Chapter One – Shadows Over Europe
The moon hung low and pallid over a lonely chateau in the black heart of Europe. Its towers, half-swallowed by creeping ivy, rose like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Silence reigned — the kind of silence that came before something ancient awoke.
Five Aurors moved through the mist, wands drawn. The air was damp, heavy with magic gone wrong. Each breath turned to frost as they stepped across the cobbled courtyard. One lifted his wand higher — the beam of pale blue light cutting through the fog — and saw, for a heartbeat, the outline of a man standing at the gates.
Then came the explosion.
A shockwave of white brilliance shattered the night. The Aurors were thrown backward like ragdolls, their wands spiraling into the air before clattering to the stones. When the light faded, the figure still stood — tall, cloaked, and deathly still — his back to the bodies now strewn across the ground.
Gellert Grindelwald turned his face slightly toward the moonlight. His eyes gleamed silver beneath a sweep of blond hair, but there was no triumph in his expression, only quiet inevitability. He did not flee. He merely vanished — as if the darkness itself had taken him back.
From the forest's edge, another presence watched.
Alden Grey stood where the shadows thickened, his hood drawn low. His wand — bone-white, its handle carved with runes so old they had no name — rested loosely in his hand. The battle had ended too quickly. Grindelwald had grown stronger since last Alden had tracked him through Berlin's catacombs. Too strong. But tonight wasn't Alden's night to intervene.
He had learned that some wars must ripen before they can be won.
Alden knelt beside one of the fallen Aurors. The man still breathed faintly, his robes scorched, his chest rising in shallow gasps. Alden pressed two fingers to the man's temple, whispering a charm that eased the pain without healing it fully. Mercy, but not salvation. His duty was to balance, not to rescue.
He looked skyward. The mist had thinned, and the stars glimmered faintly through torn clouds.
"Still chasing the storms, Alden?"
The voice came from behind him — dry, wry, and far too familiar. Alden did not turn at once. Only when the echo of footsteps reached him did he reply.
"You always did enjoy arriving after the danger, Albus."
Dumbledore stepped from the darkness, his expression half-cautious, half-wistful. He was younger then — not yet the legend he would become — his auburn hair barely streaked with grey, his robes a deep indigo that caught the moonlight like water.
"I thought you might be here," he said softly. "You have a talent for appearing wherever the world threatens to fall apart."
"And you," Alden murmured, "have a talent for letting it."
Dumbledore's gaze flickered to the fallen Aurors. "I could say the same to you."
A pause stretched between them — two men carved from opposite philosophies, bound by secrets older than friendship. Dumbledore stepped closer, lowering his wand.
"Grindelwald grows reckless. If he keeps this path, the veil between life and death may—"
"I know," Alden interrupted. "He seeks more than conquest. He seeks eternity."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. "And that troubles you?"
"It should trouble anyone who understands what the Hallows truly are."
For a moment, neither spoke. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled over the mountains. Then Alden turned away, his cloak rippling like a living shadow.
"I will follow him to America," he said. "Something is stirring there. A creature... or perhaps something worse."
"You sound almost prophetic," Dumbledore remarked quietly.
Alden smiled — faint, almost human. "No. Just tired."
And with that, he vanished.
The ocean smelled of salt, iron, and freedom.
Newt Scamander sat on a weathered bench aboard the passenger ship bound for New York, his worn blue coat buttoned to his throat and a battered leather case clutched tightly in his lap. The case twitched once, and a muffled chittering sound escaped from within.
"Dougal," he whispered, leaning close, "if you behave, I promise we'll find a bigger habitat soon."
The creature inside made a disgruntled clicking noise. Newt smiled faintly. He'd spent years in jungles, deserts, and mountains cataloguing creatures most wizards dismissed as nuisances — yet it was still the confined spaces, the customs officials, and the paperwork that terrified him most.
Across the deck, a man stood watching him — tall, pale-eyed, and dressed not like the others. While the other passengers chattered about jazz and opportunity, this man remained silent, leaning against the railing as though he listened to something only he could hear.
