Fantastic Beasts Quotes

Newt Scamander: My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice.

Harry: This book belongs to Harry Potter. Ron: Shared by Ron Weasley, because his fell apart. Hermione: Why don't you buy a new one then? Ron: Write on your own book, Hermione. Hermione: You bought all those dungbombs on Saturday. You could have bought a new book instead. Ron: Dungbombs rule.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; — 'Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore.

Imperfect understanding is often more dangerous than ignorance.

Jacob: Newt . . . I don't think I'm dreaming. Newt: What gave it away? Jacob: I ain't got the brains to make this up.

See, they're currently in alien terrain, surrounded by millions of the most vicious creatures on the planet. Humans. - Newt Scamander

Jacob: Tell me — has anyone ever believed you when you told them not to worry? Newt: My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice.

My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice.

Mary Lou: Are you a seeker? A seeker after truth? a beat. Newt: I'm more of a chaser, really.

Queenie: People are easiest to read when they're hurting.

People change after a while, and they're no longer who you once knew

Do you know why I admire you, Newt? More, perhaps, than any man I know? (off NEWT’S surprise) You don’t seek power or popularity. You simply ask, is the thing right in itself? If it is, then I must do it, no matter the cost.

Ministry of Magic (M.O.M) Classification. xxxxx Known wizard killer / impossible to train or domesticate / or anything Hagrid likes

The more one knows fairy tales the less fantastical they appear; they can be vehicles of the grimmest realism, expressing hope against all the odds with gritted teeth.

Tina: Can you please tell me you took care of the No-Maj? Newt: The what? Tina: The No-Maj! No-magic — the non-wizard! Newt: Oh sorry, we call them Muggles.

Newt: I think you'll find the best wizarding school in the world is Hogwarts! Queenie: HOGWASH.

LETA Oh, Newt. You never met a monster you couldn’t love.

I would like to take this opportunity to reassure Muggle purchasers that the amusing creatures described hereafter are fictional and cannot hurt you.To wizards, I say merely: Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.

Hey, Mr English guy! I think your egg is hatching. - Jacob Kowalski

Phoenix song is magical: it is reputed to increase the courage of the pure of heart and to strike fear into the heart of the impure.

DUMBLEDORE (sotto voce) Regret is my constant companion. Do not let it become yours.

Worrying means you suffer twice

You don't seek power or popularity. You simply ask, is the thing right in itself? If it is, then I must do it, no matter the cost.

GRINDELWALD Will we die, just a little?

NEWT: What d’you think I should say to her, if I see her? JACOB: Oh, well, it’s best not to plan these things. You know, you just say whatever comes to you in the moment. A beat. They walk. NEWT (reminiscently): She has eyes just like a salamander. JACOB: Don’t say that.

there are no strange creatures, only blinkered people

Tina: Oh, keep him? We don't keep them! Mr. Scamander, do you know anything about the wizarding community in America? Newt: I do know a few things, actually. I know you have rather backwards laws about relations with non-magic people. That you're not meant to befriend them, that you can't marry them, which seems mildly absurd to me.

Queenie: (trying to cheer him up) I'll come with you. We'll go somewhere - we'll go anywhere - see I ain't never gonna find anyone like - Jacob: (bravely) There's loads like me. Queenie: No... no...there's only one like you.

Tina: Tell me the truth — was that everything that came out of the case?

Mrs. Esposito (O.S.): That you, Tina? Tina: Yes, Mrs. Esposito! Mrs. Esposito (O.S.): Are you alone? Tina: I'm always alone, Mrs. Esposito!

Imperfect understanding is often more dangerous than ignorance.

An Obscurus grows in the absence of love as a dark twin, an only friend.

The sight of a tree at night full of glowing Clabbert lifestyles, while decorative, attracted too many Muggles wishing to ask why their neighbours still had their Christmas lights up in June.

Jacob Kowalski: I'm sure people like you,too. Newt Scamander: No, not really. I'm annoying.

A beat as Queenie drinks the whole story out of Newt's head. She looks both intrigued and saddened. Newt continues to work, trying hard to pretend Queenie isn't reading his mind.

Blonde Queenie, the most beautiful girl ever to don witches' robes, is standing in a silk slip, supervising the mending of a dress on a dressmaker's dummy. Jacob is thunderstruck.

NEWT: Now there's absolutely nothing for you to worry about. JACOB: Tell me - has anyone ever believed you when you told them not to worry? NEWT: My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice.

NEWT: Jacob, she was here. Tina stood here. She has incredibly narrow feet, have you noticed? JACOB: Can’t say that I have.

You got a plan?” Raziel said, his heart hammering his chest like it wanted to push its way out and take its chances on its own. “Don’t get eaten.” Raziel bared his teeth and laughed.

Shall I tell her? Shall I be a kind and merciful narrator and take our girl aside? Shall I touch her new, red heart and make her understand that she is no longer one of the tribe of heartless children, nor even the owner of the wild and infant heart of thirteen-year-old girls and boys? Oh, September! Hearts, once you have them locked up in your chest, are a fantastic heap of tender and terrible wonders - but they must be trained. Beatrice could have told her all about it. A heart can learn ever so many tricks, and what sort of beast it becomes depends greatly upon whether it has been taught to sit up or to lie down, to speak or to beg, to roll over or to sound alarm, to guard or to attack, to find or to stay. But the trick most folk are so awfully fond of learning, the absolute second they've got hold of a heart, is to pretend they don't have one at all. It is the very first danger of the hearted. Shall I give fair warning, as neither you nor I was given?

