Prof. Griffith's door.

"Oh sure we can adapt. And we do regulate ourselves, but with us, it's a lot more complicated. With them, it's two plus two is four. four minus two is two, and so on, and so forth. With us, it's more of a complicated process that involves more algebra, calculus and square roots than I'd care to get in to. But in the end, it's all just math. I hope that made some manner of sense to you, my metaphors aren't always quite as good as they could be."

He didn't have to ponder her next question long to come up with an answer. It was something of a theory of his.

"A suffering dog will be harder to deal with than a dragon, honestly. It's the background that matters most. But if you removed the backgrounds from the equation, it's reptiles that have the most problems with being trained. They don't form attachments, they just can't. It's hard as hell to get them to do anything, I swear. Dragons are different, I'm not sure I'd even call them a reptile. But mokes for example. Freaking impossible. to make a pet out of that. And petting something that doesn't eat you and making kissy faces at it doesn't qualify it for a pet title, if you ask me. Snakes are cool and all but it wouldn't care if you dropped dead right in front of it."

.

 

If you have no business here, I do not want you here.

That was what the sign read. He hadn't even been here a full two days, and already Mattathias was beginning to wonder if he could do all of this. The prospect of magical creatures was one that both amazed and intrigued him: coming from a muggle family, having been obsessed with them since his youth, now to learn they were real--it was a lot. More than anything, he wanted to learn. He'd already read Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them at least four times cover-to-cover and devoured books in the library. He'd been staying up with a flashlight under his blankets recently, falling asleep on top of his texts more often than not, and then bouncing back into it the moment he returned to consciousness.

Every waking moment was occupied with it. He liked other subjects, too, something that he learned wasn't uncommon for Ravenclaws--they just wanted to find knowledge--but this just seemed so...right.

So now he was standing in front of Professor Morfran Griffith's door, staring at a sign that essentially told him to go away, and seriously contemplating doing so. Or he was until he heard the peculiar squawking through the door. Carefully, quietly, Matt picked his way up to it, leaning forward to press his ear to the crack between the door and the wall. It was impossible to see anything through it but the noise persisted. What was it? What was it saying? What sort of creature could utter such a sound?

Uncertain but too caught in the siren's song of curiosity, Matt raised his hand, closed his fingers around the tassel, and gave it a solid pull.

Oh god, Professor Griffith was going to kill him. They hadn't even started classes. What did he think he was doing? Foolish. Foolish, foolish, foolish, but how else would he know what was inside?

A ring at the door. A summons that echoed around the chambers of the fortress known as the stables. Although there weren't a lot of chambers, it was certainly sporting rather thick walls. Griffith had no desire of letting anything escape, and he had even less desire to allow anything access. Although he was technically given jurisdiction over the entire castle, as were all the other professors to one degree or another, he resigned himself to almost exclusively lurking within his stable walls. There was research to be performed, work to be done.

It was only on rare occasions that he could be seen swiftly moving towards the castle in search of a sandwich or three. Griffith was a tall man with a long coat that sported especially cavernous pockets. He used his long legs to their fullest advantage, blowing past anyone who may have been inclined to strike up conversation. These trips would usually end in him reaching the kitchens, remaining there for around five minutes, and then returning to the stables.

But he was always available to help with creatures, always open to offering advice on what to do for an ailing pet. Creatures were his life and livelihood, helping those creatures who were hurt was what kept him going. That, and star trek. But you couldn't get star trek out here in Hogwarts, the magical barrier would just fry anything he tried to bring in.

When he reached the door, swinging it open to reveal a little boy, probably first year, Griffith wasn't sure what to think. He was too young to be coming with a question regarding the class, and he didn't seem to be holding an ailing pet, so it was probably either a question, or curiosity regarding the elusive professor.

"Professor Morfran Griffith, Care of Magical Creatures."

The boy would have already known who he was, but the introduction served to prompt one from the first year. You never knew how awkward they were going to be

Matt had heard a bit about Professor Morfran Griffith. That he was scary, quiet, hard to find, and there were a couple rumors that he'd heard here and there that sometimes his animals ate students. He wasn't quite sure if that was true--it seemed like the the sort of thing that might just be said to scare freshies like him--but the things that looked like blood spots in front of the stables weren't encouraging. If he'd been paying proper attention, Matt might've noticed that, although it looked like blood, it didn't smell like blood, but as it stood, he was more anxiety-stricken than he was investigative at the moment.

