"They walk among us!" Mary Lou Barebone's strident voice echoed down the street. Today the New Salem Philanthropic Society had posted up outside of the Schwarzman Building on 5th avenue. It was the sort of place where one was equally likely to find a bored socialite or a lifelong academic. There was a decent cross-section of the upper-crust of Manhattan society to be found there – just the sort of high-profile support that the group needed.
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!" Mary Lou continued to rant to the small crowd she had gathered, some of her flock holding up banners depicting a wand being snapped between two hands in front of flames. "It is our duty as good Christian men and women to sort out these evildoers among our society and bring them to justice! Their wickedness cannot be allowed to pollute this great city, this shining beacon of innovation and progress!"
Credence stood off to the side on the stairs, a bundle of flyers in his aching hands. The day before he'd been late getting back to the church and Ma had taken his belt to his hands. His fingers were a mass of cuts and bruises and holding his hands in any position for a length of time set them aching. The worst was when the edge of a stray piece of paper happened to brush into one of the splits in his skin. It felt like a razor, quick and sharp, a hot flash of pain, and made him wince and hiss whenever it happened.
Chastity stood on the street, shoving leaflets into the hands of unwary passersby before they could refuse her. She had been the one to find this place, bragging to Mary Lou what a good spot it would be to preach from, flanked by the huge Beaux-Arts library.
Credence knew better. Years of avoiding eye contact and shrinking from any kind of abuse, verbal or physical, had made him keenly aware of when he was being mocked. He saw the barely-contained derisiveness in the eyes of the men who stopped with sweethearts, saw the judgmental looks the ladies gave Chastity's matronly wool dress and his own wide-brimmed hat, saw the academics rolling their eyes at Mary Lou's rhetoric. To people like this they were the dregs of society, an entertaining diversion, not something to be taken seriously.
Not that Credence would ever dare to reveal his thoughts to his Ma.
"Pardon me, may I have one of those?"
Credence flinched badly as fingers gently brushed his shoulder. He whirled around, cringing down a step and away from whoever was addressing him. Wordlessly, he offered a pamphlet. A delicate hand reached out and plucked it from his fingers, but instead of simply moving on, the woman said,
"Oh, your poor hands!"
Pamphlet stuffed carelessly into her pocket, the women reached out, tenderly supporting his wrist and fingers on her own palms. She made a sympathetic cooing noise. It was the gentleness, the genuine concern that she seemed to have, that made Credence glance up.
Instantly, he averted his eyes, cheeks going brilliantly red. Her coat had a fur collar the expensive kind, and she wore a shorter dress, her lips painted red and her eyelids grey. She looked like a silent film star, the sort of woman who was too pretty to be real. With silver-blonde hair and blue eyes, she reminded him of the illustrations of kind angels he sometimes saw in Ma's books, all gentle eyes and delicate hands, exactly what was focused on him at the moment.
"Try crushing half an onion."
"W-Wh-What?" Credence stammered, glancing up once more. She was looking at him. He accidentally met her gaze and quickly averted his eyes, turning his face away from hers.
"You do not look your betters in the eye, you arrogant boy! Pride is a deadly sin!" Ma's words echoed in his ears.
"Crush half an onion," she repeated. "Apply it a few times a day. It will sting – badly – but it will help your hands heal quickly."
"I… ah… it's n-nothing."
Truly, to him, it wasn't. Or, rather, it was now, but in the grand scheme of things these scars would fade to the silvery false scars or pink puckers like all the others had. At least they weren't as deep as the marks she left on his shoulders, his back, and his rear when he did something particularly bad. Credence missed the days when swats to his rear or pops on the cheek were the worst of his fears.
"No, I imagine it's quite painful," she disagreed. "Whatever did you do to yourself?"
"I-I…" He had done it to himself. He'd known as he walked home that he would have to run to make it back before curfew, but the fear had been particularly bad that night and he hadn't been able to make himself rush his return to the church where Mary Lou held sway. He'd known what was in for him, and he'd done it anyway, defied Ma. He had sinned. "I disobeyed?"