MODESTY My momma, your momma, gonna catch a witch My momma, your momma, flying on a switch My momma, your momma, witches never cry My momma, your momma, witches gonna die! As

It's a dangerous thing, going out your front door.” “Because the road might sweep you off on some adventure without time for breakfast?” “Well… I was thinking more of the monsters, but yes, that too.

NEWT rummages in his pockets and pulls out a tiny bottle with only a couple of muddy drops left inside it. TINA: Is that Polyjuice? NEWT (of the bottle): Just enough to get me inside. He looks down at his coat and finds one of THESEUS’S hairs on his shoulder. He adds it to the mixture, drinks, and turns into THESEUS, still wearing NEWT’S clothes. TINA: Who—? NEWT: My brother, Theseus. He’s an Auror. And a hugger.

NEWT shuffles over awkwardly to the bereft THESEUS. NEWT hesitates, struggling to find words of comfort. Then for the first time in his life, he puts his arms around his brother. They hug. NEWT: I've chosen my side.

My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice

I do know a few things, actually. I know you have rather backwards laws about relations with non-magic people. That you're not mean to befriend them, that you can't marry them, which seems mildly absurd to me.

Weird grey forms came pouring out of the woods. They were only about three or four feet tall, but they were covered in taut muscle. Their heads were wider than their shoulders and their mouths, bristling with teeth, stretched from ear to ear. They chattered as they came, shrieking in voices that were at once guttural and chirruping.

Interestingly, Muggles were once fully aware of the existence of the Diricawl, though they knew it by the name of ‘dodo’. Unaware that the Diricawl could vanish at will, Muggles believe they have hunted the species to extinction.

Chizpurfle infestations explain the puzzling failure of many relatively new Muggle electrical artifacts.

The unicorn’s horn, blood and hair all have highly magical properties.

I have visited lairs, burrows and nests across five continents, observed the curious habits of magical beasts in a hundred countries, witnessed their powers, gained their trust and, on occasion, beaten them off with my travelling kettle. — newt scamander

Keira was surrounded by dozens of tiny orbs, each a unique shade of brilliant color. She was clasping her stomach with both arms, hunched over like she was freezing, trying to hold on to every bit of warmth she could. She looked up at Hoeru and her eyes were glowing with the light of all the magic she was struggling to contain. “Hoeru, close your eyes,” she said through gritted teeth. The wolf spirit realized the threat she posed and snapped its jaws at her. It probably saved Hoeru’s life. Keira exploded.

If not for the courage and fortitude of a select few heroes during these eras, the great tides of darkness may have swallowed everything.

worrying means you suffer twice.

I’m more of a chaser, really. ANGLE

Imperfect understanding is often more dangerous than ignorance,

Imperfect understanding is often more dangerous than ignorance

Dumbledore: I was young. I was - Grindelwald: Committed. To me. To us. Dumbledore: No. I went along because - Grindelwald: Because? Dumbledore: Because I was in love with you.

Keatonesque

NEWT Well, the first symptom would be flames out of his anus—

La desaprobación de los cobardes es un elogio para los valientes.

The People are a capricious and stupid beast that doesn't know its own strength and bears burdens and blows with patience;... it knows not what fear it inspires, or that its masters have prepared a magic potion to stupefy it. What a fantastic situation! The People beating and tying itself up with its own hands; fighting and dying for a few pennies from the King,... totally unaware that everything between heaven and earth really belongs to it and stoning to death anyone who would remind it of its rights.

NEWT (serious): Jacob? JACOB: Yeah? NEWT: In my case, in the pocket there, you’ll find a pair of tweezers. JACOB: Tweezers? NEWT: They’re thin and pointy— TINA: Thin, little pointy things. JACOB: Yes, I know what tweezers are.

Sometimes on flat boring afternoons, he'd squatted on the curb of St. Deval Street and daydreamed silent pearly snowclouds into sifting coldly through the boughs of the dry, dirty trees. Snow falling in August and silvering the glassy pavement, the ghostly flakes icing his hair, coating rooftops, changing the grimy old neighborhood into a hushed frozen white wasteland uninhabited except for himself and a menagerie of wonder-beasts: albino antelopes, and ivory-breasted snowbirds; and occasionally there were humans, such fantastic folk as Mr Mystery, the vaudeville hypnotist, and Lucky Rogers, the movie star, and Madame Veronica, who read fortunes in a Vieux Carré tearoom.

NEWT: That’s all very well, Dumbledore, but, forgive me for asking, why can’t you go? They stop. DUMBLEDORE: I can’t move against Grindelwald. It has to be you. (beat) Well, I don’t blame you, in your shoes I’d probably refuse too. It’s late. Good evening, Newt. DUMBLEDORE Disapparates. NEWT: Oh c’mon! DUMBLEDORE’S empty glove reappears and tucks the business card bearing the address of the safe house into NEWT’S top pocket. NEWT (exasperated): Dumbledore.

