Fate must be punishing him for the schadenfreude he’d enjoyed at Cygnus' expense. Though, honestly, the look of slow-sinking horror on the man’s face as he’d processed the mountain of paperwork those Golden Snidgets would bring down on his head brought a smile to Harry’s face, even now.

  Still, his comeuppance was rather excessive.

  Not one.

  Not two.

  But three bloody packs.

  Each one requiring sheafs upon sheafs of parchment.

  Permits to register as a protected species sanctuary.

  Waivers for housing XXXX-class creatures.

  Declarations of liability.

  Acknowledgements of risks.

  Expectations on Snipe Hunting.

  And a dozen other pressing concerns in the eyes of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

  And all of that piled on top of the never-ending deluge of well-wishes, invitations, and requests for interviews from every paper on the Isle—and half those across the Channel.

  He swore the envelope from Warlock’s Quarterly kept winking at him.

  Somewhere, a bowtruckle is crying at the rampant deforestation.

  And then there was this.

  Harry stared down at an alarmingly thick book that was penned—or rather, quilled—by Newt Scamander.

  Mandatory reading , they’d said. Best there is , they’d said.

  Dry ink put to dryer paper, he said.

  The tome was bloody massive. It catalogued the restrictions and regulatory statutes for seemingly every creature known to wizardkind—and, Harry suspected, a few that weren’t.

  He half-expected to find an entry on the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

  Wish he’d stopped with Fantastic Beasts. The man could’ve gone out on top.

  Harry groaned, cupped his face in his hands, and screamed internally.

  Pop.

  “Does Master Peverell be needing something?”

  He looked down at the newest member of the household—a small Elf garbed in an embroidered sky-blue pinafore. It contrasted smartly against her tawny-hued skin, highlighting her cornflower-blue eyes.

  “You can just call me Harry, Whimsy.”

  She gasped.

  “How cans I be doing that, Master Peverell?”

  He hadn’t been sure how to go about acquiring an Elf, but seeing as he was a high and mighty Lord of the Wizengamot, people had been all too eager to offer suggestions.

  Dung had plenty of channels. So did the Blacks. He’d not felt good about either option.

  Somehow, he doubted the elves were ‘ethically sourced’ or ‘seeking new opportunities’ of their own accord. No. It was far more than likely that they were treated no better than chattel.

  The thought turned his stomach.

  Fortunately, Harry happened to know the man who oversaw the largest community of House-Elves in Britain—and likely in the world. Dumbledore had treated Dobby well. He doubted there was anywhere more agreeable to search.

  He’d hoped to find an Elf like Winky—someone that would be happier with a family than in the castle.

  And, happily, Whimsy—who’d been born in the castle—was such an Elf. She had been quite keen to oversee a house all of her own.

  She blinked up at him now, clutching at her feather duster tightly in both hands.

  "No, Whimsy, everything is fine. It's just paperwork."

  She nodded slowly, then peered around, looking for any wayward dust or streaked windows. Not that any had accumulated since she popped in to vanish it all away 10 minutes ago.

  She was still settling in. And young. Unsure of what to do with herself when nothing needed doing.

  Whimsy continued scanning the room, wringing her hands.

  That won’t do.

  "Though,” Harry said, “I wouldn't say no to a cuppa. You do make a lovely cup of tea."

  She perked up immediately, ears flapping as she nodded.

  "Yes, Master Peverell—"

  "—Just Harry."

  "Yes, Just Harry!"

  Pop.

  “Close enough.”

  · · ·

  GONG.

  He lifted his head from Scamander’s incomprehensible work, rolling the crick from his neck. He’d been reading on 'Territorial Nesting Overlap and Inter-Colony Conflict Mitigation'.

  Riveting.

  He turned to look out the window, and saw… The Minch. The tower had spun about while he wasn’t paying attention. Again.

  Slapping his palm against the stone wall, he snapped out, "Oi, turn about! I told you to stay put until the guests arrived, you great stone pillock!"

  The stone creaked and shifted, almost like it was hunching.

  The bloody thing was sulking.

  Typical.

  Harry counted to ten in his head, inhaling deeply through his nose.

  “There, there. I’m sorry I grew cross. Could you please turn around?”

  With an apology and some gentle words, he smoothed things over.

  The tower perked back up and rotated to give him a view of the three figures standing at his front door.

  Well—at the outcropping at the edge of his wards, anyway.

  Looks like the old man's pulled through.

  One was a tall, thin figure draped in robes of eye-watering chartreuse. It was so bright that it was honestly difficult to tell much else about him from a distance. The robes drew his attention to such a degree that he'd believe it if someone told him a 'Notice-Me' charm had been woven into the fabric.

  There was a beard. He could tell that much, at least.

  Probably.

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  He was dwarfed by the man at his side. The towering figure was capped in a bushy, walnut-coloured mane. He sported a shaggy beard that could house a flight of Jobberknolls.

  That's either Hagrid, or Dumbledore conjured a wooly stalagmite onto the cliff’s edge.