"Diso-" The strangled, indignant way she repeated his words made him glance her way again, pointedly fixing his stare on her cheek and not her eyes. Her cheeks were red and she looked angry, full lips pinched tightly. She was disgusted by him, then, now that she understood what he'd done wrong. Surely an angel wouldn't support him willfully disobeying Mary Lou. The girl must be quite in favor of his suffering.
"I see," she hissed, and the glare she sent Ma's way was absolutely vicious. Mary Lou was ignoring him, facing forward and preaching to her constantly coming-and-going crowd. Chastity, however, had noticed, and was staring at him with the blank, squint-eyed expression Credence had learned to fear. The older of his sisters seemed to enjoy getting him in trouble.
"I-I have t-to…"
It pained him in more ways than one to pull his hand from hers, but Credence did it. He could only imagine the pain he'd be in if Chastity told Ma that she saw him holding hands with a girl.
"Of course," the girl said, her hands lowering. "But please do remember about the onion. Oh, and thank you for the pamphlet."
And she was gone, hair swaying against the fabric of her dress as she descended the stairs, her heels tapping lightly. He watched her go, feeling as if she'd taken his breath with him. She hadn't been angry at him, she'd tried to help him, she thanked him. She didn't just jostle him aside or ignore him like most people did, and she certainly didn't knock his papers to the ground or try to throw a punch at him.
She was… nice.
The Cactus Cat Lounge was a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, and it had been even before the new owner came in almost a decade before and did a bit of sprucing. Overnight it had gone from a place where if something crunched under your foot it could have been anything from a peanut shell to a rat skull to a place with gleaming brass and polished red-toned woods. The wobbly tables and chairs had been repaired and the grimy mirror behind the bar gleamed.
The clientele hadn't changed though. It was a place where there was definitely a protected card game going on in the back room, the pale fellow at the end of the bar was more than likely a vampire, and yes, that scorch mark on the bar was from a drunken disagreement that ended in drawn wands. The Cactus Cat was a place where decent, upstanding witches and wizards could come and feel naughty as they rubbed elbows with the rougher element, and do so in relative safety.
The reason was the layers and layers of wards that the owner had laid on the Cactus Cat. No one could Apparate straight inside and a series of quick Apparations or a group of more than five appearing in the alleyway outside would alert her. She could essentially put the place on lockdown for long enough for less-savory characters to Disapparate and then open the doors to the Aurors with an entirely non-offensive patronage.
The door swung open. This early in the day, barely afternoon, the place was closed and empty of patrons, or close enough.
A blonde young woman in a fur-lined coat strode in and lifted her cloche from her head, settling it on one end of the bar.
"What've you got, Iliana?"
Elvira Blödgarmr stepped up to the bar clad in trousers, a white button-front shirt, and a jewel-toned waistcoat over her suspenders. A long brown braid ran down her back and over one shoulder was tossed a damp rag for cleaning up behind the messier of her patrons. Her cane leaned against the bar next to her. She was the reason the Auror office hated the Cactus Cat with a passion.
"This," Iliana replied, smacking a piece of paper down on the bar with a disgusted look on her face.
From near the small stage where Iliana spent most of her night singing away, backed by magically animated instruments, emerged a pale-faced witch with vivid red hair.
"Aye," Niamh O'Reilly said as she picked up the flyer and turned it over in her hands. "That's the same poster that Barebone woman was trying to get my Jamie to pass about." Second-generation Irish, her accent was detectable but hard to identify.
"Says what the woman knows about real magic, that she handed this off to a young wizard," Elvira scoffed as she rounded the bar to look over Niamh's shoulder. Niamh didn't look convinced.
"That's why I came to you, Ellie. People know you do… favors for people around town."
Elvira raised an eyebrow. "Put like that you make me sound like a hooker, Niamh."
"Their church is on Pike Street!" Niamh insisted. "They live two blocks away! I want to make sure it's safe to let my children out of the house, that these people are going to… to burn them at the stake!"