In the beginning of our love lives, it is the beastly instinct of sexual attraction that drives us all. The butterflies in your stomach simply signal your mind that the person in front of you would make a fantastic mate to make babies with. Without this primeval drive, you won’t ever fall for anyone in your entire lifetime. The very attraction you feel towards a person in a romantic way, is a mental manifestation of a subconscious desire to mate with that person.

Books by Roald Dahl The BFG Boy: Tales of Childhood Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator Danny the Champion of the World Dirty Beasts The Enormous Crocodile Esio Trot Fantastic Mr. Fox George’s Marvelous Medicine The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me Going Solo James and the Giant Peach The Magic Finger Matilda The Minpins The Missing Golden Ticket and Other Splendiferous Secrets Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes Skin and Other Stories The Twits The Umbrella Man and Other Stories The Vicar of Nibbleswicke The Witches The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More

DUMBLEDORE conjures NICOLAS FLAMEL’S card from thin air and offers it to NEWT, who eyes it with suspicion. NEWT: What’s that? DUMBLEDORE: It’s an address of a very old acquaintance of mine. A safe house in Paris, reinforced with enchantments. NEWT: Safe house? Why would I need a safe house in Paris? DUMBLEDORE: One hopes you won’t, but should things at some point go terribly wrong, it’s good to have a place to go. You know, for a cup of tea. NEWT: No, no, no—absolutely not.

INT. MINISTÈRE DES AFFAIRES MAGIQUES, RECORDS ROOM ATRIUM—NIGHT MELUSINE: Puis-je vous aider? NEWT: Er—yes, this is Leta Lestrange. And—I’m her— TINA: Fiancé. There is an increased awkwardness between them. NEWT: Tina, about that fiancée business— TINA (brittle): Sorry, yeah. I should have congratulated you— The doors to the records office open. They enter briskly. INT. MINISTÈRE DES AFFAIRES MAGIQUES, RECORDS ROOM—NIGHT The doors close behind them, plunging them into darkness. NEWT: No, that’s— TINA: Lumos. NEWT: Tina—about Leta— TINA: Yes, I’ve just said, I am happy for you— NEWT: Yeah, well, don’t. She stops. Looks at him. What? NEWT: Please don’t be happy. (in trouble) Uh, no, no. I’m sorry. I don’t . . . Uh, obviously, I—Obviously I want you to be. And I hear that you are now. Uh, which is wonderful. Sorry— (a gesture of hopelessness) What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy, but don’t be happy that I’m happy, because I’m not. (off her confusion) Happy. (off her continued confusion) Or engaged. TINA: What? NEWT: It was a mistake in a stupid magazine. My brother’s marrying Leta, June the sixth. I’m supposed to be best man. Which is sort of mildly hilarious. TINA: Does he think you’re here to win her back? (beat) Are you here to win her back? NEWT: No! I’m here to— A beat. He stares at her. NEWT: —you know, your eyes really are— TINA: Are what? NEWT: I’m not supposed to say. Pickett is climbing out of NEWT’S pocket onto the nearest shelf. NEWT doesn’t notice. A beat. In a rush TINA: Newt, I read your book, and did you—? NEWT: I still have a picture of you—wait, did you read—? NEWT pulls the picture of her from his breast pocket and unfolds it. She is inordinately touched. He looks from the picture to TINA. NEWT: I got this—I mean, it’s just a picture of you from the paper, but it’s interesting because your eyes in newsprint . . . See, in reality they have this effect in them, Tina . . . It’s like fire in water, in dark water. I’ve only ever seen that— (struggling) I’ve only ever seen that in— TINA (whispers): Salamanders?

Therefore I see no wrong in riding with the Nightmare to-night; she whinnies to me from the rocking tree-tops and the roaring wind; I will catch her and ride her through the awful air. Woods and weeds are alike tugging at the roots in the rising tempest, as if all wished to fly with us over the moon, like that wild, amorous cow whose child was the Moon-Calf. We will rise to that mad infinite where there is neither up nor down, the high topsy-turveydom of the heavens. I will ride on the Nightmare; but she shall not ride on me.

Muggles have a great weakness for fairies, which feature in a variety of tales written for their children. These ‘fairy tales’ involve winged beings with distinct personalities and the ability to converse as humans (though often in a nauseatingly sentimental fashion).

INT. PARISIAN CAFÉ—EVENING KAMA leaves the café. The feather points at him. NEWT lets it out and it flies to KAMA’S hat. JACOB: Is that the guy we’re looking for? NEWT: Yes. NEWT and JACOB jump up to confront him. NEWT (to KAMA): Er—bonjour. Bonjour, monsieur. KAMA makes to carry on walking, ignoring NEWT. NEWT: Oh wait, no, sorry. We were . . . we were actually just wondering if you’d come across a friend of ours? JACOB:Tina Goldstein. KAMA: Monsieur, Paris is a large city. NEWT: She’s an Auror. When Aurors go missing, the Ministry tend to come looking, so . . . No, now I suppose it would probably be better if we just report her absence— KAMA (deciding): She is tall? Dark? Rather— JACOB: —intense? NEWT: —beautiful— JACOB (hasty, off NEWT’S look): —Yeah, what I meant to say—she’s very—very pretty— NEWT: She’s intense too.

