The meeting room door burst open. Every head turned.
Anders Mickelsen charged in, hair wild, and dumped a thick stack of files onto the table.
"Thor, do you remember Solheim?" he asked, breathless.
"Solheim…" Thor Eriksson repeated the name slowly. After a moment his face changed. "Wasn't he the most radical theorist from more than a decade ago?"
"That's right. When I worked at Durmstrang, he was one of the most gifted students we had—quiet, solitary, obsessed with pre-Christian Norse magic and blood purity theories."
Anders caught his breath. "His graduation thesis was sealed for dangerous historical revisionism. I read it that year."
Rock blinked. Twenty-plus years later and the man still remembered the details that clearly?
"If Mr. Scamander hadn't mentioned blood sacrifice and return just now," Anders said, looking at Newt, "I might never have connected it."
Newt picked up the handwritten manuscript and records Anders had brought and began turning the pages in silence.
Thor Eriksson shook his head, unconvinced. "Impossible. The Purity Society Solheim joined back then preached returning to glory through blood and iron. They incited attacks on magical transportation officials before the whole group was shut down. Core members either fled or ended up in prison…"
"Most importantly, Solheim vanished years ago. Everyone who tracked him believed he died in the northern glaciers."
"But that's exactly what doesn't add up, isn't it?" Anders said quietly. "Solheim was the brightest graduate of his year. He wouldn't have disappeared that easily."
"Enough." Thor's brow tightened. He raised a hand, clearly displeased. "Professor Anders, this isn't something we discuss openly."
Anders pressed his lips together. Claiming Solheim might still be alive would directly contradict the conclusions their own department had reached years ago. It would be a slap in the face if word reached other offices.
Rock, seated beside Newt, shook his head inwardly. Every Ministry of Magic seemed to have people like this—men who preferred to bury their heads in the sand like Fudge.
Rustle.
Newt kept turning pages. Rock leaned in and read over his shoulder. No one stopped him.
The further he read, the stranger his expression became. The Purity Society's manifesto, a thin booklet called Epoch, was filled with extreme worship of natural magic bloodlines and seething hatred for the compromises of modern international wizarding society. One entire section treated dragons as "lost scales, ancient untainted power."
In short, these people were fanatics.
Anders pulled out more documents while Ministry staff kept moving in and out of the room. Thor looked increasingly irritated.
Newt occasionally traced runes in the air with his wand, then nodded to himself in understanding.
"Mr. Scamander, have you found something?" Thor asked sharply.
Newt closed the booklet. "He isn't trying to create chaos."
Several people in the room exchanged glances. Attacking a Muggle facility and nearly getting a dragon executed didn't count as chaos?
"Olaf is a sacrifice," Newt said, rising and walking to the window. He looked out at the mountains. "This is a ritual. A summoning ritual meant to call something back."
"I can't say exactly what it's trying to bring through, but when blood sacrifice and return appear together, nothing good follows."
The door opened again. Thor's secretary, Eleanor, stepped inside. "Director, the Ministry just sent word. The International Confederation of Wizards has issued a final ultimatum. If we don't give them a satisfactory answer soon, they will execute Olaf."
Thor slammed his palm on the table. "Those bastards! They can't wait to hand the problem off and wash their hands of it. Olaf has always been clever—quiet, even shy…"
Rock glanced at the director. He hadn't expected the man to care so much about the dragon.
"Grandpa," Rock said softly.
Newt turned. "What is it, little Rock?"
"We can approach this from another angle," Rock said. "If it's a ritual like you described, there has to be a convergence of abnormal energy. Something this big can't succeed in a single attempt."
"That's right!" Anders's eyes lit up.
"Director, have someone pull every report on disturbances at ancient Norse magic sites and unusual energy fluctuations inside Norway's borders."
Newt nodded. "Good thinking. That's another lead. I'll keep studying the scale in the meantime."
Thor stood. "Then I'll leave Mr. Scamander to it. I'll go fetch those reports myself."
He strode out with Eleanor at his heels.
"Mr. Scamander, shall we begin?" Anders said, already steering Newt toward the heavily warded room that held the dragon scales.
"Quite the mess…" Rock muttered as he followed.
From everything he had just read, the Purity Society were extreme conservatives who believed Muggle technology was corrupting natural magic. They wanted to return to the pure Viking traditions of the old days. Using a Norwegian Ridgeback made perfect sense to them—it was a living symbol of power and ancient blood.
Wait.
Tradition?
Rock paused. So they had attacked a Muggle radar station because, in their eyes, it represented the encroachment of modern technology on sacred ground?
The room holding the Welsh Green scales was buried under layers of protective magic. Newt examined each scale carefully, arranging them in order.
"Beacon… Pain… Pollution… Return… Blood Sacrifice…"
None of those words carried pleasant meanings.
Anders sighed. "Before you said anything, Mr. Scamander, we thought they were just decorative patterns."
"The reports said the pain traces on these scales were inflicted?" Rock asked, looking up.
"That's all our detection charms could confirm," Anders nodded.
"But…" Rock pointed at the scales spread before them. "These traces are far too ancient. They don't look like something that was cast on them recently. It feels more like they were awakened."
Newt's hand stilled over the scales. He looked at Rock, then back at the ancient markings, and gave a slow, grim nod.