"Now, they never did that sort of nonsense here," Iliana sooth, placing a gloved hand on Niamh's shoulder as the older woman threw up her hands. "They hanged people in the US."
Elvira snapped her fingers sternly in her half-sister's face. "Oi, Annie. Less historical accuracy, more comforting, eh?"
Iliana blushed and dipped her head. "Ah, yes. Sorry."
"You'll keep looking?" Niamh asked, reaching over to grip Elvira's arm fiercely right over the sleeve garter. Elvira nodded, wincing slightly as she extracted herself from the fearful mother. She patted Niamh's shoulder supportively.
"Don't worry, Niamh, I'll look into it some and so will Iliana." Iliana nodded in agreement. "We'll let you know what we find. Maybe been Thomas and Margaret on a tighter leash for a week until we've a good idea of what we're dealing with," she advised. "Then we can talk again."
Niamh took a deep breath quieting herself. "Alright." She nodded determinedly and reached up to pat a curl of red back into place. "Alright, that's good. I'll… I'll come back in a week?"
"Right you will," Elvira said, gripping her shoulders tightly and starting to steer Niamh towards the door. Niamh continued to nod to herself, mumbling under her breath as she went.
"Harry told me I was being paranoid, they're two blocks away, but the kind of material they're spreading around…"
"They're probably all bark and no bite, Niamh," the bartender continued. "Some crazy No-Majs get a wild hair up their asses about magic and start yelling… And if we should find anything to the contrary, I'll do you up a blood spell to help you keep an eye on them."
Niamh balked in the doorway, turning even paler at the mention of blood magic. "Oh, no, now I don't think…"
"We'll talk when you come back in a week," Elvira backtracked, and Niamh seemed relieved.
"Alright. And thank you, really, both of you," Niamh said, looking back over her shoulder at Iliana lingering by the bar. The singer smiled and tilted her head.
"Of course, Niamh."
"I wasn't sure you know, given what they say about you two," Niamh added. "But I think I made the right decision."
With that parting comment, she swept from the bar. Elvira let the door slam shut behind her before raising both hands and making a rude gesture.
"Elvira!" Iliana hissed.
"Oh yes 'what they say about us' but perfectly fine to let us do your dirty work, huh?" Elvira muttered spitefully as she flicked her wrist at the door. There was a loud click as it locked and Elvira gestured for Iliana to follow her back to the flyer abandoned on a table by the stage.
Illustrated on it were a pair of pale hands snapping a wand in front of a background of flames. Across the top was the name New Salem Philanthropic Society and across the bottom was the address of the tiny church o Pike Street that the group called home.
"Philanthropic, right," Elvira sneered.
"You don't know," Iliana chided. "They may do some good in their community!"
"Annie, honey, I don't trust anyone named Barebone on principal," Elvira replied, shaking her head. "They could be called 'Sunshine and Puppies for All' and I'd still be skeptical. I'm just not a fan of racists."
"Because I adore them," Iliana replied, eyes going flinty. She snatched up her cloche, crumpling the brim a bit as she did. Elvira winced, striding forward. She wrapped her arms around her sister and pulled her into a hug. Iliana resisted for a moment before relaxing against her and hugging back. Elvira patted her platinum-blonde hair, the most obvious sign of her sister being half-veela, the half where they didn't share a parent.
Their father, Absalom Blödgarmr, was what would have been politely termed 'eccentric' had he a bit more money to his name. Since he was only moderately situated, he was more likely termed 'crazy' or 'mad' by his friends and neighbors or 'criminal' and 'dangerous' by MACUSA. He had a fondness for studying old and archaic forms of magic, quite a bit of which was fairly illegal. Study was fine, but practice was against the law, and MACUSA was confident he was a practitioner despite the fact that he could never get proof. There was also the fact that he travelled hither and yon looking for new things to research and so there was no guarantee that he'd done this spell that was illegal in that country while actually in that country, if he'd done it at all.
On one particular occasion, he'd come back from a year-long trip in Eastern Europe with a half-veela daughter, and thus Iliana became part of the family.