JACOB I was never supposed to know any of this. Everybody knows Newt only kept me around because – hey – Newt, why did you keep me around? NEWT has to be explicit. It doesn’t come easily. NEWT Because I like you. Because you’re my friend and I’ll never forget how you helped me, Jacob.

I have found much value in considering monster theory, color theory, and the history of racial analogies in speculative fiction. However, when we read literary and cultural texts from the perspective of the monster, not the protagonist, we find ourselves in a completely different ballgame. This is why taking a supposedly 'neutral' or 'objective' approach to theorizing the dark fantastic is problematic; the default position is to allow those who are used to seeing themselves as heroic and desired the power and privileged of naming, defining, and delimiting the entire world and everything that is in it. We never notice that monsters, fantastic beasts, and various Dark Others are silenced because we have never been taught the language they speak. Critical race counterstorytelling provides both translation and amplification for these subsumed narratives.

INT. DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS CLASS—FOURTEEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY—DAY It is Boggart time. DUMBLEDORE supervises the line of teenagers advancing to try their luck. “Riddikulus”—“Riddikulus”—gusts of hilarity as a shark becomes a flotation device, a zombie’s head turns into a pumpkin, a vampire turns into a buck-toothed rabbit. DUMBLEDORE: All right, Newt. Be brave. 16-YEAR-OLD NEWT moves to the front of the queue. The Boggart turns into a Ministry desk. DUMBLEDORE: Mmm, that’s an unusual one. So Mr. Scamander fears what more than anything else in the world? 16-YEAR-OLD NEWT: Having to work in an office, sir. The class roars with laughter. DUMBLEDORE: Go ahead, Newt. 16-YEAR-OLD NEWT: Riddikulus! NEWT turns the desk into a gamboling wooden dragon and moves aside. DUMBLEDORE: Well done. Good job.

Oh, you’re reading your secret book. Sorry,” he said. Though his face didn’t show any contrition Raziel knew he meant it. Hoeru was close to Raziel’s age and they’d been roommates for years, ever since Dominic brought the changeling in. He was probably Raziel’s closest friend. Reading the changeling could be difficult but Hoeru was always candid with his words. “Secret book?” “Is it not a secret?” “No! I just don’t like people knowing about it.” Hoeru narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “Isn’t that what a secret is?” “No. Well… yes. Kind of. It’s complicated.” “Everything human is complicated. So what’s in your not-secret secret book?

TINA: I’ll have to go to the Ministry with what I’ve got. (a wobble in her voice) It was nice to see you again, Mr. Scamander. She strides from the room, leaving NEWT perplexed and upset. INT. FLAMEL HOUSE, HALLWAY—AFTERNOON JACOB follows TINA into the hall. JACOB: Hey, hold on one second, will you? Well, hold on! Wait! Tina! She leaves. As the front door closes, NEWT appears at the drawing room door. JACOB: (to NEWT) You didn’t mention salamanders, did you? NEWT: No, she just—ran. I don’t know . . . JACOB (firm): So you chase after her! NEWT grabs his case. He leaves.  EXT. RUE DE MONTMORENCY—END OF DAY TINA is hurrying up the road. NEWT hastens to catch up. NEWT: Tina. Please, just listen to me— TINA: Mr. Scamander, I need to go talk to the Ministry—and I know how you feel about Aurors— NEWT: I may have been a little strong in the way that I expressed myself in that letter— TINA: What was the exact phrase? “A bunch of careerist hypocrites”? NEWT: I’m sorry, but I can’t admire people whose answer to everything that they fear or misunderstand is “kill it”! TINA: I’m an Auror and I don’t— NEWT: Yes, and that’s because you’ve gone middle head! TINA (stopping): Excuse me? NEWT: It’s an expression derived from the three heads of the Runespoor. The middle one is the visionary. Every Auror in Europe wants Credence dead—except you. You’ve gone middle head. A beat. TINA: Who else uses that expression, Mr. Scamander? NEWT considers. NEWT: I think it might just be me.

It wasn’t that big a deal.” Raziel sat up. He stared hard at Keira until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. He could still see doubt and uncertainty there. “Stop that. If you did what you say you did, you pulled off a hell of a thing. Several hells of things. Or something like that. I’m not sure how to make that plural. The point is...” Raziel had to stop for a moment to figure out what his point was. She was looking at him with curiosity now, the self consciousness somewhat faded. “The point is thank you.” “Thank… you?” “Yeah. You got me away from Alban. You came to help Kusa. You risked your life to keep me and my friends alive. Thank you.” “You… you…” She struggled for words. “You are so weird.

NEWT Dumbledore. (amused) Were the less conspicuous rooftops full, then? DUMBLEDORE (looking out over city) I do enjoy a view. Nebulus

NEWT (exasperated) Dumbledore.

You don’t seek power or popularity. You simply ask, is the thing right in itself? If it is, then I must do it, no matter the cost.

