Kneazles are intelligent creatures.
They also have long lifespans.
Scamander loved these fascinating little beings—especially as he got older and his body no longer responded as swiftly. In his work with magical creatures, such companions became indispensable. They could detect the emotions of unfamiliar beasts—whether friendly or hostile, dangerous or safe—and even help to soothe them.
Everyone in the house was drawn by the unusual behavior of the kneazles.
This species rarely showed such a state.
Though they carried the name "cat" and closely resembled them, Kneazles were classed as XXXX magical beasts—dangerous. Creatures like lions or tigers, many times their size, would not stand a chance against one.
And these weren't just any kneazles.
They were Scamander's kneazles.
Living alongside him meant encountering rare and dangerous creatures—Thunderbirds, Horned Serpents, Nundu. These particular kneazles had even lived with dragons for years.
They had seen it all.
"Hobbie?"
"Millie?"
Scamander spoke, puzzled.
"Is there something bad outside the door?"
Not even when Norbert—a dangerous but charming Norwegian Ridgeback—had been brought home had his three kneazles acted this nervous.
The three didn't bother with him, staring fixedly at the door.
"More dangerous than Norbert?" he asked.
One turned its head and gave a sharp, irritated yowl.
"I'm afraid we can't stay here," Scamander said, rising to his feet. With a wave of his wand, an old suitcase flew from the other room. As it hovered, the food on the table shifted to make space.
Clack!
The suitcase opened.
"Inside, quickly," Scamander said curtly. "Looks like this won't be a very merry Christmas."
The kneazles leapt into the case.
Two Nifflers emerged from a corner, grabbing shiny ornaments along the way—they knew Scamander wouldn't scold them now.
His children and grandchildren followed, clearly familiar with the process.
"Take care of yourself," his wife, Tina Goldstein, said as she approached the suitcase. "I have a very bad feeling."
"Write to Dumbledore from inside," Scamander nodded. Once the last bundle had tumbled inside, he shut the case with a snap—right as the door burst open, wood flying everywhere.
A troop of black-armored knights stormed in.
The air filled with frigid wind and frost.
Leading them was a figure holding a long staff—one of the Wild Hunt's navigators, the golden boy of the Aen Elle: Caranthir.
"You must be the Wild Hunt Dumbledore mentioned," Scamander said, raising his wand.
"Newt Scamander, the renowned magizoologist?" Caranthir also raised his staff. His voice was rough and menacing. "You possess many rare magical creatures."
"Do not resist. Before us—"
Scamander cut him off, wand still raised. "So you really are. A pleasure to meet you."
"And now—goodbye."
With a flick of his wand—
Apparition!
The world knew Scamander as an expert in magical creatures. Few knew he was also a master of Apparition.
Caranthir's staff burst with light—
But the spell failed. Scamander was gone.
"I disrupted him. He won't get far," Caranthir said, his voice briefly glitching. "I marked him."
He was surprised.
This was the first person who had successfully escaped via Apparition. Although they'd only dealt with three targets so far—
The first two had tried Apparition too.
But with his studies of this world's spatial magic, Caranthir had developed counterspells. They'd worked perfectly—until now. His experience told him that if it worked on the first two, it should've worked on the third.
He recalled something Crouch had written in their spellbooks: magic in this world is powered by the strength of the soul.
The same spell.
But wielded by different souls, it could have entirely different effects—even different natures.
Could this be one of the reasons?
He waved his wand to open a portal.
—
In a remote field in Dorset—
Space twisted.
With a sharp crack, Scamander appeared mid-air, flailing.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
He shouted, wand raised, casting a levitation spell to soften his fall, landing in a clumsy tumble.
First instinct: assess the surroundings.
No Muggles. No sign of the Wild Hunt.
Relieved, he opened the suitcase. An owl immediately burst out, wings flapping, flying rapidly northward. Reaching in, he grabbed a potion, uncorked it, drank—it eased the pain from his fall. After all, he was over a hundred years old. His body wasn't what it used to be.
He raised his wand.
A portal opened before him.
A milky white light spread out, distorting the surrounding space and forming a pocket dimension.
Apparition!
Scamander didn't hesitate. He cast again.
No thought of counterattack.
He was running—waiting for a moment when the Hunt couldn't track him, or for Dumbledore to rescue him.
The Hunt pursued.
They caught up—every time.
Until the fifth Apparition.
Scamander fell again, this time less lucky—he landed in a city. The hard concrete street inflicted even more damage.
SCREECH!
A car skidded to a halt.
The driver stared in shock at the two-story shop thirty feet from the road. How could a man just fall out of the sky?
A portal opened.
The Wild Hunt emerged.
Frost and bitter cold swept out.
Scamander, propping himself up, glanced at the car and the pedestrians along the street. The Ministry was in for it now—why did this kind of thing always happen to him?
Escape?
Unlikely now.
He raised his wand. A nearby fence warped, transformed into a giant fist, and slammed toward the Wild Hunt.
Hopefully the urban chaos would draw the Aurors here quickly.
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Powerstones?
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