A Portrait of the Magizoologist as a Young Man

“You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
[For indeed I do not love it … you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!]
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you—
Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!”
- T.S. Eliot, "Portrait of a Lady"

Chapter One: Ministry Men

"Would it be all right if I knock off a bit early, sir?"

"Hrm? Oh, yes, yes, run along," a portly, middle-aged wizard said dismissively through his thick moustache. He didn't raise his eyes from Newt Scamander's report, which he had hovering away from himself at some distance so that he might read it properly, and swiveled in his chair to take better advantage of the light spilling in from the leaded glass window.

"Thanks, sir. Have a pleasant weekend." Newt backed stiffly out of the room, closing the door behind him. His shoulders slumped as the latch clicked into place, and he set off for his own tiny office, his lonely footsteps resounding down the corridor. Newt now had two days ahead of him free from the stuffy constraint of his workplace. Only two days. How very depressing.

For over two years now, he had worked as an assistant to Mr. Grutch in the Office of House-Elf Relocation. Newt's father, a retired Ministry employee, had pulled every string within reach to secure him a job in the Magical Creatures department. Mr. Scamander was a man of some respect, a pure-blood and old money, but he was also of a mild disposition; though he may have pulled strings, the son would have benefited had his father done so with greater force. And thus Newt's life was filled with the squeaky voice and poor grammar of the British house-elf. Usually it was his position to find them new homes in the aftermath of clothes, but the report he had just handed in was a bit different and involved the placement of Natty, whose previous owner had died at the age of one hundred and sixty-three, leaving no heirs and a frightfully outdated will.

"All good there?" Henry Kettleburn called as he strolled up to Newt, who had just then reached his office door.

"Oh yes. How go the centaurs?"

Henry shrugged, brushing his overgrown brown fringe from his eyes. He looked as though he had just awakened from a rather lengthy nap. "Today is day two hundred and ninety-two of Not a Damned Thing Happening in the Centaur Liaison Office, not including weekends, holidays and any Mondays I've, um, owled in ill. So they're just fine, I reckon." Like Newt, Henry had erred in allowing his relations to secure his post-Hogwarts employment; it had been his uncle Ferdinand's eccentric friend, Aberforth, who had rustled up the tremendously dull job.

Newt smiled sympathetically. "Still keeping track, are you?"

"Well, you know, there's little else to do, though I did finish the Prophet crossword in record time."

"That's something, then."

"Not really." Henry frowned. "It only leaves me more time to practice my thumb twiddling. But anyway, are you done for the day? Care for a pint?"

"Of course. I'll just pop in and grab my cloak."

Minutes later, the two young men stepped out of the Ministry of Magic offices and into a shaft of waning afternoon sunlight that slipped down between the tall buildings crowding the alley. As a child, Newt had always imagined that the interior of the Ministry consisted of long, bright marbled corridors, the very picture of justice and progress and other noble things. In reality, it was like most other magical establishments: dusty, a bit dim, smelling faintly of mold, and lined with heavy stone and wood paneling. Although he was loath to admit it, it had all been something of a letdown. Newt breathed in deeply now, relishing the crisp early autumn air and, with Henry close behind, plunged into the milling four o'clock crowd, heading in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron.

While Newt had placed the finishing touches on his report, securing his parchment with the brown grosgrain ribbon that adorned all official documents of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Porpentina Pringle had toiled away in a rear office of the Obscurus Books publishing firm, located at 18a Diagon Alley. Dipping her quill once more into a well of scarlet ink, she marked a thick, clear line through a sentence of the manuscript that lay before her. She paused, reaching up beneath her wire-rimmed spectacles to rub her eyes before contemplating the next page.

The Wit-Sharpening Potion is a wonderful way to clear the senses and focus the mind; it's a simple concoction of readily available flora and fauna. Scarab beetle, armadillo bile and ginger root are the primary ingredients; a steady, controlled temperature is important, too...

Having been assigned to edit entries beginning with the letters N through Z of a recently commissioned reference book, Magical Drafts and Potions, she had been muddling through the latter half of the alphabet for some time now. Arsenius Jigger was certainly a thorough researcher and a talented Potions master, but Porpentina felt his writing wanted improvement. Although she appreciated the refresher course in Potions she had been receiving, she had long since tired of his abuse of the semi-colon. It seemed to her that Jigger must have applied the Imperius Curse to his punctuation marks in order to maneuver them into such unwieldy positions.

Porpentina removed a small timepiece from her pocket. It was four-fifteen, which meant forty-five minutes of drudgery remained. Her eyes glazed over and the watch face drifted out of focus; that scant three quarters of an hour felt to her like an eternity.