Professor Griffith was every bit as terrifying as they'd made him out to be. He had to be at least seven feet tall (he wasn't, but he might as well have been as far as Matt was currently concerned), with scars all over his hands and a heavy leather coat. His eyes were a piercing shade of blue and he thought that maybe, just maybe, the professor could actually see into his soul, and he was positively ripped. He probably had to be, given his job, but that didn't make him any less scary.

There was a moment of dead silence as Matt stared up at him, opening and closing his mouth a few times in the hopes of preventing a stutter before he started talking. He didn't. Professor Griffith's introduction thankfully prompted him to respond in like and gave him something to work from instead of initiating everything himself, though. "M-m-mattat-thias J-jermaine, f-f-first year Raven-enclaw," he stuttered, internally cursing himself for it. "I-I-I--" Frustration flashed across his face and he shifted his weight, glancing down at his feet. Although his skin had already taken on a pale shade of pink from the sun (in spite of the long sleeves and the fact that his hands were in his pockets, he'd managed to forget his hat, and was now paying the price), it was becoming increasingly dark as he stammered onwards.

"I have questions and I-I know c-classes h-haven't started y-y-yet but I-I-I couldn't f-f-find the answers in th-the books and I-I read a lot of b-books, so I-I was hoping you could--would--answer s-s-some or al-all of them f-f-for me, please," he finally managed. "Al-also, can I ask what is m-m-making th-that noise?"

There was a crinkle in his pocket as he withdrew a folded piece of paper. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to answer all of them if he had to stand outside to do it. He'd already accepted his fate in that he was going to get a sunburn, but that didn't mean he wanted a serious one. He had work to do. It was so stupid to forget something like a hat. He'd been doing this all his life! It should've been second nature!

Questions, then. And probably not a prank being pulled by some of the more daring students that attended Hogwarts, judging by the stammering. Griffith couldn't blame the kid for being scared, either. He did nothing to make himself put forth a pleasant first impression. In fact, he did the opposite. Griffith was at Hogwarts because he needed a shield. He tried his best every day to not grow attached, to keep people distant. But he loved creatures, he loved those who needed help desperately. That was what kept him running, woke him up in the morning, drove him to train.

But the cost for refuge at the prestigious school was to teach, and so teach he would. He would answer questions, he would help the students who came to him. His scarred, rough hands flexed slightly, and slipped into the cavernous leather pockets that adorned the large coat he always wore. He did notice, with some concern, that the boy's skin looked positively ill. Was he a dhampir? Probably not, but it was possible.

"Take a deep breath. Even facing hell, you must learn that your body is your own. It only flinches if you allow it to, and if you don't flinch, neither will those who stand with you.

Probably too dramatic. Griffith cleared his throat, and opened the door wider, offering entrance to the sickly looking ravenclaw. He seemed so much like a stick that the word "albino Pinocchio" presented itself prominently in the professor's mind. He managed to banish the silly comparison by reminding himself that the boy's nose looked absolutely normal, and how that probably wasn't going to change.

Assuming the boy entered the little room, he wouldn't see a lot. Some hooks for coats, no clear place to put your shoes, and a little wooden desk with two seats. Griffith would gesture to one as he prompted the ravenclaw to ask his questions with rather gruff voice

"Well, never mind. Go on then, what can I shed light on."

Were it not for the sunlight that seemed to be trying to cook him like the crayfish his dad had caught on a fateful camping trip three summers ago, he would’ve found the words to answer before ducking past the professor and into the house. As it was, though, he still had to make it back to the castle after all of this, and he didn’t want to tempt fate. He was already probably going to die of skin cancer. Or maybe one of these days a sunburn would get so bad that he’d spontaneously combust and turn into ash like a vampire. Did vampires really light on fire? It was still weird to think of them as real.

Still, Professor Griffith’s words were surprisingly…reassuring, in spite of how utterly terrifying he was. Matt had honestly been expecting to be told off because he was just some first-year bothering a teacher who didn’t want to be bothered for things that had nothing to do with grades or classes or anything else. It was solely curiosity that served absolutely no purpose but the one unto itself. Usually, people who didn’t like giving people unnecessary time didn’t take too kindly to that.

The boy stepped inside, visibly relaxing once he was out of the offensive sun and it was confirmed that Professor Griffith didn’t bite or anything. Well, he still might, but he didn’t seem like he was about to if he was telling him to breathe and calm down. Matt honestly couldn’t remember the last time someone had said something like that to him. Mostly, people just gazed at him in idle exasperation while they waited for the words to come out, and Eamon was just used to it and too busy with trying to keep life together to try to coax his son into having some steadiness all the time.

