34The rest of his classes proceed as his first, his students asking him countless questions. They're more or less the same, easy ones he can answer and are memorized by his third day at Ilvermorny. He tells one or two lies to ward off suspicion when a child gets a smidge too interested, and, soon enough, he has a solid story with an acceptable amount of detail. And so, the first week passes without problem, as does the initial buzz about him. The students go from eyeing him in the hallways to nodding and uttering a quick, "Professor," before hurrying off to bigger and better things.
With one problem gone, another arises. Despite the Headmistress insisting that he's treated with utmost respect, the school is less accepting than the people living in it. Ilvermorny, though not as old as Hogwarts, is still a magical place, and takes to strangers as well as an Ukranian Ironbelly in heat- and, by all means, Newt is just that, an invading stranger.
And, like any beast presented with an unwanted stranger in their home, the school makes its opinion known. Loudly.
He gets turned around, ending up at dead ends where he's sure there should be a classroom, walking into the kitchen despite knowing that it's on the opposite side of the school, and, worst of all, repeatedly having the toilettes switched up. It's partly because the layout is strange to him, faring as well as a first-year, but he blames most of his pains to the actual school rather than his incompetencies.
The curtains try to strangle him if he gets too close, the tapestries always ready for a fight, and the windows love to open at the right moment to have a gust of wind blow his papers in disarray. His first trip to the library is an dangerous one, nearly resulting in him flattened by a towering shelf and tossed over the second story balcony by an angry armchair, and, no matter how hard he tries, he can't find the text he came in to find. He takes a particularly ridiculing fall when, halfway up a set of stairs, the steps meld into a slide and send him tumbling back to the first floor.
There are no students or faculty nearby to witness it, but the paintings have a good laugh at his expense.
Then there are the ghosts.
Where there are wizarding schools, there are sure to be ghosts- a common occurrence- integrated into school life no matter which continent one finds themselves on. Newt remembers his first year at Hogwarts and how the ghosts of the school surged into the Great Hall during the first dinner (Nearly Headless Nick was always popping through students' plates for a quick laugh).
He wonders why he hadn't seen any during his first night at Ilvermorny, only to get his answer on his way to Headmistress' office a few days later when, without precedence, a battle erupts around him. Misty figures armed with wands and swords appear quite suddenly and, before he realizes what's happening, charge at one another. There's no fear of being hurt, but walking through a ghost did leave one with chills and a weird, detached feeling, and Newt's not willing to find out what it feels like to have an incorporeal sword pass through him.
Thankfully, the Headmistress's office appears just when he needs it, giving him a the opportunity to escape, and the woman within merely gives him a bemused expression when he tells her of his encounter.
"Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Scamander," she tells him. "Just the dead reliving their glory days."
Newt learns to take it all in stride like one of his expeditions, Ilvermorny a type of beast that must be studied. Once he does that, life settles into a sort of familiar rhythm.
The school pesters him and he deals with it the best he can. Eventually, he gets the hang of stepping out the way of overeager doors swinging open and always has a spare box of chalk when his current one goes suspiciously missing. He learns to keep his ink jar away from his papers lest the table develops an in-the-moment limp and not laugh quite so loudly when he purposefully takes the banister down a spiraling staircase.
Despite the odd looks he gets, he takes his case wherever he goes within the castle. Can't have the off chance of someone finding it lying about, thinking it a good joke to make the newest teacher search high and low for his things. He doesn't want to think ill of anyone here, but he had been young once and, on occasion, had gone to great lengths to obtain what he needed for his and Leta's experiments (whether or not his professors knew of his use of their things).
Most days he keeps to himself, falling back to his case and his creatures. There he can't be pestered by confrontational ghosts that break out in brawls and raunchy noblewoman calling out from fancy frames. In his case, he knows every nook and cranny, navigating it with sure steps and a confidence he could only aspire to attain in the outside world.
However, he is a teacher and, even as a temporary substitute, is held up to a standard with responsibilities that force him to meet social requirements. The ever dreadful, faculty meetings.
That is where he meets a Porpentina Goldstein.
He's late to the teacher's meeting, tie askew and dried leaves stuck between the buttons of his vest. There are odd looks directed his way, but no one says anything about it, only carrying on with whatever they were discussing before he entered.
It takes merely a moment to find a seat near the back of the group and a moment longer to find himself completely bored when he takes the time to listen to what's being said. The Headmistress is there for a little while, vocalizing her trademark speech of unity and legacies for the school, before saying something about janitorial staff and transfers and making her way out; she gives him a secret smile as she leaves, pinching his elbow when she catches him growing distant. After that, it's all talk of new regulations and distributions of supplies.