Newt noticed him only briefly. Something about him seemed out of rhythm with the rest of the world. The wind bent differently around him; the light refused to settle on his face for long. Newt looked away — but the feeling that he was being quietly evaluated lingered.
The ship's horn sounded. New York rose from the mist like a brass-and-glass cathedral, sunlight glinting off the water. Newt stood, clutching his case, unaware that his arrival would intertwine with destinies far older — and far darker — than he could imagine.
The city was alive — all brass and smoke, a thousand horns crying into the gray morning as the sun bled through the skyline. New York, 1926. Its rhythm was a pulse of ambition wrapped in fog, a world that thought itself untouched by the hidden wars of magic.
Newt Scamander stepped from the ship into the din of the harbor. The docks swarmed with travelers shouting in half a dozen languages, suitcases clattering, gulls shrieking overhead. He adjusted his blue coat, the hem brushing the slick boards, and glanced toward the immigration line. The weight of the battered case tugged at his arm like a living thing.
"Patience," he whispered, feeling the faint shuffle from within. "We'll be through soon."
A sharp click answered him from the case latch, and he pressed it shut with a quiet sigh.
Around him, the world moved without noticing. But one man did.
Alden Grey stood among the departing passengers, blending into anonymity — just another traveler in a gray overcoat, eyes half-hidden beneath his hat. He watched the small British wizard maneuver through customs, the gentleness in Newt's movements marking him as an anomaly in a city built on speed and noise.
Alden did not interfere. He merely observed, as was his way. The currents of fate were in motion, and his part in them — for now — was to ensure they did not collapse too soon.
At the customs table, a severe-looking officer held Newt's passport to the light.
"British, huh?" the man muttered. "First trip to New York?"
"Yes," Newt replied, carefully steadying his voice.
"Anything edible or alive in there?" The officer gestured at the case.
Newt placed a hand on its lid. "No."
The catch twitched again. The officer narrowed his eyes.
"Let me take a look."
With the smallest turn of a brass dial, Newt flicked the case to Muggleworthy. The lid popped open to reveal pajamas, a magnifying glass, and a rather sad-looking Hufflepuff scarf. The officer's suspicion faded to mild boredom.
"Welcome to New York," he said, stamping the passport.
"Thank you," Newt murmured, clutching the case as if it were part of him.
Behind them in the line, Alden's turn passed with a mere glance. The officer blinked once, and the next thing he knew, Alden was gone — through, past, forgotten. Subtlety was an art, and Alden had perfected it long ago.
The city above the harbor roared with motion. Horse-drawn carriages clashed with motorcars; the sidewalks overflowed with flappers, bankers, and soldiers still wearing the ghosts of war. Newt, ever out of rhythm with the world, moved carefully among them, scanning a slip of paper in his hand. Somewhere in this chaos was the man he had come to meet — the only breeder of Appaloosa Puffskeins in America.
But before he could reach his destination, fate — as it often did — tripped him.
A crowd had gathered at the steps of the City Bank, listening to a woman in austere gray robes cry of witchcraft and doom. Mary Lou Barebone, her eyes bright with righteous fire, raised a pamphlet like scripture.
"Witches live among us!" she declared. "They hide, they deceive, and they corrupt the very souls of our children!"
Newt slowed, head tilting with scientific curiosity rather than alarm. She was fascinating in the way that certain venomous creatures were: all sharp angles and quiet poison.
Nearby, a young woman in a worn coat — Tina Goldstein — watched the crowd while eating a hot dog, her eyes sharp beneath her hat brim. When Newt accidentally bumped her elbow, she muttered something under her breath that he was fairly sure wasn't a thank-you.
Before he could apologize again, chaos erupted.
A coin flipped through the air — silver flashing in the sunlight — and somewhere at Newt's feet came a soft snuffling sound. He looked down just in time to see a small, furry shape dart from his case, grab the coin, and vanish into the crowd.
"Oh, Dougal—"
No. Not Dougal.
