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He Was His Father


Minerva McGonagall was diligently signing the letters going out to the new elevens for the months of July and August - the last batch of acceptance letters she would need to address for the September term, when there was a CRACK and one of the Hogwarts house elves stood before her desk with a wide-eyed expression, worrying the flour sack he wore. “Miss. McGonagall, ma’m,” the little elf squeaked, “The Headmaster requests an audience with you -- immediately. He says there’s no time to waste.” And the elf disappeared.

McGonagall hurriedly put her quill aside and got up, leaving her office swiftly, rushing down the corridor, past the suits of armor. She hurried up the stairs to the stone gargoyles two floors above and told them, “Toffee creams!” and they jumped aside and she stepped onto the floating staircase.

Dumbledore’s face was pale when McGonagall stepped through the door. He was standing by the basin of ashes beneath Fawkes’s perch, his forehead touching the bird’s, his hands stroking the feather, and he turned when McGonagall entered the room. “I came as quickly as I could,” she said, panting slightly.

“Thank you, Minerva,” Dumbledore said, and his voice was weak. He took a deep breath, “I shall be needing to take leave of the school for sometime,” he said, “And I wanted to give you some instruction before I left for the start of term…”

“The start of term?” she looked surprised, “That’s over a month away, Albus.”

“I’m afraid the business I have to deal with will take at least that long, Minerva,” Dumbledore replied.

“What business?” McGonagall asked with narrow eyes.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. He turned and walked to the desk and lifted the parchment that had been delievered to him no less than ten minutes before. His eyes were watery when he turned back to her, and he held out the scroll.

McGonagall opened it.

Come quickly, the parchment read simply. She moved it. Beneath was a second sheet.

A death certificate, freshly inked.

She looked up.

“I’ve been asked to go to comfort him, Minerva,” Dumbledore’s voice shook.

McGonagall covered her mouth, reading over the certificate with leaking eyes. She looked up at Dumbledore, her hand shaking. “Oh no,” she said, trembling. “No.”

Dumbledore nodded heavily. “He will be devastated.”

McGonagall’s cheeks streamed with tears. “Of course: he was his father.”

“You’ll need to watch the castle, mind that Hagrid doesn’t get into too much trouble with that dog of his - it’s getting quite a lot larger than I think any of us expected, as you know, and be sure the house elves have the dormitories prepared. See to it that the trolley for the Express is stocked properly - last term I heard there were children that didn’t get any ---”

“Albus,” McGonagall interrupted. “I have this under control.”

Dumbledore hesitated, then nodded, and said, “I trust that you do, Minerva.”




Hours later, Albus Dumbledore walked through the doors of the hospital, his robes swishing about his feet. The reception witch pointed him the way he needed to go and he climbed the stairs, cleaning his halfmoon glasses as he went. He walked through the door of the incurable diseases department…

The room was dark.

The curtains drawn to block the sun.

Dumbledore walked across the room and laid a palm on the shoulder of the dark haired witch sitting beside the bed, staring numbly at the body that lay before her.

“I am so very sorry for your loss,” he said heavily.

A choking sob came from deep inside her. And Tina Scamander stood up and embraced Dumbledore silently, her body shaking. His arms enclosed her and he patted her back as she sobbed.

“I never thought - I couldn’t imagine - even when the mediwizards said -” Tina choked the words.

“We never believe it is possible to lose a loved one,” Dumbledore said, “Our hearts and minds do not allow us to see that sort of terrible instance in our futures.” He sighed. “Especially a child.”

Tina nodded against Dumbledore’s chest.

Dumbledore’s eyes met Bradley’s - the little boy sat in a chair in the dark, a few steps away from where Tina’s chair was. The boy hugged the Niffler, who snuggled in the boy’s arms and absently picked at a shiny zipper pull at the neck of the boy’s jumper. Bradley looked away from Dumbledore, his face downcast.

“Where is Newt, Tina?”

“In the case. He refuses to come out.”

“How is he?”

Tina looked up at Dumbledore with wide, watery eyes. “Albus,” she whispered. “It’s bad.”




Every vial in the potion cabinet was smashed.

Every last one.

That was the first detail Dumbledore noticed - the shattered glass of the vials and the dripping potions that covered the counter and the floor of the little laboratory shed. The table was overturned, pages torn from books, the door wide open, swinging on it’s hinges. Great sounds from the disturbed creatures echoed out into the little shed and Dumbledore walked carefully through the mess, out onto the steps and found that curtains from habitats had been torn down and a good deal of the niffler’s shiny objects had been cast to the floor in great gold and silver splashes. A wheel barrow of feed had tipped, large pellets spilled everywhere and the adventurous moon calves stood huddled about the spillage, nibbling all they could get.

It took Dumbledore several moments to spot the tails of Newt Scamander’s trench coat hanging from the hole in the demiguise’s nest.

He walked over slowly, careful not to trod on any of the tiny creatures that had gathered about the nest. Bowtruckles sat around the mouth of the door, laying on their bellies to look in over the crest. The erumpent had come as close as she could, her horn glowing with emotion as she stared, grunting and harumphing in the direction of the nest. A fwooper perched upon the top of the nest, and a baby hippogriff stood waving its wings nervously. A little tebo grunted and nudged Dumbledore in the leg with his great horned snout, blinking up at him with a worried little expression. Several of the bowtruckles started gesturing desperately for Dumbledore to come closer, and it sounded, as they squeaked, that they were asking for help.

“Newt?” Dumbledore stepped up to the nest, peering inside. Newt Scamander was curled into a ball, arms wrapped about his knees, holding his feet, staring straight ahead. Dougal sat, Newt’s head in his lap, stroking Newt’s hair fondly with long, shaggy fingers. He looked up and saw Dumbledore and slowly faded into invisibility, shy. “Newt,” Dumbledore said, and he put his palm on Newt Scamander’s back.

The fwooper flew down and perched on Dumbledore’s shoulder.

Newt Scamander did not move.

He did blink, though.

Dumbledore sighed. “I came as quickly as I could, Newt. As soon as I heard.”

Pickett the bowtruckle had crawled out of Newt’s pocket - a rare occurrence, given how old and shy Pickett was these days - and he sat on the straw dappling Newt’s eyes with a handkerchief, his little leaves quaking as he moved.

Newt blinked again.

“I’m here, Mr. Scamander, and I do not plan to leave.” His voice was quiet, “I’m here, whenever you are ready to talk.” Dumbledore looked about and found a bounder that had been pushed over by one of the beetles and he sat and waited alongside all of the creatures.