"You should have seen her wards," Iliana said quietly as she pulled back, and Elvira raised an eyebrow, leaning backwards against the bar, propping up her elbows.
"What about them?"
"The little girl… I've never seen a girl that young look that sad. And the older one, her eyes were just… mean. Like she wouldn't put you out if you were on fire if it didn't benefit her. And the boy…"
"That nasty?" Elvira asked, wrinkling her brow in concern. "I suppose he's the muscle behind his guardian."
Iliana shook her head quickly. "By Rebeccah Nurse, no! The exact opposite! He couldn't even look me in the eye, and when he handed me the flyer… Do you… remember Abigail Schultz?"
Elvira's eyes hardened. Abigail Schultz was a name that was hard to forget. She'd come to Elvira for legal advice when Iliana was much younger. Iliana had been sent from the room, but she'd crept to the door to watch as her sister had slowly peeled the woman's clothes away and revealed the split skin on her back from belt lashes. Abigail was a witch who had married a No-Maj and was living in secret, terrified both of using her power unfairly against her husband and of appearing on MACUSA's radar. Iliana had stared in horror, shocked by how the leather had dug into the woman's sensitive flesh and the way the wounds peels back at the edges, glistening pink visible beneath the blood.
"Yeah, I remember Abigail Schultz," Elvira answered darkly.
"His hands." Iliana flexed her own to illustrate. "He had the same marks. I've never seen someone look so…" She struggled for a moment to find a work that described exactly how pitiful the sight was. "Beaten."
Iliana was used to making an impression. It was impossible not to be when she was quite often the most attractive woman in the room. But the reactions, on the occasions when they were dangerous, usually leaned towards either overconfidence, or complete muteness. To see a boy her own age who looked outright afraid of her and for no good reason was… new. Alarming.
"It's not just magical kids in her area we need to worry about then," Elvira muttered thoughtfully. "It's her own."
Iliana nodded her agreement, but she was more hesitant. After a moment of silence during which Elvira chewed her lip and frowned as she tried to plot her next course, she spoke.
"Should we… be doing this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Giving a no-interest loan to help someone out of a tight spot, making a potion or doing a spell, helping a wife with an abusive husband… That's one thing. But if this goes badly, then we could be accused of attacking No-Majs. That's jail right there, if we're lucky, which we wouldn't be because neither of us even graduated from Ilvermorny and statistically-"
"Breathe," Elvira cautioned with a faint quirk of her lips. "And I'll agree that this is a bit bigger than what we normally deal with – what Niamh called 'favors' – but if this Barebone woman ever actually manages to get any traction on her beliefs then this could get very dangerous very quickly for witches and wizards in New York. I think the fact that they brought up Salem makes it pretty clear that their focus is on extermination," she added grimly. "We'd be safe, this place is warded tighter than a flobberworm's anus but how many others might get caught in the crossfire, No-Maj and magical alike?"
Iliana's mind drifted back to scarred hands and brown eyes that she only saw for a moment before they were hidden.
"I understand."
Other people were already being caught in the crossfire it seemed, and not just Niamh O'Reilly's kids.
Mr. Scamander,
Your comment about being at a disadvantage is truer than you realize. Your letter was addressed to Mr. Absalom Blödgarmr. I wasn't aware my father had ever met albus Dumbledore during his travels, though I'm not surprised he left a lasting impression. He tended to do that. Sadly, I regret to inform you that my father will have been dead for eight years in January, and is therefore unable to answer your questions.
However, you're lucky in one respect. While magizoology was more a hobby for my father – this being partially to do with the ban on beast ownership in the US and partially to do with his own dander allergy – it is an area of interest for me. If you're not, in fact, trying to make fun of the Blödgarmr family as many have before, then I welcome any and all questions you have about magical creatures endemic to the US.
Provided, of course, you don't mind answering a few in return. I'm assuming you've ranged much farther than I have in the course of writing the book you mentioned, and there are a few things I'd like answered for my own satisfaction.