In her fantastic mood she stretched her soft, clasped hands upward toward the moon. 'Sweet moon,' she said in a kind of mock prayer, 'make your white light come down in music into my dancing-room here, and I will dance most deliciously for you to see". She flung her head backward and let her hands fall; her eyes were half closed, and her mouth was a kissing mouth. 'Ah! sweet moon,' she whispered, 'do this for me, and I will be your slave; I will be what you will.' Quite suddenly the air was filled with the sound of a grand invisible orchestra. Viola did not stop to wonder. To the music of a slow saraband she swayed and postured. In the music there was the regular beat of small drums and a perpetual drone. The air seemed to be filled with the perfume of some bitter spice. Viola could fancy almost that she saw a smoldering campfire and heard far off the roar of some desolate wild beast. She let her long hair fall, raising the heavy strands of it in either hand as she moved slowly to the laden music. Slowly her body swayed with drowsy grace, slowly her satin shoes slid over the silver sand. The music ceased with a clash of cymbals. Viola rubbed her eyes. She fastened her hair up carefully again. Suddenly she looked up, almost imperiously. "Music! more music!" she cried. Once more the music came. This time it was a dance of caprice, pelting along over the violin-strings, leaping, laughing, wanton. Again an illusion seemed to cross her eyes. An old king was watching her, a king with the sordid history of the exhaustion of pleasure written on his flaccid face. A hook-nosed courtier by his side settled the ruffles at his wrists and mumbled, 'Ravissant! Quel malheur que la vieillesse!' It was a strange illusion. Faster and faster she sped to the music, stepping, spinning, pirouetting; the dance was light as thistle-down, fierce as fire, smooth as a rapid stream. The moment that the music ceased Viola became horribly afraid. She turned and fled away from the moonlit space, through the trees, down the dark alleys of the maze, not heeding in the least which turn she took, and yet she found herself soon at the outside iron gate. ("The Moon Slave")

Eggbeast!” Raziel shouted, his voice finally coming back to him. Hoeru turned, looked at the eggbeast just a few feet away and then back to Raziel. “Yes. That is the eggbeast.” There was a moment of almost silence, the only noise being the wet sloppy sound of the eggbeast’s mouth falling open and its absurdly large tongue falling out of its mouth as it panted happily. “Oh right. I guess no one told you. Kusa convinced it to help us.” “Oh. Thanks. That’s good to know,” Raziel’s words came out stilted as he tried to get his panic and irritation with Hoeru under control. “Sure.” The eggbeast let out a chuffing sound. Hoeru turned his head towards the beast, and it mewled to him, a sound like a squeaky door made for giants. Hoeru nodded. “It also says sorry for trying to eat you.” “You… speak eggbeast?” “Well no. But we both speak squirrel.” “You know, it’s really hard to tell when you’re joking.

A thin, pale-grey serpent with glowing red eyes, it will rise from the embers of an unsupervised fire and slither away into the shadows of the dwelling in which it finds itself, leaving an ashy trail behind it.

A thin, pale-grey serpent with glowing red eyes, it will rise from the embers of an unsupervised fire and slither away into the shadows of the dwelling in which it finds itself, leaving an ashy trail behind it.

HORKLUMP M.O.M. Classification: X The Horklump comes from Scandinavia but is now widespread throughout northern Europe. It resembles a fleshy, pinkish mushroom covered in sparse, wiry black bristles. A prodigious breeder, the Horklump will cover an average garden in a matter of days. It spreads sinewy tentacles rather than roots into the ground to search for its preferred food of earthworms. The Horklump is a favourite delicacy of gnomes but otherwise has no discernible use. H

How was it? NEWT: They’re still convinced that you sent me to New York. DUMBLEDORE: You told them I didn’t? NEWT: Yes. Even though you did. A beat. DUMBLEDORE inscrutable, NEWT wanting answers. NEWT: You told me where to find that trafficked Thunderbird, Dumbledore. You knew that I would take him home and you knew I’d have to take him through a Muggle port. DUMBLEDORE: Well, I’ve always felt an affinity with the great magical birds. There’s a story in my family that a phoenix will come to any Dumbledore who is in desperate need. They say my great-great-grandfather had one, but that it took flight when he died, never to return. NEWT: With all due respect, I don’t believe for a minute that’s why you told me about the Thunderbird.

Horklump M.O.M. Classification: X The Horklump comes from Scandinavia but is now widespread throughout northern Europe. It resembles a fleshy, pinkish mushroom covered in sparse, wiry black bristles. A prodigious breeder, the Horklump will cover an average garden in a matter of days. It spreads sinewy tentacles rather than roots into the ground to search for its preferred food of earthworms. The Horklump is a favourite delicacy of gnomes but otherwise has no discernible use. Horned Serpent M.O.M. Classification: XXXXX Several species of Horned Serpents exist globally: large specimens have been caught in the Far East, while ancient bestiaries suggest that they were once native to Western Europe, where they have been hunted to extinction by wizards in search of potion ingredients. The largest and most diverse group of Horned Serpents still in existence is to be found in North America, of which the most famous and highly prized has a jewel in its forehead, which is reputed to give the power of invisibility and flight. A legend exists concerning the founder of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Isolt Sayre, and a Horned Serpent. Sayre was reputed to be able to understand the serpent, which offered her shavings from its horn as the core of the first ever American-made wand. The Horned Serpent gives its name to one of the houses of Ilvermorny.

Todaye while travailing in the Herbe Garden, I did push aside the basil to discover a Ferret of monstrous size. It did not run nor hide as Ferrets are wont to do, but leapt upon me, throwing me backwards upon the grounde and crying with most unnatural fury, “Get out of it, baldy!” It did then bite my nose so viciously that I did bleed for several Hours. The Friar was unwillinge to believe that I had met a talking Ferret and did ask me whether I had been supping of Brother Boniface’s Turnip Wine. As my nose was still swollen and bloody I was excused Vespers.