  And the third man…

  Harry placed his wand-tip against the stone and released a pulse.

  In response, a bronze pipe poked from the ceiling and slithered its way down the wall. It twisted to face him, then widened its mouth into a bugle shape.

  Harry cleared his dry throat, then leaned towards it and spoke, "Just a moment, and I'll meet you at the gatehouse."

  He nodded to the bugle, and it flailed about wildly as it whipped back into the ceiling with a metallic clatter.

  The bridge unrolled wildly as the planks clanked down into place with a wooden clatter.

  Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

  As the final board slammed down, the veil concealing the estate peeled away, exposing Lord Peverell's new home. He'd known it was there, as young Harry had informed him, but even so, his knowledge of its existence continued to slip, like trying to place a word on the tip of his tongue.

  Now revealed, he could see a curtain wall of raw stone wrapped around the full perimeter of the crag, an additional fortification beyond the natural defense of the geography. A chasm separated the mainland from the crag, and the sheer cliffs made any approach from sea a most inadvisable proposition.

  Between the challenge of locating the estate, accessing the seastack, and breaching its wards, it seemed the new Lord had already established a near-inassailable holdfast for himself in these darkening times.

  As Dumbledore and his companions made their way across the bridge, a heavy, iron-bound door began to swing open. The formerly tarnished metal shined in the overcast sun, the triskelion displayed on the doors was split cleanly in two as they parted to reveal Lord Peverell and a House-Elf, awaiting their arrival.

  "Albus, thanks for coming." Harry smiled at him, casting a glance to the others. "I've rather landed myself in it, what with all the neighbours about."

  Dumbledore glanced about once more at the remoteness of the locale, and chuckled. Stroking his beard as he saw the hint of a grimace breaking through Harry's smile. No doubt a bureaucratic nightmare for the young man.

  "Neighbours indeed. I daresay you've the making of a fine menagerie on your hands, Harry."

  "Whimsy and I weren't looking to get into the business," Harry shrugged, gesturing to one of his former charges. "But it wouldn't be right to dispossess them, squatter's rights and all that."

  "Decent of you to keep them on." His old friend stepped forward, his once auburn hair now streaked with thick bolts of silver. "If they’ve settled—multiple species, living in proximity without conflict—It’s not… common. That kind of balance. Shame to ruin it."

  "Quite right." Dumbledore smiled, warmed by the constancy of one of his favourite students, and dearest friends. "This is my longtime friend, Newt Scamander, who I am sure needs no further introduction."

  Harry's smile turned warmer, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stepped forward, arm extended for a handshake. Newt took it with his ever unsure grasp, his arm being shaken like a limp rope by the young Lord.

  "I'm a longtime fan, though I admit to finding your work on magical habitat law somewhat less Fantastic ."

  Newt hunched forward slightly, rubbing the back of his head, as a chittering escaping him. His friend's laugh was equal parts rare, odd, and endearing. After a couple of moments, a loud, booming sound emanated from the giant of a man at his other side.

  "Bah ha ha! 'Fantastic,' he said, Professor!"

  "And this is Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds, at Hogwarts." He gestured to his large friend. "A very deft hand with magical creatures, well acquainted with the inhabitants of the Forbidden Forest."

  Harry nodded to Hagrid and shook his large hand firmly. His smile, if anything, had grown even more genuine-looking to the old man's practised eye. It appeared he hadn't misjudged Peverell.

  "Well, if it's all the same to you, why don't we go ahead and dive on in?"

  "S'pose we could just dive in."

  Hagrid squinted into the murky waters of the loch as he stroked his bushy beard. Peverell had said he'd spotted some Kelpies swimming about.

  Right beauties, Kelpies—I'd love ta see 'em. Maybe if’n I toss 'em a few treats they'd let me pet 'em. Would the Professor let me keep one? I'm sure we’ve got room in the lake—Squiggles would probably like a friend, too.

  He'd heard Kelpies liked to wrestle. That sounded right.

  Looking around, he saw the others were giving him some odd looks. He supposed they hadn't brought their bathers with them. Not that he was above going in starkers if it meant getting to see one of them up close.

  "—hoping not to have any guests pulled under by—"

  Hagrid stuck his hand into his pocket and started fishing around. It came back empty, so he tried another. And another. He had to have something nice and tasty in one of them.

  Ah, that'll do!

  He pulled a spare coney from one of his inner pockets. Like he always said—you never knew when a spare coney or two might come in handy. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been proven right.

  "—convalesced in my basement, she was—"

  Splash.

  Heads turned.

  A small furry buoy bobbed about. Hagrid's eyes were locked into it with intense focus.

  Come on~

  Bob. Bob.

  The carcass slowly rotated, unseeing eyes looking up at them.

  Come on~~~

  Bob. Bob.

  Come on~~~~~~

  SPLASH!

  A gorgeous mane shimmered as the Kelpie's full neck rose from the loch. The coney now no more than bits of flesh and blood against the large, ivory fangs.

