After handing the poachers off to his squad, Ivanov turned with a wide grin.
"So, Viktor—you're really heading back to Britain?"
Viktor nodded. Ivanov sighed theatrically, pulled out a bottle of vodka.
"Far East rules, my friend—goodbyes demand a drink!"
"It's eight in the morning, Ivan."
"No, Viktor. This is Siberia. Every hour is goodbye o'clock!"
Twenty minutes later, reeking of vodka, Viktor dragged a fully crimson Tom—ears steaming like twin kettles, bearskin hat nearly blasted off—through the squad's rowdy farewell songs.
"Time to go." Viktor walked to a sturdy birch tree in the nearby clearing and tapped the bark lightly with his wand. A soft magical glow rippled across the trunk.
The thick tree uprooted itself from the earth with a low groan, roots dangling as it floated upright in mid-air.
He cast Windproof and Waterproof Charms on himself and Tom. A thin, invisible membrane shimmered over their bodies.
Then he swung a leg over the trunk, gripping the two sturdy branches that had conveniently grown into perfect handholds.
Tom—having finally vented the last of the vodka through his ears in cartoonish spurts—leapt to the front, found his favourite spot, clamped both paws on the bearskin hat, and somehow produced a pair of tiny aviator goggles to strap on.
"Hold tight."
The words barely left Viktor's mouth before—
BUZZZZ.
The birch shot westward like an arrow, carving a silver streak across the sky.
Viktor glanced back. The patrol team had shrunk to black dots, still waving enthusiastically.
Tom stood on his hind legs at the front, paws raised in triumphant wind-surfing pose. Despite the Windproof Charm, his face fur peeled back comically in the slipstream, but that damn bearskin hat stayed glued to his head like it was welded on.
Mac, tucked inside the hat, tried to copy the pose—only to get immediately yeeted backward by the gale. Viktor snatched him mid-tumble and stuffed the flailing Niffler safely into the pouch on his back.
…
The sea breeze in Dorset carried a salty, warm humidity that felt like another planet compared to Siberia.
After Portkeying back, Viktor quickly got his bearings, then pulled the flying birch out of his pouch—the one he'd bought in the Far East.
Compared to British brooms, he much preferred these massive flying trees.
Bigger. Sturdier. More power. Utterly crushed anything slim and twiggy.
He mounted the hovering trunk. Tom settled at the front like a pro, paws locked on the beloved hat, cat eyes wide and gleaming behind the mini goggles.
"Lift off!"
BUZZ.
The birch rose smoothly, tracing a bright silver line through the southern English afternoon sun, heading straight for the Scamander estate.
Below stretched rolling green hills, neat patchwork fields, and the occasional red-roofed village—worlds away from the endless Siberian tundra.
Tom rode the wind in pure bliss, mouth open, tongue flapping like a flag. The hat never budged.
He even pulled a tiny mirror from the fur at his backside, checked his "heroic profile," and gave himself a satisfied nod.
After about half an hour's flight, a familiar, magically concealed patch of countryside came into view.
A cluster of low stone buildings sat in a woodland clearing, surrounded by what looked like ordinary hedges and gardens—but were layered with every protective charm imaginable.
This was the Scamander home: modest on the outside, but inside it opened into Newt's legendary, ever-expanding magical menagerie space.
Viktor dropped altitude. The birch glided smoothly through an invisible entrance overhead.
The air shimmered. Reality shifted.
Gone was the simple farmland. In its place: a sprawling, vibrant mini-ecosystem.
A small lake sparkled, linked to marshes, woodlands, meadows, even a pocket desert zone. Magical creatures of every size and shape lived in peaceful harmony across it all.
The stone cottages stood at the edges like quiet sentinels.
The birch touched down gently in the clearing in front of the main house.
Viktor had barely dismounted when a figure hurried out from the doorway.
Tina Scamander—his grandmother.
Time had etched lines on her face, but those eyes were still sharp, still warm with care.
She wore practical wizarding robes and carried a thick notebook.
"Viktor!" She strode forward and pulled him into a firm hug, then stepped back to look him over head to toe.
"You've been eating properly in Siberia, haven't you? You look like you've lost weight! And you too, Tom!"
Her gaze shifted to the cat, who was furiously trying to pat his wind-tousled fur back into place. A knowing smile touched her lips.
Tom snapped to attention, paw to hat brim in an exaggerated salute.
Then he put on his best "I'm an angel" innocent face.
"Gran." Viktor returned the hug with a grin. "Everything's fine. Even helped the patrol nab a few poachers. Where's Granddad?"
"Out back—in the extension. Calming down a rather emotional young Occamy that just arrived from South America."
Tina nodded toward the space behind the main house.
"He got your reply. He's been muttering about it all day. Oh—and Albus is here too. Waiting in the study."
Viktor's eyebrow rose.
Dumbledore himself?
Whatever was happening at Hogwarts, it was clearly more urgent than the letter had let on.
"I'll head in now." Viktor casually shrank the birch and tucked it back into his pouch.
Tina nodded, then glanced at Tom. "Kitchen's got fresh-baked scones. And sardines—straight from the tin."
Tom's eyes lit up like searchlights. Ears shot straight up. He tried to play it cool, but one paw sneaked out and tugged frantically at Viktor's trouser leg.
Please please please.
"Go on," Viktor laughed.
Tom let out a triumphant yowl and streaked toward the kitchen like blue-grey lightning.
His beloved bearskin hat spun lazily in mid-air where he'd left it.
But before it could hit the ground, a furry paw stretched like rubber from nowhere, snatched the hat clean out of the air, and retracted in a flash.
Viktor shook his head with a fond smile, crossed the familiar, cheerfully cluttered living room—piled high with creature books, specimens, sketches, and every odd souvenir imaginable—and approached the study.
The door was ajar. He knocked lightly, then pushed it open.
The room smelled of old books, parchment, and something faintly sweet.
Newt Scamander stood in front of a large, misty glass enclosure that looked half aquarium, half terrarium. He was watching a vague, sinuous shadow glide inside, humming a soft, off-key lullaby under his breath.
He looked a little older, a little more stooped than Viktor remembered—but those eyes were still crystal clear, brimming with gentle wonder for every living thing.
And sitting in an overstuffed armchair beside the desk was Albus Dumbledore.
Deep blue robes embroidered with stars and moons, long silver hair and beard neatly combed, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose.
Behind them, those famous twinkling blue eyes turned toward the door—warm, wise, and quietly amused.