Nothing interests him, so he observes the room instead. With how many classrooms there are, he supposed it only right to have one solely for the professors. A common room of sorts.
Like everywhere else in the school, the architecture is same, with no specific affiliation toward any particular house, the colors and style completely neutral. There's a fireplace like the one in his cottage, only bigger and far more elegant, and plush couches and armchairs settled around it. One or two unfamiliar teachers lounge there, while the rest of the staff are seated on the long tables across from the fireplace as they go from topic to topic until, finally, the meeting is adjourned.
He politely shakes his head when a large pot floats over to him from the counter by the doorway, spilling what he thinks is coffee over the arm of a sullen loveseat.
He'd never bothered to think about the social lives of his professors as very few of them took to him more than necessary. Now, as one himself, he's curious as to what goes on behind the scenes of encompassing lectures and rigid structure, and is severely disappointed when the meeting is no more exciting than his time spent behind his desk at the Ministry. He hears what he expects, outrageous tales of students (most of them ending with detentions), past and current, as well as discussions of homelife. The only thing remotely interesting is the recounting of a duel between two students, one that was settled out in the middle of the hallway not far from them.
He listens to his colleagues for a small amount of time before eagerly moving away, too bored to care about the less subtle looks of offense sent his way. One round about the room, then he makes for his cottage again and back into his case- his fwooper was coming down with a cold and it would be best if he got to making a remedy as soon as possible. He spots a lone woman sitting on a double armchair on his way out and something catches his eye. He wanders over, getting a good look at what she's holding when he's close enough. It's a newspaper.
The New York Ghost.
Interesting. Newt hadn't bothered with keeping up with current events (nor had he the luxury while deep in rainforests and deserts), only interested when a beast was mentioned. The constant attacks and muggle scares were often less than cheery, and he didn't bother joining the ranks of the millions of wizards fretting and worrying in their homes.
Someone clears their throat. "Can I help you?"
He looks up into eyes the color of freshly upturned dirt. A single eyebrow is raised, curious and expectant, and Newt feels heat creep up the back of his neck.
His cheek twitches. "No. I was just reading."
Hair brushes against her jaw when she tilts her head, looking almost… amused? As if to indulge him, she shows him the front page, the picture showcasing a burning building, small figures running away as flames roll into smoke.
"There's been multiple attacks these past few weeks," she explains. "MACUSA is still trying to identify the creature behind them."
"A creature?" he repeats.
"Yes. MACUSA is very sure about that. No human could cause this amount of damage."
Despite the unarguable tone, Newt isn't so sure. It was best not underestimate the damage a person, magical or not, could inflict. Headlessly disregarding a problem as being the result of a rampaging beast was an act his fellows wizards did easily and repeatedly, so he did his best to give the benefit of the doubt. If one only searched a little deeper, looking past the expected explanation, there was always a lead that came back to ignorant wizards throwing the care of magical creatures aside for their own benefit.
Newt realizes that woman is waiting for a response and he's been staring at her paper for longer than necessary. "Pardon my manners, I'm-"
"Newt Scamander. I know."
Ah, yes, he'd forgotten about his introduction to the whole school. "And you are?"
"Tina Goldstein." She offers him her hand, completely professional. They shake.
"Ms. Goldstein- is this fairly recent?" He motions to the article.
"It's the morning edition."
He nods, leaning in to see what the article said about this so-called beast. Sadly, there's nothing critically identifying. He expects as much, only a select few bothering to correctly educate themselves on magical creatures while the rest of the wizarding world merely applied the 'kill on sight' rule.
He wonders what it could be. Leprechauns are out of the question- they were prankster, yes, but never inflicted any lasting damage. Only a handful of doxies and pixies would be needed to cause chaos, but what the article suggested would mean hundreds of the little creatures and the two species could barely hold a group of twenty without mutiny.
Perhaps it was two separate species. Symbiotic companionship between animals, magical or not, happened in the wild, so the possibility of it being more than one creature isn't that farfetched. Newt couldn't name a pair of creatures that were this erratic on the top of his head, much less this close to civilization without having being trafficked by some wizard.
His eyes scrounge the rest of the page in hopes of finding anything than can shorten his list. One small section catches his eye.
"'Lingering Effects of Salemers Scandal-'" he reads aloud, squinting when he gets to where the paper begins to crinkle.
Without warning, the newspaper is ripped away. Newt blinks as Ms. Goldstein jumps from her seat and quickly folds the newspaper, jamming it under her armpit. Her lips are pulled in a fierce frown.
"It was wonderful talking to you, Mr. Scamander, but I have somewhere to be- so if you'll excuse me." She marches past him, expertly evading an insistent coffee pot and a jerky cup of sugar.