  "Ah! Ain't she a sight!"

  A grin split Hagrid’s face wide as the pretty girl turned to look at them, Her oil-black eyes gazed at him gently.

  "Look at 'er! A proper lady, she is!"

  He felt awe, his heart stirring as she approached them. Hagrid walked right to the edge to get closer to the curious little lass.

  "Hagrid, I don't know if you want to—"

  Then she was upon him, head darting straight for him, teeth bared. He embraced her neck with one arm, stroking her mane with the other. The Kelpie gnawed on his arm a bit before beginning to sniff around his jacket.

  "Look at that! She likes me, she does!"

  · · ·

  "She likes me, she does!"

  Hagrid's heart was near bursting from all the new friends he was making today. First his sweet girl, Nibbles, the beautiful lady of the loch. And now—

  "Skraaawwww!"

  A second form circled above, wings beating, as a handsome fellow came down to greet him. In his arms was the head of a majestic griffin, pushing at him in a cute little game of tusslin'.

  Great way o’ bondin’, that.

  "—Hagrid, I'm not sure if that's a—"

  The second one was a really big boy. He came in from the side and joined in on the game. He didn't want to be left out.

  Couldn't blame him.

  "The more, the merrier! Oi, that tickles, Bah ha ha!"

  "—clearly territorial behaviour—"

  The tickling was beginning to turn into a pinching that was a tad uncomfortable. He gave a gentle shake—letting the big fella know it was playing a tad rough. Was probably just a bit excited.

  The pinching came back.

  "Oi, stop it, I said! Summat like that ain't friendly!"

  WHUMP!

  The griffin stumbled back, struggling to stay upright. While it recovered from his love-tap, Hagrid continued playing with the first griffin. He was having a great time.

  Soon, the second joined back in, though it made sure not to pinch.

  "Now, that's better, Birdie."

  He smiled as the two critters nuzzled at him, chirping and pawing their feet into the ground as they shoved playfully.

  I think I'm in Heaven.

  He looks like he's in Heaven.

  Hagrid lay half-buried under Mooncalves at the bottom of the glen.

  Most people thought that they only came out during the full moon, since it sounded nice and mystical. In reality, the little blighters popped out most nights: skittish, hungry—one was currently combing through Hagrid's beard for a midnight snack—and dropping happy little surprises (read: magical dung) all over the place like little Easter Eggs.

  But on nights like tonight—a new moon and some celestial activity—you'd see them come out in droves. Usually, they'd be dancing, singing, or just ogling the lights in the sky.

  Tonight, the whole herd looked to be out, simply relaxing in a snuggle-pile under the dim glow.

  And, somehow, Hagrid had managed to become the centre of the pile. Half the herd draped against his sides, with the rest perched atop his prone form. The whole lot had their necks craned, crooning a low, eerie harmony as they gazed at the meteors showering overhead.

  "He really is quite remarkable, Albus." Newt spoke softly from beside him. "Not that I'd want to poach your groundskeeper, of course—only, well, I wonder if, ah… he might be available on school breaks? I've some fieldwork I've been meaning to do, only… well, I'm not as young as I once was."

  Harry smiled so wide it made his cheeks sore.

  No one deserved it more. Not after everything Hagrid had been through.

  Would've gone through.

  If Harry had ever met someone who did, he couldn't name them.

  "I'd also appreciate it if he could come by from time to time—for 'play dates' with Nibbles and Birdie. I had a good teacher in Care of Magical Creatures, but…"

  Dumbledore chuffed—more like a guffaw, really.

  "Indeed, I doubt there is anyone else quite like Hagrid when it comes to tiring out the many creatures now under your care."

  He turned to look at Newt.

  "And I'd be most pleased for Hagrid to aid in whatever research you have in mind. I suspect he'd be quite enthusiastic, as well. In fact, I think he may be due a sabbatical quite soon."

  · · ·

  The three men stood, conversation trailing off. A slight chill blew in on the night's breeze.

  The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

  Harry hadn't really allowed himself a moment to stop since he'd arrived.

  If he were being honest, he couldn't remember the last time he'd done so. Had to have been before the War. Back when things were as simple as they'd ever been for him—which was not saying much.

  He had always been moving on to the next dig. The next discovery. The next… anything.

  He could tell himself he was just driven—pushing towards something. But he knew the truth.

  He’d been running. Had been for the longest time.

  But no matter how fast, or how far he ran, there was no outrunning what hounded him.

  He'd have to face it. Not that it was some great revelation. Knowing he had to do something and doing it were worlds apart.

  Still. For now, he'd take the moment’s respite. If only he had—

  Pop.

  Whimsy balanced a small tray precariously on her thin arm, four mugs of steaming hot cocoa.

  There was a bit of shuffling and some quiet coaxing. Then a warm, fuzzy blanket was conjured and spread across the grass.

  And so they sat—three men and a House-Elf—sipping cocoa as silver strokes danced across the night's canvas, dancing to the moon’s quiet choir.

  Perfect.