In midair, the Cleansweep Seven let out an overloaded groan.
Frey pushed down hard on the broom handle, pulling Hermione into a steep, rapid ascent.
“Frey! You bastard! Did you do that on purpose?”
Hermione screamed, wrapping her arms tightly around Frey’s waist, her nails digging deep into his T-shirt.
“Can you fly a little lower, even just a bit? Or at least slow down!”
“Oh, I’m afraid not, Hermione. We have to avoid Muggle radar. Flying fast and high is our only option.”
Frey felt the tight embrace around his waist and grinned.
Flying was too easy for him.
He didn’t need to observe the wind direction or measure its speed; he only needed to follow his intuition, or rather, his instinct in the air.
The violence in his heart quickly dissipated in the thrill of the high speed, and the needle-like pain in his temples vanished.
Frey felt the soft warmth pressed against his back, wishing only that this journey could be longer, just a little longer.
Below, the Dorset coastline grew clearer.
The Scamander farm had arrived.
From the outside, it looked like an ordinary English farmhouse, but in the eyes of wizards, this was a folded world forcibly expanded by a massive Undetectable Extension Charm.
The moment they touched down, space unfolded like a scroll.
The meadows stretched out endlessly, and in the distance, several small snowy peaks simulating the Alps could be seen, prepared for polar creatures.
Countless Jobberknolls flew clumsily overhead; Occamys circled in midair, their sizes shifting, growing larger or smaller with the play of light and shadow; herds of Mooncalves peeked out from the hillsides with their massive, bulb-like eyes.
In the far distance, several tank-like Graphorns trampled over the frozen earth, their heavy breaths blowing massive clouds of white mist before the snowy peaks.
A Class XXXXX dangerous beast, a Nundu, yawned lazily on a tree branch.
For ordinary wizards, this sight would be a suffocating nightmare.
But to the Scamanders, it was just the most ordinary greeting when opening the front door.
“Brother, you’re finally back!”
A teenage boy carrying two buckets of bait that gave off a suspicious odor ran out of the barn.
That was Rolf, Frey’s only younger brother.
He wiped his sweat and pointed gloatingly at the second floor.
“Grandpa is waiting for you in the study. His face looks worse than last year when a Niffler stole his wallet. By the way, you haven’t groomed a single feather of those Hippogriffs, have you?”
“What do you think?” Frey cleared his throat, expertly kicking his broom into the tool shed, and lowered his voice in slight guilt.
“If you groom them for me, I’ll give you twenty Sickles.”
“It’s a deal! You’d better not back out like last time!” Rolf beamed, unable to close his mouth.
Frey turned to look at Hermione, who was fixing her hair.
Suddenly dropping his playful demeanor, he mouthed silently, *Big plan.
Keep it a secret.*
Hermione replied in an equally tiny whisper, *Depends on your performance.*
She then turned to Rolf with a warm smile.
“Little Rolf, Frey mentioned that a litter of baby Kneazles is being weaned next week? I’d love to go see them.”
“Go get scolded first. Honesty is a Scamander virtue, though I know you don’t possess much of it.”
Hermione patted Frey’s arm reassuringly, her tone laced with a bit of teasing.
“I’ll go check on the little ones. I hope my money will buy a discounted Kneazle from you next month. I certainly don’t expect you to give me one—you said you’d give me one for my birthday last year, and I still haven’t seen it.”
Frey watched Hermione’s tight jeans as she walked away, whistling before heading toward the second-floor study.
The air in the study was thick with the scent of hay and old parchment.
Newt Scamander sat behind a mahogany desk piled with sketches and specimens of magical creatures from all over the world, his hands propping up his chin, lost in thought.
The legendary wizard who had stood against the Dark Lord was already ninety-five years old.
His back was slightly stooped, but his brown eyes still held a sharp gaze that could pierce through one’s soul.
“Grandpa, I can explain about the Hippogriffs…” Frey began organizing his excuse the moment he stepped in.
“That’s not important, Frey. Sit down, let’s talk about what’s actually important.”
Newt pushed a letter sealed with the Hogwarts crest across the desk.
“I just got back from Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel have decided to destroy the Philosopher’s Stone. Just as you predicted before, Quirrell is dead. But Voldemort has only temporarily retreated; he will return.”
Frey didn’t reach for the letter, instead leaning lazily back in his chair.
It wasn’t surprising that Dumbledore hadn’t believed his prophecy.
The old bumblebee was extremely cautious; it would be weirder if he had believed it.
Thus, it was only natural that the red stone couldn’t be saved.
Frey shrugged, sinking into the wide armchair and settling into a comfortable slouch.
“Frey, there are only three of us left in the Scamander family now: you, me, and Rolf. I am old.” Newt sighed, his eyes filled with warmth and expectation.
“Your parents passed away too early. You are the pillar of this family now. I want you to make certain decisions independently. Whichever path you choose, your grandfather will support you.”