A rushing sound suddenly joined the crackling of the fire in the hearth, and a young woman's face appeared in the flames, spinning to a stop.

"Having a kip, are we, Penny?" Jocunda Sykes's low, ebullient voice broke the drowsy hush of the office, a wry smile twisting her mouth.

Porpentina's body jerked with surprise at the sound of her friend's voice. "What? You shouldn't startle me like that. And don't be silly, of course I was awake," she replied, rising and coming around to the front of her desk.

"Whatever you say. Anyway, I've just snuck away for a moment to see if you'd like to have dinner out this evening."

"Oh, well, actually, I have plans, so don't worry about me."

"Ooh, what's this? Dining with your beau, are you? You really should tell me these things--Wha-a-at?" Jocunda's face disappeared and was subsequently replaced by her right shoulder and a long tangle of dark hair. Porpentina remained standing patiently before the hearth, running her hand along the feather of her quill. A moment later, Jocunda's face swung back around, exasperated.

"Something foul's afoot at the Quidditch shop?"

"I've got to run. Some little monster's upset a basket of Snitches and set them flitting around downstairs," Jocunda said, rolling her eyes. "Too bad none of us was ever a Seeker. You couldn't pass up dinner to help out, I suppose? Ah, well, anyway, have a nice evening. Perhaps I'll see you tonight, if we ever sort out this mess."

"Good luck."

Jocunda's face vanished and then quickly reappeared again. "And Penny, be sure to scrub your hands before you meet Valerius. You look like Lady Macbeth."

"Who?" Porpentina looked down at her ink-stained fingers.

Jocunda made an impatient clucking sound. "How do you expect to be a writer when you don't know Shakespeare?"

"Oh, right." Porpentina really ought to have guessed about Lady Macbeth. Jocunda was always spouting off about one Muggle thing or another. "Oh! Your Snitches!"

And with that reminder, Jocunda disappeared from the fire for the last time that afternoon, grumbling as she went.

Inside the pub, Newt and Henry found themselves once more bathed in lambent oil lamplight. Before settling down at a small table, Newt fished an assortment of coins from his pockets and handed them over to Henry, who headed for the bar. Almost everyone was still busy at work; a few elderly wizards were hunched over mugs at the bar, and Newt could hear the chatter of a coven of witches drifting over from a far corner of the room, but the pub was otherwise empty.

Newt stifled a yawn as Henry returned with their drinks, pulling out his chair with his foot and dropping into it with a sigh. "Merlin's beard, I've only spent six hours in that place and I'm already exhausted."

Without replying, Newt took a long swig of bitter and then started as his mug made contact with the table more vigorously than he had intended. A wizened warlock scowled at him from across the pub, and in response Newt blushed crimson, suddenly taking a great interest in the timeworn grain of the heavy wooden tabletop.

Henry was idly tracing his forefinger along the rim of his own glass. He'd been out of Hogwarts for over a year now, and although he'd always dreamed of working with animals, the closest he'd got was letting a rundown flat above Eeylops Owl Emporium. It must have been even worse for Newt, too, Henry had always thought. He knew Newt felt just as dissatisfied, probably even more so, since he'd been slogging through for twice as long now and was still living on his parents' estate to boot. They didn't really discuss the matter, though. Their weeks were propelled along by ritual; they always expressed the same grievances and released the same sighs as their fingers tapped the same staccato rhythms against their mugs. It was as though it had never crossed their minds to actually do anything about their situations.

Henry slouched down in his seat, staring up at the heavy wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. "I reckon if I could do this over again, Newt, I'd be sure to ignore my uncle when he says a chap can really get ahead in the Ministry. Or that working in the Beast Division has anything to do with actual beasts. I've not seen a real, live centaur once in my entire life." Yawning loudly, he remembered his manners in time to cover his mouth with the palm of his hand. "I'm getting paid to do absolutely nothing, and I reckon some people would envy that, but look at me! I've gone to fat. Some days I think I might as well just give notice."

"How you do make Hufflepuff proud!" Newt smiled. He'd heard this monologue before, more or less.

"Please, Newt! If I heard the Welsh Green reservation was taking on anyone new, I'd probably splinch myself trying to get there."

"Oh, right, I know. Me, too."

"I know, shall we resign together? Stop looking so apathetic. Forget the Welsh Greens. Maybe we can go out to Romania. Or China, with the Fireballs. Or ... or ... Oh, dash it, I'd rather be working with Puffskeins than doing this, and don't even tell me you don't feel the same. You hate paperwork, admit it."