Generations of young Australian witches and wizards have attempted to catch Billywigs and provoke them into stinging in order to enjoy these side effects, though too many stings may cause the victim to hover uncontrollably for days on end, and where there is a severe allergic reaction, permanent floating may ensue.

INT. NEWT’S HOUSE—SHORTLY AFTER—NIGHT NEWT’S miserable gaze falls on the piece of postcard. He crosses to pick it up, then points his wand at it. NEWT: Papyrus Reparo. It reconstitutes into a whole. We see a picture of Paris. Postcard text becomes visible onscreen. TINA (V.O.); My dear Queenie, What a beautiful city. I’m thinking of you, Tina X

NEWT withdraws his head, still leaning against the wall of the dark alleyway, to find a single black glove hanging in the air in front of him. He looks at it, expressionless. It gives a little wave, then points into the far distance. NEWT looks to where it is pointing. High on the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a tiny human figure raises its arm. NEWT looks back at the glove, which makes as though to shake hands. NEWT takes it, and he and the glove Disapparate. EXT. DOME OF ST. PAUL’S—EVENING Apparating beside a dandyesque forty-five-year-old wizard with graying auburn hair and beard. NEWT hands back his glove. NEWT: Dumbledore. (amused) Were the less conspicuous rooftops full, then? DUMBLEDORE (looking out over city): I do enjoy a view. Nebulus. A swirling fog descends over London. They Disapparate.

There is one in this tribe too often miserable - a child bereaved of both parents. None cares for this child: she is fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten: a hut rarely receives her: the hollow tree and chill cavern are her home. Forsaken, lost, and wandering, she lives more with the wild beast and bird than with her own kind. Hunger and cold are her comrades: sadness hovers over, and solitude besets her round. Unheeded and unvalued, she should die: but she both lives and grows: the green wilderness nurses her, and becomes to her a mother: feeds her on juicy berry, on saccharine root and nut. There is something in the air of this clime which fosters life kindly: there must be something, too, in its dews, which heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no passion, no sense; its temperature tends to harmony; its breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ of pure thought, and purer feeling. Not grotesquely fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage; not violently vivid the colouring of flower and bird: in all the grandeur of these forests there is repose; in all their freshness there is tenderness. The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower and tree, - bestowed on deer and dove, - has not been denied to the human nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful. Nature cast her features in a fine mould; they have matured in their pure, accurate first lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease. No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely with the surface of her frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her tresses: her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows plenteous, long, and glossy; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical fires, beam in the shade large and open, and full and dewy: above those eyes, when the breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample, - a clear, candid page, whereon knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record. You see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious or vacant; she haunts the wood harmless and thoughtful: though of what one so untaught can think, it is not easy to divine. On the evening of one summer day, before the Flood, being utterly alone - for she had lost all trace of her tribe, who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where, - she went up from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A crag, overspread by a tree, was her station: the oak-roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat: the oak-boughs, thick-leaved, wove a canopy. Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple fire, and parting to the farewell of a wild, low chorus from the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death: the wind fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held happy mates, and hart and hind slumbered blissfully safe in their lair. The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir; occupied, however, rather in feeling than in thinking, - in wishing, than hoping, - in imagining, than projecting. She felt the world, the sky, the night, boundlessly mighty. Of all things, herself seemed to herself the centre, - a small, forgotten atom of life, a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never needed, - a star in an else starless firmament, - which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest, tracked as a guide, or read as a prophecy? Could this be, she demanded, when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and potent; when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?

INT. KAMA’S HIDEOUT—EVENING The interior of KAMA’S hideout is pitch black. The sound of water dripping. A brief shaft of sunlight reveals TINA, sleeping lightly on the floor in her coat. NEWT: Tina? She wakes. A moment as NEWT and TINA stare at each other. Each has thought of the other daily for a year. With no sign of KAMA, it seems she has been rescued. TINA (joyful, disbelieving): Newt! TINA notices KAMA entering in the background and raising his wand. Her expression changes. KAMA: Expelliarmus! NEWT’S wand flies out of his hand into KAMA’S. Bars form across the door, imprisoning them. KAMA (through the door): My apologies, Mr. Scamander! I shall return and release you when Credence is dead! TINA: Kama, wait! KAMA: You see, either he dies . . . or I do. He claps a hand to his eye. KAMA: No, no, no, no. Oh no. No, no, no. He jerks convulsively and slides to the floor, unconscious. NEWT: Well, that’s not the best start to a rescue attempt. TINA: This was a rescue attempt? You’ve just lost me my only lead. JACOB launches for the door, trying to break it down. NEWT (innocent): Well, how was the interrogation going before we turned up? TINA throws him a dark look. She strides to the back of the cave. Pickett, who, unnoticed, has hopped out of NEWT’S pocket, successfully picks the lock, and the bars swing open. JACOB: Newt! NEWT: Well done, Pick. (to TINA) You need this man, you say? TINA: Yeah. I think this man knows where Credence is, Mr. Scamander. As they bend over the unconscious KAMA, they hear an earth-shattering roar from somewhere above them. They look at each other. NEWT: Well, that’ll be the Zouwu. NEWT grabs his wand and Disapparates.