He shrugged his jacket off to reveal a pale blue t-shirt below, a chibi owlbear—the sort out of D&D—rolling around on its back in the center, with the caption "Soft owlbear, warm owlbear, little ball of fur. Happy owlbear, sleepy owlbear, grr, grr, grrr.” Matt didn’t expect anyone out here to get it any more than his red "We’re in tribble” one, but he still found it funny, and it reminded him of home, so he wore it anyways. He glanced around for a second to figure out where to put his shoes before he pulled them off his feet and set them by the door, then proceeded to follow the professor’s instructions and sit down at the desk.

He quickly unfolded the paper, then grabbed a notebook and pencil from his pocket, pressing the tip to the pad so he could start writing as quickly as humanly possible once Griffith started talking. He hoped he was the sort to give long answers.

“Th-thank you, sir,” he said, choosing to be gracious before leaping into his interrogation because he had some semblance of manners. “There were two main ones, and mostly I was confused because different books said or implied different things.” The stutter disappeared the instant he started talking about the texts—not that Matt noticed, busy as he was with making his mind work. “The first was that Newt’s Fantastic Beasts listed ten species of dragon, and stated that those were the only species, but then in Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit, it mentioned two species that weren’t originally described, the Catalonian Fireball and the Portuguese Long-snout.” Oh, crap, was he elaborating too much? He kicked himself internally; he didn’t want to sound like a know-it-all, or someone who was just coming around to try to impress. He just tended to say more rather than less when he got talking about books. He paused, biting his lip a little, making the faint gaps where his canines should've been visible to the keen observer. "I-I…I was trying t-t-t-t—"

And now it was over. He looked down, then restarted, determined to get through to his actual question. He didn’t want the professor to get annoyed or not give him much time because he couldn’t actually talk through most of it. “I-is that because some of the dragons went extinct? Or are they just extremely rare, or difficult to find? Only in breeding communities o-or…something…?”

“An-and then the other thing was about winged horses—some books refer to them as different species, and others different breeds. Most of them call them breeds. Which one are they, and if they’re breeds, how in the world did the Thestral come about? The other three all have most characteristics in common, at least in terms of having, for example, feathered wings, but Thestrals can’t even be seen by most people and they’re more…reptilian than avian or even mammalian like the Abraxan and Granian and Aethonan. How could they be the same species as those? Did magic change them or something? And why are they seen as omens of death or darkness, because everything I’ve read says that they’re very intelligent and trainable and really…good, even if they’re kind of…different-looking.”

The boy finally stopped, suddenly realizing how long his monologue just was and instantly going back to abashedly looking at the ground, pencil tapping a little nervously on his notebook page and heel repetitively moving against the floor. That hadn’t been two questions like he’d planned. He should’ve been more careful. First impressions and all of that. So far, he’d managed to stammer terribly, talk too much, and make himself sound like some kid who was trying to be precocious but really wasn’t—or, worse, like the muggle-born, oblivious kid he was, who was probably hardly worth teaching. Well, the damage was done now. At least he’d get answers. Hopefully.

He decided that he liked the boy, or at least the boy's taste, the moment the muggle shirt came into view. DnD. Morfran Griffith had traveled far, and had hidden in more places than he would freely admit. One of those places was a friend's basement. A friend that happened to have instilled upon the professor a love for most things that fell under the nerd category. From star trek to dragon ball z. He would watch episodes with fight scenes with the tiny dragon he had been temporarily taking care of. It had a throat infection, and was having a hard time roaring. What better to demonstrate, than the poster child for long, drawn-out screaming?

"Owlbears are a classic. Need to be brought into the newer modules more."

An eyebrow slowly raised as the boy started to fire off questions about magical fauna. He actually knew what he was talking about, this boy acted more like a stereotypical ravenclaw than any other student that he had seen that term. But what was most surprising was that the probing mind was directed not at charms and incantations, but at magical creatures. That was rare indeed, usually it was the slow of mind and wit who sought to overcome their problems by snuggling creatures for a career.

"People, you see, are stupid. Dragons adapt fast, they evolve specialized, and they evolve with magic. They are incredibly rare, so they have to. With that in mind, there are probably even more dragons out there that simply aren't cataloged. With magic that can tamper with DNA, and dragons being as powerful as they are, it's not uncommon to see people claim that a newly discovered species is a magically enhanced version of preexisting species. Another possibility is that Newt treated those two as variants of his original ten. I personally treat them as individual species. Quite simply, most of the books on this subject are opinion pieces. There's no board of magizoologists to confirm this stuff. Just a few of us kicking around, trying to verify some obscure fact about a creature no one has seen in decades. Add that to the fact that even outside of nature, dragon breeders cultivate the creation of new species by selective breeding, like you would with dogs, and you've got a pretty picture of disorganization."

