Deep in the Siberian tundra, even July carried a biting chill. Viktor Scamander's breath turned to white mist in the pre-dawn cold.
He crouched at the boundary where the mossy plain met a thin scattering of conifers, narrowing his grey-green eyes toward the valley ahead.
Down there, three heavily modified magical sleighs glided past in utter silence—both Silencing Charms and Levitation Charms layered thick over their frames.
In the bottom-right corner of his vision, visible only to him, a semi-transparent system panel flickered:
[Mission: Protect the Siberian Poison-Horned Herd (In Progress)]
[Targets: International Poachers ×6]
[Partner: Tom — Ready]
Seeing "Tom — Ready" made the corner of Viktor's mouth lift slightly.
Tom—the very first, and by far the most outrageous yet dependable partner he'd drawn from the "Magical Creature Master" system that awakened on his eighteenth birthday.
Seven years of globetrotting later, this blue-grey shorthair cat—who couldn't speak a word but whose expressions and gestures broke every law of physics—had become his most trusted companion through countless close calls.
"The poison-horns are just on the far side of the valley," Viktor murmured, fingers unconsciously stroking the wand in his hand.
"These idiots have no idea… summer is when the Siberian poison-horn's horn magic is at peak activity. Makes them more dangerous, not less."
Before he finished the sentence, Tom—topped with an enormous, fluffy bearskin hat—poked his head out from behind a boulder. The cat's face pulled off an utterly theatrical "shocked" expression.
Eyes wide as saucers, whiskers ramrod straight, ears flattened backward under the hat brim like airplane wings.
One furry paw clapped over his own mouth; the other pointed dramatically at the poachers, then mimed a chain of explosions, finished by thumping his chest, rolling his eyes back, sticking out his tongue, and flopping dramatically flat on the ground.
Viktor fought back a laugh. "Got it. They're about to blow themselves sky-high."
Hearing the confirmation, Tom sprang upright in an instant, gave a satisfied nod, and the bearskin hat wobbled gently with the motion.
From behind his back he produced a drowsy Niffler—Little Miser Mac still clutching a glittering Russian Ministry of Magic badge in both paws like it was the One Ring.
Tom poked Mac's belly, then struck a classic "what am I going to do with you" shrug. The hat nearly slid off; he slapped it back into place with one paw.
A sudden BOOM echoed from the valley floor. Viktor's gaze sharpened.
"Here we go. Tom—Plan A."
Tom's eyes bugged out cartoonishly. Steam—actual cartoon steam—puffed from both ears like train whistles. His hind legs pistoned against the ground, body coiling like a spring, and then—
Whoosh!
He became a blue-grey blur. The bearskin hat stayed glued to his head against all wind resistance as he charged in a posture that laughed at biology.
All four legs spun like windmills, gouging twin furrows through the tundra, kicking up a three-metre plume of dust behind him.
Halfway there he deliberately slid into a muddy patch, let his body go limp like wet paper, got caught by the wind, spun seven-and-a-half perfect aerial rotations, stuck the landing flawlessly, straightened the hat with one paw, and offered Viktor an extravagant theatrical bow.
Viktor had long since grown used to the sheer ridiculousness.
He moved at the same moment, tapping his temple lightly with the wand.
"Hyper-Senses."
The instant the charm took hold, the world snapped into razor-sharp focus.
Seven years of hard-earned combat instincts locked the overwhelming new perception under perfect control.
He could hear the poacher leader's hoarse barked orders.
He could see the panic-red glow pulsing dangerously along the poison-horns' forehead spikes as the herd reacted to the intruders.
While every poacher's attention locked onto the clustered herd, Viktor was already gone from his original spot.
Three short Apparitions through rock shadows later, he materialized beside the lead sleigh.
"Stupefy!"
A clean red bolt caught the driver square in the back of the skull.
"Enemy attack!" Wands snapped up in panic.
Viktor had already read their playbook.
These ones screamed Greek black-market crew—preference for quick, nasty, small-scale Dark curses.
Three inky-black hexes screamed toward him. He swayed just enough to let them whistle past; the one aimed dead-center got flicked aside with a casual wand twist.
"He's right th—argh!"
The second poacher never finished. The ground under his boots simply vanished.
Tom's tunnel opened at the perfect second.
The bearskin-hatted menace launched out of the hole in an exaggerated ballet pirouette, planting one hind paw straight into the man's face with enough force to spin him three full rotations before he hit dirt. The hat never budged an inch.
Tom landed, immediately held up both paws showing all ten claws—full marks. Eyes blinking cutely, head tilted, the bearskin hat gave a proud little shimmy as golden cartoon sparkles burst above him spelling out "10 POINTS!!"
"Watch out!" Viktor called.
A Severing Curse sliced clean through Tom.
The cat's body parted neatly in two—upper half still wearing the hat and grinning smugly, lower half tap-dancing in place.
Next instant the halves snapped back together with a magnetic pop. Tom even took a second to adjust the hat brim.
Then he shot the stunned poacher a truly vicious death-glare.
Viktor had no time to enjoy the show.
The poison-horn herd was fully riled. Seven adults tore at the earth, forehead horns blazing deep crimson—the unmistakable prelude to a lethal charge.
"Mac!"
On cue the brown-black Niffler streaked from nowhere, zeroing in on the leader's bait pouch at his belt.
Mac was a black streak too fast to follow. When he zipped back to Viktor's shoulder the pouch had been swapped for a custom sedative dust packet… and six shiny silver buttons now gleamed in the Niffler's greedy paws.
The decoy pouch detonated. Pale blue dust billowed outward.
The poison-horns inhaled it. Madness slowly faded from their eyes.
"No!" the leader roared, wand swinging toward Viktor. "Avada—"
The Killing Curse died in his throat.
Tom had appeared silently behind him, hefting an enormous oak log that had definitely not been there a second earlier—and brought it down on the man's skull like a cartoon sledgehammer.
A thunderous CRACK. Nearby trees and poison-horns alike bounced like they were on a trampoline.
The poacher accordioned under the blow—eyes spiralling into cartoon swirls—then flopped bonelessly to the ground.
Tom shouldered the hammer (bigger than he was), struck a classic home-run batter pose: one leg planted, the other cocked high, paw shading his eyes under the hat brim as he tracked an imaginary ball sailing into the distance.