The Niffler.
By the time he caught sight of it again, the little creature was halfway up the bank steps, its pouch bulging with stolen jewelry and coins.
Newt bolted after it, leaving Mary Lou mid-sermon and Tina frowning in confusion.
Across the street, unseen by either of them, Alden Grey watched from beneath a news awning. The rain had begun — a light drizzle that turned the cobblestones slick and reflective. In the glass of a nearby window, his reflection flickered — not blurred, but absent. A trick of the light, or perhaps the will of one who preferred to remain unremembered.
He felt the pulse of mischief ripple from the Niffler, a small creature of greed and innocence, its magic brushing against his senses like the tickle of static. Harmless, perhaps — but every ripple could become a wave if left unchecked.
Alden's fingers twitched toward his wand but stopped short. Not yet.
Sometimes, the smallest chaos was necessary to draw the larger storms into view.
Inside the marble halls of the bank, Newt skidded to a stop. His coat was soaked, his hair wild, his patience thinning. People turned to stare as he searched under benches and tables, muttering apologies to startled customers.
"Excuse me — terribly sorry — just looking for something small and… uh… shiny."
He crouched, spotted the Niffler stuffing pocket watches into its pouch, and lunged. The chase that followed would later be recounted in hushed tones among bewildered tellers — of a strange man diving under desks, shouting about magical beasts, and an explosion of coins that rained through the air like silver hail.
Amid the confusion, a stocky man clutching his own case — Jacob Kowalski — watched, open-mouthed. He had come to ask for a loan to open a bakery; instead, he was about to witness something that would change his life forever.
By the time Newt tackled the Niffler and tried to force the stolen treasure from its belly, security alarms blared. A dozen guards ran forward. Jacob, panicked, stumbled toward the commotion.
And Alden — unseen near the door — moved his hand ever so slightly.
A single whisper of magic rippled through the crowd, twisting their perception just enough to delay reaction. For a few precious seconds, the chaos was contained to a blur — the guards slower, the customers dazed. A small intervention, harmless, but necessary.
Then came the crack of Disapparition.
Newt and Jacob vanished.
Alden stepped out into the rain. The faintest smile touched his lips as the echoes of the spell faded.
The ripple of fate had widened.
Elsewhere, Tina Goldstein stood frozen beneath the bank's awning, her mind racing. She had seen them vanish — the man with the case, the No-Maj who'd spoken to him — both gone in a flicker of light. Her instincts, honed from years as an Auror, told her this was no minor violation.
She tightened her coat and strode into the street, determination burning away hesitation. If MACUSA wouldn't give her back her position, she would prove her worth the hard way.
Behind her, the last trace of Alden's presence drifted like mist — a faint shimmer in the air, unnoticed and unremembered.
Perspective Shift — Jacob Kowalski
He landed hard.
The world twisted, the air snapped, and suddenly he was somewhere else — a dim stairwell smelling faintly of dust and metal. He clutched his case like a shield, heart pounding.
"What—where—"
"Perfectly fine!" Newt exclaimed, brushing himself off and checking his case. "Minor displacement, easily corrected. Sorry about the... well, everything."
Jacob blinked. "You... you just—disappeared me."
"Yes. Apparated." Newt smiled awkwardly. "Though I usually prefer not to take passengers."
Jacob's mouth worked soundlessly before he managed, "You're insane."
"Possibly," Newt admitted cheerfully.
High above, from a nearby rooftop, Alden Grey stood in the rain, his eyes closed as he traced the faint residue of the spell through the air. It glimmered like threads of light — the lines of destiny crossing, tightening. He could feel the city shifting, responding.
This was where it would begin — not with a battle, but with a meeting. A chance encounter between a magizoologist, a No-Maj, and a former Auror — each a thread in a tapestry he had been quietly weaving for decades.
Alden opened his eyes. Lightning flashed across the skyline, reflecting in his gaze.
"Let the storm find its course," he murmured.
Then he turned and vanished into the rain.