Fantastic Beasts

Chapter 1: Ironbellies

Dodging dragon fire came naturally after a time. Ukrainian Ironbellies were not the most difficult dragon to tame, or at least placate to the point of malleability, but given the right amount of blundering anyone could mess up the process. Anyone, being nearly every member of Newt Scamander's Beast Division on the Eastern Front. Why bother creating a special operating unit of the Beast Division specifically for the taming and militarizing dragons if you didn't bother to listen to the one person who could tame them? Tame might be the wrong word, as the whole relationship was a rather fickle give and take that required a lot of effort to maintain and was, perhaps, not as predictable as anybody might like.

Why was he the only one capable of taming them? Well, the beast division seemed to think of dragons as, at best, assets or at worst, monsters. The thought hadn't occurred to them that perhaps dragons were just beings with a brain and that if you played your cards right, you could figure out how to work with them, instead of trying to make them work for you. They hadn't even figure out yet that every Ironbelly was an individual with their own personality, their own likes and dislikes. Especially Mildred, as he'd affectionately named his favourite Ironbelly matriarch of the lot, she was partial to chin scratches and blueberries.

Newt was particularly good with magical creatures, as he was a good at listener and paid close attention, which made up for his inability to talk or interact with creatures of the human variety. At 6'1" he could have cut an imposing figure, especially a man with his kind of connections, and been more of the hero type, like his brother, Theseus or the imposing noble type like his mother, Lucille. Newt, however, was a bit hunchy, very wispy of voice and character, and had a keen eye only for creatures. In fact, his inability to communicate effectively was the bane of his teammates and often led him to trouble.

Well, if you knew anything about Newt Scamander, which everyone knows a little these days, he wasn't the least bit interested in providing the proper information to the rest of his division. Militarizing dragons was just not his cup of tea. He would rather do the opposite, truth be told, he wanted to research and get along with dragons, or at least better understand them, not militarize them or teach them tricks like a dog.

Besides, dragons weren't entirely predictable. Much like parrots, they mostly projected their behaviours, but sometimes they masked them with a frightening efficiency. That masking, which Newt preferred to call sneaky buggers was especially interesting. In fact, he was in the middle of a sneaky bugger when the Ironbelly he was facing (Maybel) decided to shoot into the air and roar angrily, billowing fire in all directions.

"Remarkable." Newt held a hand over his eyes to block the sun as the Ironbelly rolled in the air. "How does he fly so effortlessly with all of that weight?"

He stopped paying any mind to the dragon and whipped out his notebook and quill. The peacock feather lit into the air, a piece of paper popping up beside him.

Rounder and slower in flight than the Vipertooh or the Longhorn, the Ironbelly is nevertheless extremely dangerous—

"Watch out!" A voice yelled.

Newt looked up from the page just as the Ironbelly came crashing down into the small outpost on the edge of the range. A number of men groaned nearby. Well, there went the tea booth. That was the last building left in the area where you could sit down for a nice cuppa out of the wind.

"Ah, yes." Newt nodded.

—dangerous, capable of crushing dwellings on which it lands. The scales are metallic grey—

"Scamander!"

Newt looked up from his page once more to see his supervisor, Henry Willsby, marching in his direction. The man's moustache was twitching like a chimney sweep. He was built like someone who exercised regularly, but couldn't say no to a good pumpkin pastie or two. A barrel chested man full of meat and, to Newt, red-faced frustration.