There was only one person at Hogwarts that Newt trusted. He found Dumbledore’s office on the seventh floor, a short, curved flight of stairs up from the Transfigurations classroom. It was a homey place full of threadbare furniture and mismatched cabinets where Dumbledore kept the tangibles for his classes. There had been a rumor, back in Newt’s Hogwarts days, that Dumbledore had an invisible chest somewhere that contained items that the Ministry of Magic had deemed too dangerous to legally possess, but that was just scandalous gossip, like as not.

All along one wall was a large glass display case full of unusually and amusingly shaped oddities, the results of years of unfixable student mistakes. Harmless as it was, Newt always thought that enshrining mistakes was bit mean spirited. For the first time, he considered them in a different light: not as mistakes, but as surprises. After all, forgetting unwanted results came with it’s own sort of cruelty. Perhaps there was some new use in them.

“Good afternoon,” came a voice from behind him.

Newt turned around. Albus Dumbledore sat comfortably in an overstuffed armchair where he hadn’t been just a moment before. He was sporting beard trimmed to a rakish point and his rusty-brown hair curled neatly around his shoulders. Other than that he looked much like he had three years earlier when Newt had last seen him.

“What brings you by to visit?” Albus asked warmly. “Tea?” A silver tray with two china cups, a carafe of cream and a bowl of sugar appeared on the table between them, along with an assortment of fancy biscuits and sliver-thin sandwiches.

Newt felt the old flustered feeling grab hold of his tongue. “No, thank you. It’s not a social call. It’s actually a rather delicate matter. I need—“

Albus raised his hand and looked about the room. “Shh.”

Newt shushed.

“I see you brought a very charming suitcase. May I examine it?”