Newt watches her go, confused. He's fairly certain he did nothing to insult the woman, much less say anything to make her leave in such a hurry. Socializing with his kind was never something he was ecstatic about- unless it was directly related to a creature- but he doubts he's that inadequate when he's barely a year out of practice.
It must've have been due to their conversation, he guesses, but can't discern why.
No matter, he thinks, shaking his head. He has more important things to think about- self-appointed things like the deducing what kind of magical creature would be wreaking havoc in small towns in America.
Theseus would help, only an Owl away. If anything, his brother will merely think he's on the tail of some evasive creature (which he could be) and won't ask him for his sudden interest.
Already a plan is forming in his mind, his interest piqued by these unusual attacks and his stubbornness pushing him to figure it out himself. This isn't what he expected when coming to Ilvermorny, but he can't complain, not when it gives him the opportunity to aid a misplaced creature. He doesn't believe in fate, but chance seems to have set him in America alongside these strange happenings and he'll make use of this opportunity as much as he can.
With that in mind, he sets off, a certain spring in his step.
While the faculty don't pry, the students are at that age where they find no problem asking him questions that would normally be off limits to teachers. Clearly, as it was at Hogwarts, he's the oddball, the Englishman thrown in the middle of an American melting pot, and that opens him to countless questionnaires.
One beats all others: "What's in your case anyway? You always have it with you."
It's the fifth time the question has been asked during two class periods and he knows it won't be the last. The object is too prominent to shrug off as insignificant and, as no matter how many times he opens it to show them the ordinary clutter stuffed in its safety setting, they are too clever to take his falsities at face value.
"Nothing special," is the designated response, along with the common misdirection.
This time it's a presentation of sorts.
He drags his stool to the center of the classroom, motioning for the students to get out of their seats. "Gather around."
They follow his order, shuffling until he is surrounded by a sea of faces, all turned toward him, expecting. It is unnerving for all of a second before he feels a small nudge against his chest.
"Pickett," he calls, tapping his top pocket. There's a squeak and he sees the top of a leafy head, but nothing more. "Come now, Pickett, don't be shy."
Another squeak, but the bowtruckle does peak out from his vest.
Instantly, the class is enamored and a few of the girls squeal when they catch sight of him. The rest of the students bunch closer for a better look as the bowtruckle comes out more. With a little more prodding, Pickett climbs out into the open, crawling up to stand on his shoulder. The creature rests one slender hand against Newt's neck, making a familiar bridge between them.
"Pickett, here, is a bowtruckle," he informs them, knowing that his friend doesn't fit this year's criteria, but deciding the lesson must be taught regardless. "They are very handy and can pick almost any lock you put in from of them."
There is more gushing and it makes something warm and soft float in his chest.
"Can I…?" one of the girls ask. She reaches out, only to pull back a half second later (Newt's glad- his previous lecture about personal boundaries for different creatures must've gotten through to someone).
"Certainly."
Pickett lets out an alarmed squeal and hooks his spindly fingers around Newt's ear, fixating himself there as if Newt was intending to give him away for good.
"Pickett- Pick- he has some attachment issues," he explains in an effort to console the rejected girl when he attempts to pick up the creature, a pinch of pain pricking his lobe in response. He gives an exasperated sigh and gives up, ignoring the smug shimmy his tiny friend does. "Which is exactly why I'm accused of favoritism."
Pickett blows him a raspberry, but lets go of his ear now that he's not being abandoned (honestly, Newt would never).
"Now that is beneath you," he says as the students laugh. Still, he smiles.
The bowtruckle makes its way down the length of his arm, gazing at the students surrounding him almost anxiously. Neurotic is a word that can describe Pickett at times, insecure and shy at others; the amount of time he's spent in the outside world and away from his branch exceeds any of the other bowtruckles and still Pickett isn't all too open to strangers. Newt lifts his hand, palm up, and Pickett scurries to it.
"I saved him and his branch from a logging site. Bowtruckles are tree guardians. Anyone have a guess as to what that entails?"
"They guard trees?"
Newt nods at the half-hearted answer. "They take care of one tree and one tree only. Once they've chosen one, they won't leave it. It's one of the reasons why deforestation poses such a problem to them specifically."
"Can't we just move the tree somewhere else?" a Wampus girl asks.
"Yes, that would be easier, wouldn't it? More efficient as well, if taken straightforward. But," he says quickly when he sees more heads nodding in agreement, "what would you say if I told you that, more often than not, bowtruckles claim trees such as hornbeam, rosewood and even the ever evasive elder tree?"
He can see the realization hit.
His wand is out and spun between nimble fingers, distracting the little bowtruckle for a span of two seconds before Newt's knuckles grow more interesting. "For those unaware, these are examples of wand wood. Most of the time, it's rather easy to get the wood and bark. Simply offer some woodlice- fairy eggs if you have some- to placate the bowtruckles and they'll allow you to take what you need."