Frey’s smile faded.
He knew his grandfather was getting down to business.
“That old fellow Silvanus Kettleburn is finally taking what’s left of his limbs home to enjoy his pension. Dumbledore has proposed that you take over as the Care of Magical Creatures professor in two years.”
“Me? Grandpa, I don’t even have my O.W.L.s!” Frey sat up, quite shocked.
“To teach students who are the same age as me?”
“That’s why he gave you a two-year buffer. Your French is decent. Dumbledore’s plan is to have you enter Hogwarts next year as a Beauxbatons transfer student for your second year of study. He will secretly arrange for professors to give you crash courses. Your spellwork is strong, but there is still plenty for you to learn at school: Transfiguration, History of Magic, Potions…”
Hearing History of Magic and Potions, Frey couldn’t help but hold his head in his hands.
Whether from the memories of his past life or the letters Hermione had sent, he knew how dry History of Magic was and how harsh Professor Severus Snape of Potions was.
He didn’t think these two classes would be pleasant experiences at all.
Ignoring his theatrics, Newt continued, “Most importantly, you need to use these two years to figure out what a school is like and how to get along with students.”
Newt’s voice abruptly trailed off as he stared at a yellowed photograph on the desk, lost in thought.
Frey was more than familiar with that photo.
The man in it was Draco Scamander, Frey’s biological father, holding a three-year-old Frey in his arms, with a beautiful pregnant woman standing beside him.
That was their only family portrait.
Newt cleared his throat, his voice carrying a slight nasal quality.
“As one gets old, one tends to get sentimental. In two years, your school records will be transferred back to Beauxbatons, and you will join Hogwarts under your father’s name, Draco Scamander. When Rolf was born, your mother died of complications during childbirth, and Draco subsequently passed away in China in grief. Hardly anyone in Britain knows about this. When the time comes, we will say that Draco has returned from his research in China. You already bear a striking resemblance to Draco, and Dumbledore will provide you with disguise props so no one will recognize you. During your school holidays over these two years, I will take you into the wild to publish those unfinished papers your father left behind. When the time comes, no one will question a Scamander’s authority on magical creatures.”
Frey stared at the ceiling, recalling his few memories of his parents from thirteen years ago, and suddenly asked, “What happened to Dumbledore? When he came in March, he told me there was no rush to enroll, and that I should just slowly learn to control my magic first, and then transfer in during my fourth or fifth year to take my O.W.L.s.”
Newt sighed.
“The old bumblebee can’t hold out much longer. He needs a trump card hidden beneath the teacher’s desk. An ultimate weapon that possesses the power of a dragon, the wisdom of a man, and stands completely on his side.”
Frey stared at the teaching contract.
Being a transfer student was indeed boring, but if he could look down upon that foolish Savior as Professor Scamander, and perhaps tease some pretty young witches along the way…
A Hogwarts professorship seemed far more beneficial for his money-making plans too.
This deal didn’t seem bad.
“Deal.” Frey signed the familiar yet strange name in a sweeping flourish—Draco Scamander.
“Very well. Next, we must go to South America first—the Amazon.” Newt put away the contract.
“MACUSA has a commission there regarding some unexplored regions. You’ve interacted with enough magical creatures on the farm since you were a child; it’s time to take you into the real wilderness to see the world.”
“You’re going to South America?” Hermione and Rolf pushed the study door open and walked in, Hermione’s eyes shining incredibly bright.
“Can I go too?”
“No, it’s too dangerous there,” Frey instinctively refused.
“That’s the real wild. We’ll be sleeping in the open for two or three weeks, and we’ll have to face wild magical beasts that might charge out at any moment…”
“Little Rolf is only fourteen and he’s going! I’ve studied under Teacher Newt for nine years, spent a year at Hogwarts, and even fought a troll. I won’t be worse than him!” Hermione stared at Frey without backing down.
Newt smiled, settling the matter.
“Alright. Hermione’s map-drawing is indeed better than that of these two blockheads in my house. Frey, bring her along. Don’t worry, she’s stronger than you think. A student of mine, Newt, cannot be a flower in a greenhouse. As for Rolf… you stay home to guard the farm and scoop up the Diricawl droppings. I saw yesterday they’ve already hardened…”
“Oh! Merlin’s beard! That’s not fair!” Rolf let out a tragic wail.
Hermione jumped with excitement.
“Teacher, are we going to fly across the Atlantic on brooms?”
“No, that’s too tiring.” Newt gave a sly smile.
“We’re taking a Muggle airplane. Flight to Quito tomorrow morning. Miss Granger, since you are still underage, you must go back and have your parents write a letter of authorization. Also, bring your passport, wand, and some Muggle clothes. Leave the rest to this old man.”
Frey stared at Hermione, not really listening to her babbling.
He thought: *To hell with History of Magic, to hell with Potions!
I’m leaving Britain for South America now!*