Animaux Fantastiques - Theseus Scamander

Interlude: Flaus

FLAUS

Flaus woke up in a particularly cranky mood. He was hungry, overly warm from being so close to the hearth fire and smelled like boiled turnips and salt. 

A ghastly affair for one so small.

With a stretch and one misplaced step, Flaus tumbled from the bannister beside the hearth and landed in a pile of coal dust. The smell was overwhelming. Too much coal dust from the briquette. He sneezed loudly, and paused, afraid he might have alerted the kitchen cat of his presence. Mean thing it was, it always chased him about as if he was some common mouse!

His stomach grumbled something fierce, and Flaus could see the clay pot Vianne used to hide her stash of Pixie of Puffs. Problem was, it was too high up to climb and Flaus's magic was limited to stuff like enchanted weaving, growing mushrooms from his hairs and healing small cuts if he concentrated hard enough. 

Teleportation was left to the big, scary statues that sang in a strange tune compared to most magical beings. Theirs was an altered one; constructed by means beyond simple magic. But some days, they'd feel pity for Flaus short stature and stout stomach and give him a boost. 

Today, however, all the statues seemed to be missing which meant the poor, short-legged Ymerkin had to climb every, individual stair until he reached the main floor.

By the time he reached the foyer to the main hall, Flaus was purple in the cheeks, flushed and ready to pester any living being who'd have the misfortune of encountering him now. To his surprise, the castle was eerily quiet. No voices were carried by echoes into the corridors, and no sentinels moved their terracotta bodies in that swishing sound he'd come to expect as part of the ambience.

Just then, a torrent of red, hot flame disrupted the blue of the sky outside the window that faced the courtyard. A deep, bat-like wing blotted out the sun with its shadow. And with a bristle, almost of satin billowing in the wind, the wing flapped, brilliant and pale, but the dragon did not take flight. In a chorus of chaos, the bustle and frantic noises of spells and counterspells fell from various lips. Flaus was overwhelmed and in a poorly placed position to see what was afoot. He scurried up the lace curtain until he reached the windowsill. Then his large, beady eyes dilated.

There were two worlds in collision. Two landscapes clashing in view. One was membranous, like an aqueous eye that possessed a dragon and its habitat—dark, torch-lit, cavernous—instead of veins and an iris. The other landscape was easier to believe as belonging, it was the bare, unprotected sky of Castle Balcloichiel. The flying fortress was now at the mercy of any eyes that dared look up and see past clouds. And even more dreadfully, at the mercy of the harsh winds and cooler air. Rime had already started to glaze over the windows.

The dragon had half its form in the Scottish lands and half in the Parisian underground, a green scarf tying it to the former location, preventing it from taking flight in the freedom of the world Flaus lived in.

Below, Vianne scampered to her feet, helping a few other students get to a greater distance. There was blood on her forehead. Flanagan rushed to her side, his permanent grimacing expression replaced by wide eyes—much like Flaus's.

Flaus's heart rate skyrocketed from seeing what was happening in the courtyard. From so high up, everyone looked so vulnerable, seeing the wizards swinging their wands aggressively in defence against such a big, frightened creature.

Harvey's voice boomed below. He tried to garner the groups' attention, to command them to work together. A second volley of fire left the dragon's maw, caged by the magical barrier being sustained by Cressida and the other apprentices, but some of the flames seared through a weak point, licking the grass and stone and Harvey's arm in one fell swoop.