I will await your owl with more information about the 'odd purchase' you made in Cairo. At a guess, I'm going to assume it was either a horned snake, re'em, or a thunderbird? There's a massive trade in those animals in particular due to their demand, sadly, for potions ingredients or wand cores in other countries. Egypt in particular as a major hub. Personally, I think it shows a great lack of imagination on the part of exotic beast owners. A thunderbird may be flashy, but have you ever had a loyal axehandle hound for a neck pillow at the end of a long day? There's really nothing better.
Sincerely,
Elvira Blödgarmr
P.S. Further correspondence will reach me more easily if directed to my bar, the Cactus Cat Lounge. Also a superior pet, as they make – frankly delightful – alcohol.
Newt stared at the paper in his hand in bemusement. He hadn't expected much when he'd written to Dumbledore asking for some advice. The man's prodigious academic career had put him in contact with people in all kinds of different fields, and Newt had unfortunately very little experience with animals native to the States. Their ban on beast ownership made exporting in a legal pet trade impossible.
Dumbledore had even raised the point in his reply that the ban made experts rare and hard to come by outside of MACUSA, which was exactly the group he needed to avoid. But Dumbledore had directed him to an Absalom Blödgarmr, who he had called 'a dabbler in a vast number of studies, some legal, many not, and a fascinating dinner guest.' In fact…
Newt rifled through his correspondence and found Dumbledore's letter, scanning through for the exact line.
Absalom is a member of a family with a bit of a reputation among the Americans. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I once heard a wizard from Pennsylvania use the expression 'he hasn't a sense that god gave a Blödgarmr.'
It was unfortunate that the man himself was deceased, but his daughter seemed obliging, and so Newt pulled out a quill and a bottle of ink and set to writing.
Miss Blödgarmr,
I'm terribly sorry to hear about your father, I hope my letter hadn't dredged up any unpleasant feelings. However, I'm very glad that you've agreed to correspond with me in spite of that.
About my acquisition in Cairo. Calling it a purchase would be slightly misleading, and I feel it only fair you know what you're dealing with…
This is an idea I've been fiddling with for a while. Since the first movie came out really, and with the second coming out soon I decided I wanted to get it out there while the getting's good. I want to make it clear right now that this won't be nearly as long or involved as Lorena's saga, but much like To Be a Slytherin it's more for my own personal fun to address some problems I have with the FBWTFT movies.
The main problem, really, is the Second Salemers. In New York City, the magical center of the US, there is exactly ONE AUROR who gives a crap that there's an anti-magic hate group. Especially when the leader is very obviously connected to the BIGGEST break in the Statue of Secrecy the country has ever seen. There's mention later only vaguely in connection to the anti-magic sentiment being stirred up by the Obscurial attacks, but that's the only real mention we have of the group being acknowledged by MACUSA. Call me crazy, but that seems wrong.
Also, the whole beast ban in the US. I have questions. Namely, if all you have is a handful of Aurors for the entire population of New York City, then what's stopping people - particularly people out West when it was less connected than the country is now - from doing what they do now in many cases, which is whatever the hell they want? You're telling me nobody's got a single axehandle hound?
Another quick thing - the US doesn't really have mythological creatures in the traditional sense many think of them. What we DO have are campfire tales primarily told by loggers, and you can look this up. They're called 'Fearsome Critters' and they are EXACTLY as ridiculous as animals you'd imagine drunk loggers would make up. I'll be using them for animals native to the US. Hey, those stories came form somewhere right?
Also some of this is my own personal bit of fanservice. I absolutely adore Eddie Redmayne and Ezra Miller, and they're especially fabulous in these movies. However, I very much feel like Newt got a shoe-horned, adventure-driven romance plot in the first movie and poor Credence just got endlessly crapped on, up to and including being literally blown up.
Last part of this incredibly verbose Author's Note is that I can't really guarantee regular updates. I'm in the final month of a semester-long study abroad program now, which means the usual flood of finals prep and projects due plus the added aspects of booking flights, packing, finishing up bucket list items... Essentially, I'm very busy and unlike with Lorena, there's no way I can update like clockwork.
There, I think that's everything! Please, let me know what you think!