About his madmen Mr. Lecky was no more certain. He knew less than the little to be learned of the causes or even of the results of madness. Yet for practical purposes one can imagine all that is necessary. As long as maniacs walk like men, you must come close to them to penetrate so excellent a disguise. Once close, you have joined the true werewolf. Pick for your companion a manic-depressive, afflicted by any of the various degrees of mania - chronic, acute, delirious. Usually more man than wolf, he will be instructive. His disorder lies in the very process of his thinking, rather than in the content of his thought. He cannot wait a minute for the satisfaction of his fleeting desires or the fulfillment of his innumerable schemes. Nor can he, for two minutes, be certain of his intention or constant in any plan or agreement. Presently you may hear his failing made manifest in the crazy concatenation of his thinking aloud, which psychiatrists call "flight of ideas." Exhausted suddenly by this riotous expense of speech and spirit, he may subside in an apathy dangerous and morose, which you will be well advised not to disturb. Let the man you meet be, instead, a paretic. He has taken a secret departure from your world. He dwells amidst choicest, most dispendious superlatives. In his arm he has the strength to lift ten elephants. He is already two hundred years old. He is more than nine feet high; his chest is of iron, his right leg is silver, his incomparable head is one whole ruby. Husband of a thousand wives, he has begotten on them ten thousand children. Nothing is mean about him; his urine is white wine; his faeces are always soft gold. However, despite his splendor and his extraordinary attainments, he cannot successfully pronounce the words: electricity, Methodist Episcopal, organization, third cavalry brigade. Avoid them. Infuriated by your demonstration of any accomplishment not his, he may suddenly kill you. Now choose for your friend a paranoiac, and beware of the wolf! His back is to the wall, his implacable enemies are crowding on him. He gets no rest. He finds no starting hole to hide him. Ten times oftener than the Apostle, he has been, through the violence of the unswerving malice which pursues him, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils of his own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren, in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. Now that, face to face with him, you simulate innocence and come within his reach, what pity can you expect? You showed him none; he will certainly not show you any. Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, 0 Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all the perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen. Mr. Lecky's maniacs lay in wait to slash a man's head half off, to perform some erotic atrocity of disembowelment on a woman. Here, they fed thoughtlessly on human flesh; there, wishing to play with him, they plucked the mangled Tybalt from his shroud. The beastly cunning of their approach, the fantastic capriciousness of their intention could not be very well met or provided for. In his makeshift fort everywhere encircled by darkness, Mr. Lecky did not care to meditate further on the subject.

But here through the dusk comes one who is not glad to be at rest. He is a workman on the ranch, an old man, an immigrant Italian. He takes his hat off to me in all servility, because, forsooth, I am to him a lord of life. I am food to him, and shelter, and existence. He has toiled like a beast all his days, and lived less comfortably than my horses in their deep-strawed stalls. He is labour-crippled. He shambles as he walks. One shoulder is twisted higher than the other. His hands are gnarled claws, repulsive, horrible. As an apparition he is a pretty miserable specimen. His brain is as stupid as his body is ugly. "His brain is so stupid that he does not know he is an apparition," the White Logic chuckles to me. "He is sense-drunk. He is the slave of the dream of life. His brain is filled with superrational sanctions and obsessions. He believes in a transcendent over-world. He has listened to the vagaries of the prophets, who have given to him the sumptuous bubble of Paradise. He feels inarticulate self-affinities, with self-conjured non-realities. He sees penumbral visions of himself titubating fantastically through days and nights of space and stars. Beyond the shadow of any doubt he is convinced that the universe was made for him, and that it is his destiny to live for ever in the immaterial and supersensuous realms he and his kind have builded of the stuff of semblance and deception. "But you, who have opened the books and who share my awful confidence—you know him for what he is, brother to you and the dust, a cosmic joke, a sport of chemistry, a garmented beast that arose out of the ruck of screaming beastliness by virtue and accident of two opposable great toes. He is brother as well to the gorilla and the chimpanzee. He thumps his chest in anger, and roars and quivers with cataleptic ferocity. He knows monstrous, atavistic promptings, and he is composed of all manner of shreds of abysmal and forgotten instincts." "Yet he dreams he is immortal," I argue feebly. "It is vastly wonderful for so stupid a clod to bestride the shoulders of time and ride the eternities." "Pah!" is the retort. "Would you then shut the books and exchange places with this thing that is only an appetite and a desire, a marionette of the belly and the loins?" "To be stupid is to be happy," I contend. "Then your ideal of happiness is a jelly-like organism floating in a tideless, tepid twilight sea, eh?

In thousands of years, you’re the first being to cross my path and give me a reason to fight for a different future. I never saw you coming, and I never anticipated you would wreak such havoc on both me and my life. There was no one else who was worthy.” He thought I was worthy. The mess of a shifter with no pack and a true mate who’d rejected her. “But you have a true mate,” I breathed, knowing I might fuck up everything with this line of conversation, but apparently, my deadass was gonna go there. Shadow’s face was awash in secrets, and as he leaned over, his mouth tasting the tender spot beneath my ear, he murmured, “Her face is a blur, and I have a fantastic memory for almost everything else in this world. Out of duty, I never kissed a single being in the time I was exiled from my world, but then you exploded into my life. Full of sass and fucking questions, with hair of a sunset, and a temper to equal my own. The gods themselves couldn’t have stopped me from claiming you.

