—and that was somehow comforting.
"But you can still call me Theo," he added.
He watched them move, behave, exist without expectation. They didn't care about names beyond recognition. They didn't carry legacies. They responded only to presence and action.
Theo closed the suitcase gently.
As he lay in bed that night, the rain finally easing, he repeated the names silently in his mind.
Elias Scamander.
Maribel Scamander.
Theseus.
Theodore.
They no longer felt like ghosts.
They felt like echoes.
And echoes, Theo knew, could guide—or warn—depending on how carefully you listened.