As he was talking, the professor sat down himself, in the considerably larger, armless chair that sat on the other side of the desk, facing the boy with the chair's back to the wall.

"Thestrals have shit-all to do with winged horses. They may look similar, but they're physiologically distinct. Thestrals are omnivores with a predilection for meat. Winged horses are herbivores. Realistically, the only thing they share in common is basic body shape. No one really knows where thestrals fit in to everything, which is why they're looked at with such caution. They're outliers in that they almost fit into a few categories, but they don't. Odd creatures tied to death, lurking just on the outskirts of our knowledge. And yes, they're sweet little shits. Strong as hell, too. Faster than most brooms. Some people do classify them as a sort of winged horse, but I personally disagree. And the horses are breeds. Like pomeranian Vs. Mastiff, to use dogs as an example again. I'll have to show you a few someday."

The surprise flickered across Matt's face when the professor recognized his shirt. He wholeheartedly agreed that owlbears were underrated in the newer modules. He was actually adapting owlbears for one of his homebrew campaigns so that he could have different subspecies based in different ecosystems, and he'd worked the stats for an animal companion owlbear for a Beastmaster Ranger NPC.

Maybe Professor Griffith wasn't as absolutely terrifying as he had been three minutes ago.

His pencil hit the paper the moment the massive man started talking. Dragons evolved quickly, with magic; individuals identified species differently; breeding gave rise to new and undocumented species. There was an implication that there could be breeds of certain dragons as well as wild variants that were different species. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if modern DNA testing was used on samples of these various dragons and what it would reveal about their taxonomy, because magizoology apparently seriously needed a taxonomical upgrade.

And then Professor Griffith jumped into thestrals. His words about them made a lot more sense than the books. The winged horses seemed similar enough in physiology, behaviour, and biology to be closely related--as Professor Griffith confirmed when he stated that they were breeds, like dogs--but thestrals took it in a completely different direction. Omnivorous, but with a preference for a meat, which reminded him of some Canis species, including wolves or the domestic dogs. He said some things that the books had already said, like about their speed, but Matt wrote them down anyways. Then he could source it later if he ever needed to for a paper or something.

It made a lot more sense to do it Professor Griffith's way, at least to Matt. Thestrals were very loosely 'horses' but not really, and were just lumped in with them because the sort of looked like it. This level of science felt like going back and reading about the classification of New World birds when European explorers were still traversing it. They'd even managed to group the same species as two separate ones because the juvenile plumage was different than the adult.

"This taxonomy is terrible," Matt blurted out before he'd thought about his words. "This is...so rudimentary! Why don't people use DNA testing? We have that now! Is there some reason the magic makes it not work on magical creatures? Even so, shouldn't we be able to adapt with spells or something? How can the magic world have been around forever and still be arguing about what's a breed and what's a species with something like a thestral whose physiology is absolutely nothing like the other so-called 'breeds' it's grouped with?!"

It was a stupid thing to get emotional about, but it frustrated him when there was knowledge and resources and people just didn't use it. Things could be so much more advanced! Why wasn't there a board of magizoologists or something? He didn't once notice that the stutter had completely left him, nervousness replaced with fervor.

"I mean, there should be ways to prove, or even get hints about the descent of these things. Physiology should get us a long way. Even if we can't definitively see a thestral's taxonomic relatives, we can obviously observe how they have an entirely different physiology and diet and behaviour, as well as different magical influences, like how most people can't see them. That in and of itself should be enough to separate them on the basis of species, even if we can't necessarily say they're in a different genus. Or at least subspecies! Putting them as the same species but a different breed, even just in texts, is just plain idiotic. And they don't show any characteristics of equines beyond a minor level of body shape! Why isn't there a board or similar organization? There's huge schools and the Ministry of Magic and all sorts of things like that, so it shouldn't be a stretch to have zoology actually be considered a field. Heck, muggles have it!"

It was only after the short rant left him that he suddenly seemed to realize that he'd just said everything that had been in his brain, and the look of surprise and then worry that crossed his face was obvious to anyone who had eyes. "I-I-I'm sorry, I d-d-d-didn-n't mean to--I...S-s-sorry, I...sorry..." If it was possible, his already almost-lobster-red face got pinker, and he looked back down at his notebook.