Chapter Text
The earth over their mother's grave was now completely turned, sealing her away beneath the damp soil. Theseus and Newt stood side by side, staring down at the freshly carved headstone:
'Eudora Scamander, née Carmarthen.'
Surrounded by colleagues, distant relatives, and acquaintances who had known her only in passing, Theseus forced himself to maintain a stoic facade. He had to-especially when he glanced sideways at Newt.
His younger brother was trying just as hard to stand tall, but emotional restraint had never been Newt's strength. When grief hit him, he could only hide behind a composure that cracked around the edges.
Theseus reached out, resting a heavy hand on Newt's shoulder and giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze. Newt turned his head. Without a single word, Theseus offered a silent inquiry: Are you alright?
Newt answered his brother's unspoken question with a faint, barely perceptible nod before turning his gaze back to the damp earth.
One by one, the mourners offered their condolences and took their leave. Theseus stood firmly at the forefront, shielding Newt when the younger brother began to tire of the crowd and stepped quietly into his elder brother's shadow.
Finally, the last remaining mourner shook Theseus's hand-a middle-aged wizard with warm ginger hair and a genuine smile.
"Both of your parents were brilliant, extraordinary magic-makers," the man said softly. "And both of their sons carry that exact same greatness."
Theseus gave a polite nod. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley."
"If either of you ever need anything, you know where to find me."
"Of course, Mr. Weasley. Thank you."
With a final, sympathetic press of his hand, the wizard stepped back and Apparated away, disappearing from the quiet cemetery grounds.
Theseus let out a long, heavy exhale, turning toward Newt, who remained submerged in his own quiet world.
"Newt," he called softly.
Newt raised his head, meeting his brother's eyes for a brief moment.
"Let's go home. Back to our house."
Newt opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat as his eyes caught sight of a familiar figure approaching through the lingering mist.
"It seems our mourners haven't all departed yet, Theseus," Newt murmured quietly.
Theseus turned and immediately met the sharp, solemn gaze of Minerva McGonagall walking toward them, her hands tucked into her robes.
"Minerva," Theseus greeted.
McGonagall stepped forward and pulled Theseus into a tight, meaningful embrace. "I am so terribly sorry," she whispered, stroking his back gently.
When she turned to Newt, however, she simply rested a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder.
"I am deeply sorry for your loss. It is a shocking tragedy... she was still so young," she spoke softly.
"Thank you, Minerva. Neither of us can quite believe it yet."
Theseus subtly drew Newt a half-step closer to his side-an instinctual, protective gesture triggered by an unexplainable spike of anxiety at her sudden presence. "We were just planning to return to the family home for a few days to clear things out and say our proper goodbyes."
Minerva bit her lip, hesitation clouding her features.
Theseus picked up on it instantly. There was something she was holding back, something that threatened to intrude upon their grief.
"What is it?" Theseus asked directly, his tone shifting into something sharper.
"Albus needs to speak with both of you. As soon as possible."
"Well, if he wishes to speak, he can come here," Theseus replied defensively, his jaw tightening.
"He can't. There is something monumental you both need to know... something that cannot be spoken aloud in an unprotected space. And it concerns the Scamander bloodline."
Theseus and Newt exchanged a tense, bewildered look.
35 Portland Row, London
In a cramped bedroom nearly swallowed by complete darkness, a young man who was still barely more than a boy tossed fitfully in his sleep. His body twisted against the mattress, his muscles taut as a bowstring, cold sweat sheening across his forehead and down his neck
.
His breathing was ragged-erratic, shallow, and choked as though something terrible was pursuing him through the dark corridors of his mind.
Anthony Lockwood-or simply Lockwood, as he preferred to be known, was trapped in the suffocating grip of a nightmare that felt dangerously real. His brow furrowed deeply as his fingers clawed at the bedsheets, clutching the fabric until it crumpled in his fist, desperately reaching for something that kept slipping away. His head jerked faintly from side to side, his lips parting in silent, voiceless pleas. Panic and terror carved themselves into his features, leaving him no room to draw a clean breath against the shadows pressing down on him.
He was truly alone now.
His final protection has perished.
We shall meet soon... young Scamander.
Lockwood gasped, bolting upright in bed.
His chest heaved violently as he fought to draw air back into his lungs.
He stared straight up at the pitch-black ceiling, pressing a trembling palm against his hammering heart.
In the suffocating silence of the room, a single, terrified question echoed in his mind: What on earth had just happened... and what was coming for him?