He tucks his chin. "Except… sometimes that's not enough. The wand making industry is rather large and in constant demand with every witch and wizard born- and it is far easier to get rid of these creatures and take the tree entirely- which means that Pickett here is considered less important."
He wiggles his fingers and Pickett lets out a high pitched squeak as he swings, enjoying himself.
"As you can see, Pickett doesn't know that I am, biologically, the same as all of you. He doesn't care- he's already claimed me as, what I perceive to be, his new tree and, if offered the choice, would choose to stay with me even as I lay dying." He pauses, head cocked as he stares at his small friend. "Very loyal creatures, bowtruckles."
Pickett slips, but Newt is there to catch him with his other hand, gently setting him back on his shoulder. Not a moment later, the green creature is snuggled under his collar, safe and warm.
He looks up at his students, watching the ribbons of thought catch their attention. He offers a small smile.
"Just a sickle for your thoughts."
Newt sees the accursed thing on his second week at Ilvermorny, both in the hands of students and laying ominously on their desks. Something he hasn't trusted since he'd been forced to utilize during his Hogwarts days and wishes he didn't see in his classroom.
Bestarium Magicum.
He has his own copy, but he's marked it up so thoroughly with his own notes, that's it nearly impossible to decipher the original text. Sometimes, if he's feeling especially spiteful, he'll accidentally drop it in the path of his giant dung beetles.
"Rubbish." He hands the book back to the student, a strawberry blond boy of wiry build, whom he has borrowed it from and makes his way to his desk. He has the urge to wipe his hands clean. "We will not be using the book. I apologize that you had to buy the new edition, but I had only been asked to teach two weeks prior the semester starting."
The boy, whose name escaped him at the moment- Edward, maybe? Or could it have been Brandon?- speaks up with furrowed brows. "Is something wrong with it?"
"That's depends. Most wizards would say no, but I find this book severely lacking. For example, while its description of the limax is adequate, its account of its behavior is less so."
"Limax?"
"Air-breathing land slugs- terrestrial pulmonate gastropod mollusk in the Limacidae family," he says, pretending he can actually see his words enter one ear and shoot out the other. With a wave of his wand a piece of chalk floats to the board and begins a rudimentary sketch of the creature. "Imagine a hammer head with a snake-like body and four arms. It has no natural way of defending itself, so it often bears handmade weapons. The only creature of its intelligence level to do so."
"What kind of weapons?"
"Oh, anything it can get its hands on. It'll take a quill right out of your hands if it feels like it has to." The corner of his lips twitch. "If I remember correctly, that's how the first attempt at observation went- threatened Professor Briggs of Cambridge with his own butter knife."
One or two students laugh.
"It says it's paranoid," Emil Johnson says, a constant presence in the seat next to the window, looking through his book. He flips a page. "That's it."
"Yes, and rightly so. It has many predators and is constantly on the move. Because it is suspicious of all creatures, the females will often fight off the advancing males. Once they do mate, they will form a partnership until their young is old enough to fend for itself. After that, the family will go their separate ways indefinitely."
"That's so sad," says a skinny boy in the front.
Newt shakes his head. "Creatures mate solely for the continuation of their species. Humans are the oddballs, searching out partners for the chance of an emotional connection."
"So they don't love each other?"
"The mind of a beast is very different than a human, so the way they perceive and think varies from how we do. What we consider love may not fit what a manticore considers necessary for a mateship," he says, noticing the interest of the rest of the class, even the students who don't usually follow along, shifting towards him. "It depends on the creature in question. While most species of dragons are promiscuous and don't form pair bonds, hippogriffs mate for life- as do owls and unicorns. When observing each, you can see the difference in their level of affection, as well as how close it mirrors that of a human."
"But you said they don't feel love like we do."
He didn't plan for the conversation to turn philosophical, but he'll admit that he's enjoying it. Questions meant they were interested. "I never said that. I merely stated that it's a highly debatable topic depending on the constructs one has for love."
"So what do you think?"
Newt stalls for a moment. He shouldn't impose his views on them, but leave them to make their own opinions. That's the professional way- the appropriate way. That's the way most of his professors handled the question when he was first learning the subject.
Bugger his professors. He isn't like them and would teach as he pleases.
"I believe we all have similar instincts at a basic level. I believe that they feel pain as we do, can be happy or angry, have likes of their own. They are as complex as you and I- so what's to say they don't love."
They find his answer adequate.
The discussion continues long after class is over.
A/N: I thought I'd posted this chapter last week, but, apparently, I didn't. Sorry for the way- my bad.