THE DEMONOMICON ( newt scamander.. )

001. L'APPEL DU VIDE..

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CHAPTER ONE
L'appel du vide

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• present day •

          "THE DEMONOMICON?" Dumbledore paled almost a considerable amount to have his face be whiter than his own hair, in a crude and transparent illusion. The air of his office was clogged with a particular sting of smoke, though none of his fireplaces radiated any light. Indeed, the room with tall ceiling was illuminated by a looming and perpetually moving glaze of blue, a sort of thin fog, tinting the atmosphere, dampening and drying it at the same time, to an obscure luminosity, otherwise rather indistinguishable. "My...," old age has turned his chuckles warm, but this one remained a mere cold slap to the truth's hurt, "wherever did you hear of such a name?"

Before him, across his massive desk, seated patiently and soberly still, a boy whose pensive gaze stared the professor down. "I stumbled upon it in an essay about Anomalies created through magic."

His explanation seemed to have lifted a heavy weight off of Albus' heart as he sighed and even nodded, "Well, yes, The Demonomicon is quite a magical anomaly."

"In what way?" The boy hurried to inquire, rummaging his own dark excitement in the silence which followed, to realize he needed to rephrase everything, for the sake of the old man's heart. "I would grately appreciate knowing more about what sort of anomaly it represents, for the sake of my own essay for History of Magic."

"And you know I know of it?" Dumbledore leant his chin down and stared from over his glasses with narrowed gaze at the student wearing neatly ironed black and green robes with a dash of silvery lining.

"1914," the boy affirmed proudly. "It's the year they put next to the book mention."

"Who is the author of this essay, if I may ask?"

"I can't say I remember, sir."

Dumbledore sighed back in his seat, "Whoever wrote this essay of yours surely cannot be trusted as a reliable source as their timeline is quite obviously very wrong. You see, Tom, the author of the Demonomicon used to be a student here, while I was teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. In 1914, the book was not nearly even close to being considered a draft. It was more of a journal really, and even that, not entirely cohesive enough, nor elevated or academic."

The boy settled back in his own seat, aware that now, the old man had been properly stirred into his undeniable weakness for a good story to tell. "No," Albus' sight unfocused and he sighed. "Eileen Croft only had a mere idea of the book back in 1914, when that accident happened, despite what newspapers may have written about it or about her." A heavy nuance of bitterness has hardened his features now, turning his soft breaths heavy with unresolved fragments of a tumultuous past. "The book was close to being finished only later, in 1926. Yes, 6th of December, 1926...

• 6th December, 1926 •

          WALLSTREET. STOCKS. ROARS of gold. The overly glorified New York City was quite the underwhelming welcome to anyone stepping off a streamer with dreams of golden parties of exuberance and ridiculous extravagance, only to find that the skyscrapers reaching for the clouds got lost in the same old grey gloom that hovered and intoxicated air with humidity. But then again, Newt Scamander was not in New York City for these false attractions; he wasn't there for the more classy companionship either, seeking perhaps to even avoid such social gatherings of a wannabe aristocratic shine.