"I don't hate paperwork. There's no point in hating something so necessary. I'd just rather it were a bit more meaningful, though that's not to say I think house-elves don't deserve consideration. It's just ... I don't know, leaving would be--well, things are sort of ... complicated."

"Are they?" Henry's brow furrowed in consternation. "What are you on about?"

"Oh, well. It's nothing. Never mind. I reckon I'll sort it out eventually." Newt bit his lip. "So, did you want to go to the Tornados match next weekend? They're playing the Magpies, but I expect we can still find some tickets."

"Of course. That'll be brilliant!" If Newt was going to get cagey about things, Henry thought it best to overlook the sudden change of subject, and besides, he really was looking forward to the match, which would feature the two best Seekers in the league. "Our very own Plumpton meeting Eunice Murray! Now that's what Omnioculars were made for."

"Good, then. Two tickets it is." It had turned out that Newt's father's most useful Ministry connection had come in the form of Victor Palaestra, second in line at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. "So, what do you think? Plumpton will play for England again this year, right?"

"If you read the paper every day instead of filling out those reports, you wouldn't have to ask. Of course he'll play--who else would, anyway? Well, all right, there is an outside chance for Murray, but I think they'd have to be daft to select her. And this time we're not going down to Luxembourg in the semifinal, that's for certain. England will have the World Cup in 1918."

"You sound quite confident about that."

"What, are you saying I shouldn't trust Bert Winkle's editorials? Or Plumpton's talent, for that matter?" Henry raised his mug to his lips and glanced around the pub, as if looking for anyone who might actually disagree with him. Of course, no one was even paying him any attention, but there was a very familiar girl hovering by the bar, apparently attempting to choose a table for herself. "So, ah, not to be too abrupt, but have you been in touch with Porpentina lately?"

Newt colored slightly at the mention of the girl's name. "Er, no. Why?"

"Oh, well, she's here, that's all." Henry looked back across the room, accidentally making the briefest eye contact with Porpentina. "And, ah, she's spotted me, and she's ... yes, she's coming over now."

Small and bespectacled, Porpentina materialized, smiling, beside their table. Her hair was tucked up beneath her best hat, and she looked a bit like a mouse, if such a creature were to don glasses and a hat. "Hello, there, Henry, and, oh, hello, Newt. It's been such a long time, hasn't it?"

Newt began to feel as though several Cornish Pixies had suddenly taken up residence in his stomach. "It has, yes. How've you been?"

"Quite all right, thanks."

"Have you, er, seen Jocunda? How is she?" Henry asked as a deep blush bloomed on the apples of his cheeks.

"Jocunda's quite well. I'll say hello to her for you, if you'd like."

Henry smiled appreciatively.

"Say, would you like to join us? You're more than welcome," Newt offered, more at ease now that his friend's old, steadfast fondness for Jocunda Sykes had resurfaced.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I'm already with someone." Porpentina looked nervously over her shoulder and, as if on cue, a strapping, smartly dressed man walked up, clutching a mismatched pair of drinks. Newt reckoned he must have been at least twenty-five.

Thanking him, Porpentina accepted the glass of gillywater the man proffered and turned back to the occupants of the small table. "Newt Scamander, Henry Kettleburn," she said, indicating them with her free hand. "This is Valerius Travers, of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Valerius, Newt and Henry are both in Magical Creatures. We were at school together--I believe I've mentioned them before."

Travers looked superciliously at Newt and Henry. "Ah, yes, I remember. A Ravenclaw and a ... Hufflepuff? So you're playing with beasties. What fun."

Henry cleared his throat, and Porpentina suddenly appeared very stricken. "Well, I suppose we ought to leave you two. I didn't mean to intrude on your conversation," she said quickly. "It really is so good to see you both."

"Good afternoon, boys," Travers added with a grin, grasping Porpentina firmly by the elbow and steering her away before anyone else could say his farewell.

Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, producing a nervous cough. "Exactly how long has it been since you last heard from her?"

"Six months?"

"Well, he's moved in quickly, then..." Henry trailed off, watching Newt stare down into his empty glass. "Hey, look, let me buy you another." Before he could reply, Henry snatched the mug from his friend's grasp and headed back to the bar.

Several tables away, Travers pulled out a chair for Porpentina and positioned himself so that Newt could just see Travers's smug expression as he reached across the table to grasp Porpentina's hand. Newt was soon grateful for Henry's swift return, which brought not only the drink, but also an obstruction of view. But even so, what he said out loud was "You know, I didn't--I don't have a thing for her, really."

"Mmhmm," Henry said, and took another drink.