INT. NEWT’S SITTING ROOM—FIVE MINUTES LATER—NIGHT The threesome sit at a table bearing NEWT’S mismatched crockery, the atmosphere tainted by TINA’S absence. QUEENIE’S case lies open on the sofa. QUEENIE: Tina and I aren’t talking. NEWT: Why? JACOB’S POV—pink and hazy, as though happily drunk. QUEENIE: Oh well, you know, she found out about Jacob and I seeing each other and she didn’t like it, ’cause of the “law.” (miming quotation marks) Not allowed to date No-Majs, not allowed to marry them. Blah, blah, blah. Well, she was all in a tizzy anyway, ’cause of you. NEWT: Me? QUEENIE: Yeah, you, Newt. It was in Spellbound. Here—I brought it for you— She points her wand at her suitcase. A celebrity magazine zooms to her: Spellbound: Celebrity Secrets and Spell Tips of the Stars! On the cover, an idealized NEWT and an improbably beaming Niffler. BEAST TAMER NEWT TO WED! QUEENIE opens the magazine. THESEUS, LETA, NEWT, and BUNTY stand side by side at his book launch. QUEENIE (showing him): “Newt Scamander with fiancée, Leta Lestrange; brother, Theseus; and unknown woman.” NEWT: No. Theseus is marrying Leta, not me. QUEENIE: Oh! Oh dear . . . well, see, Teen read that, and she started dating someone else. He’s an Auror. His name’s Achilles Tolliver.

Every time the cataclysmic concept has come to life, the 'beast' has been stoned, burned at the stake, beaten to a pulp, and buried with a vengeance; but the corpse simply won't stay dead. Each time, it raises the lid of its coffin and says in sepulchral tones: 'You will die before I.' The latest of the challengers is Prof. Frank C. Hibben, who in his book, 'The Lost Americans,' said: 'This was no ordinary extinction of a vague geological period which fizzled to an uncertain end. This death was catastrophic and all inclusive. [...] What caused the death of forty million animals. [...] The 'corpus delicti' in this mystery may be found almost anywhere. [...] Their bones lie bleaching in the sands of Florida and in the gravels of New Jersey. They weather out of the dry terraces of Texas and protrude from the sticky ooze of the tar pits off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. [...] The bodies of the victims are everywhere. [...] We find literally thousands together [...] young and old, foal with dam, calf with cow. [...] The muck pits of Alaska are filled with evidence of universal death [...] a picture of quick extinction. [...] Any argument as to the cause [...] must apply to North America, Siberia, and Europe as well.' '[...] Mamooth and bison were torn and twisted as though by a cosmic hand in a godly rage.' '[...] In many places the Alaskan muck blanket is packed with animal bones and debris in trainload lots [...] mammoth, mastodon [...] bison, horses, wolves, bears, and lions. [...] A faunal population [...] in the middle of some cataclysmic catastrophe [...] was suddenly frozen [...] in a grim charade.' Fantastic winds; volcanic burning; inundation and burial in muck; preservation by deep-freeze. 'Any good solution to a consuming mystery must answer all of the facts,' challenges Hibben.

Breeding has made the creation of new species illegal. DISILLUSIONMENT CHARMS The wizard on the street also plays a part in the concealment of magical beasts. Those who own a Hippogriff, for example, are bound by law to enchant the beast with a Disillusionment Charm to distort the vision of any Muggle who may see it. Disillusionment Charms should be performed daily, as their effects are apt to wear off. MEMORY CHARMS When the worst happens and a Muggle sees what he or she is not supposed to see, the Memory Charm is perhaps the most useful repair tool. The Memory Charm may be performed by the owner of the beast in question, but in severe cases of Muggle notice, a team of trained Obliviators may be sent in by the Ministry of Magic. THE OFFICE OF MISINFORMATION The Office of Misinformation will become involved in only the very worst magical–Muggle collisions. Some magical catastrophes or accidents are simply too glaringly obvious to be explained away by Muggles without the help of an outside authority. The Office of Misinformation will in such a case liaise directly with the Muggle prime minister to seek a plausible non-magical explanation for the event. The unstinting efforts of this office in persuading Muggles that all photographic evidence of the Loch Ness kelpie is fake have gone some way to salvaging a situation that at one time looked exceedingly dangerous. 7. In his 1972 book Muggles Who Notice, Blenheim Stalk asserts that some residents of Ilfracombe escaped the Mass Memory Charm. ‘To this day, a Muggle bearing the nickname “Dodgy Dirk” holds forth in bars along the south coast on the subject of a “dirty great flying lizard” that punctured his lilo.’ 8. For a fascinating examination of this fortunate tendency of Muggles, the reader might like to consult The Philosophy of the Mundane: Why the Muggles Prefer Not to Know, Professor Mordicus Egg (Dust & Mildewe, 1963). 9. The largest department at the Ministry of Magic is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to which the remaining six departments are all, in some respect, answerable – with the possible exception of the Department of Mysteries.