Newt let himself out of her room, feeling a little dirty about the Memory Charm. He could have easily erased her entire recollection of what happened, but that felt pretty unethical. Plus, it was too good to be forgotten. However, he didn't want to jeopardize his stay there by letting a Muggle student know too much, so he merely tweaked a few things inside her head. Newt walked by a few girls in the hall who gave him a knowing glance, as a lone male in the girls' dormitory.
In the center of the campus mall was a small cafe. Late on a hot Saturday afternoon, it was teeming with schoolgirls reading and drinking coffee. Newt turned a few heads walking in, looking dashing in his black corduroy three-piece. Having already made love to one college girl that morning, he felt strangely confident, like the world was his oyster. He marched right up to the cafe counter and asked for the bathroom key.
"I'm sorry, the men's bathroom is out of order," said the girl behind the counter.
"Well, then, would it be any trouble to use the woman's?" he asked.
"Are you clean?"
"The hippogriff flies tonight," he replied. She handed him the key and he unlocked the door to the women's bathroom. He stood in the toilet bowl and pulled the flush chord, disappearing down the drain in the same manner as one of the entrances to the Ministry of Magic.
He landed in a sewery puddle in an underground tunnel. He pulled himself out of the water, pointed his wand at his wet suit and shouted, "Ventus!"
There was no sign of students or anything resembling a girl's dormitory. A rat scurried past him. Newt wondered for a moment if he had used the correct passage. Defunct subway tracks stretched into the tunnel as far as he could see in both directions. "Lumos!" he called, and a light came out of his wand. "Hello?"
The only reply was his own echo. He chose a direction at random and started walking up the tracks. He said outloud to himself, "If this is Titbird, it's a real dump."
In the distance, there was a rumbling sound. It began to grow louder quickly, and he realized to his horror that a subway train was coming toward him. The tunnel was quite narrow, and there would not be room on the ledge paralleling the tracks to get out of its way. He tried to disapparate but was unable. Turning around, he saw a bright light barreling toward him. He screamed and fell to the ground. An icy chill went through his bones as the ghost train passed right through him. He opened his eyes and saw spectral commuters in 19th century outfits looking tired and irritated that they were several decades late for work. The ghost train passed and Newt stood up, watching it disappear down the tunnel. He exhaled and kept walking.
The rat that had run by him earlier returned and stood up on its hind legs, sniffing around. It squeaked. "You wouldn't happen to know how to get to Titbird House?" Newt addressed the rodent. It ran ahead and, for lack of a better plan, he followed it.
As he walked up the tracks, the tunnel grew larger and larger. Several other tunnels branched out, and he followed the rat through one turn and then another. "What is this, a maze?" he asked. The rat squealed back.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the rat disappeared into a drain. He looked up and down the tunnel, but there was nothing but sewer. "Great, I've just followed a rat to who-knows-where!" He turned around again and saw a dozen girls in witch's robes sitting around a common room table, a warm fire in the stone fireplace. A tall, attractive blonde girl rushed up to him and shook his hand.
She addressed him in a Boston accent, "Mr. Scamander! Look, Mildred, it's Newt Scamander! What are you doing in Titbird House? You look like you could use a towel." The witch took a teacup from Mildred, a buxom Freshman, and transfigured it into a beach towel. Newt dried off his black suit.
"What kind of a house entrance is that?" Newt said, flabbergasted. "I just walked a mile! I always thought it was absurd that Ravenclaws had to answer a riddle - because, what if they don't know the riddle? - but that was just gruelling and gross!"
The witches tittered. The blonde one answered, "Oh, Titbird House likes to play tricks with newcomers, just to test them. I promise you, if you come back, it won't take so long. Most guests don't think to follow a rat."
"I'm here to see Professor Washingbeard," explained Newt. "He should be expecting me."
"Yes, Garfungal's in his office." Newt still wasn't used to students calling their professors by their first names. He followed the blonde witch down another sewer tunnel. "By they way, I'm Brook Lynam, third year undergrad. We're all real excited to have you here this semester. I've read just about all of your articles!"
"Oh, do you study Magizoology?" Newt asked.
"I'm still undecided. It's either that or Creative Spell Writing. I love Garfungal's lectures, but I could also see myself just, like, working in a speakeasy and trying to write spells on the side. I also play Tenditch, but everyone knows there's no Galleons in Witch's Tenditch."
Newt recognized her, "Oh, you were on the front page of the Daily 'Vitch Bitch this morning."
"That's right, I'm the Captain. I do hope you'll come to our matches!"
"Is that a Boston accent? Why did you decide to come here instead of Salem Academy?"
She smiled. "Oh, my parents are Muggles, so it was an easy cover to say I was going to Slonimb College. I transferred from Radcliffe when Bronxvitch opened. Plus, there's a lot of really copacetic witches here. It's more my scene."
"Terrific," said Newt.
"Here we are," she said in front of a ten-foot-wide round sewer grate. The storm drain swung open. Newt thanked the blonde Titbird girl and climbed through the circular entrance. The Magical Creatures lecturer was sitting behind a large desk. He was drinking black coffee, eating a bagel, crumbs in his beard and more white stains on his cloak, presumably from the cream cheese.
"Newt, old boy!" called Professor Washingbeard, standing up and dropping the bagel. "You're three days late!" The American's office was spacious, lit by candelabras, and decorated like a hoarder, with old trunks piled on top of each other. Framed black-and-white photographs of magical creatures cluttered up the stone walls, and Newt recognized a few of them as his own. "As you can see, I'm a fan of your work," said the thick-bearded Professor, tapping his wand on a picture of a Manticore. The human-faced beast roared silently at them.
Newt sat down on a plush divan, its fabric blotched with more gross stains. "Let's get right to it. What exactly is this Succubeast?"
Washingbeard sat down next to him, a little too close. "Well, that's what's strange. No one really knows. Most of her victims have been in Manhattan."
"So she's been murdering New Yorkers for how long?"
"Oh, no, not murdered! All of her victims still live. But they'll never be the same again. The first definitive case was in the fall of 1921." Washingbeard opened a folder and dropped a photograph on the table. It showed a young man lying in a bed, his eyes empty. "This is Emil Impuissant, a French Muggle who had just arrived in New York looking for work. His statement to the NYPD described her as - here, I have the exact quote - 'a 'orrible monstre who cam' to me in mah sleep and I could not rrrresist.'"
"How is Mr. Impuissant now?" Newt asked.
"Not well. Let's just say, he won't be fathering anymore Frenchmen!" The Professor laughed a little too heartily at his own off-color joke. He threw down a dozen more photos of victims, each of them looking like a spent man. "Italio Calvalio, an immigrant from Rome, December 1921. Luc Boules-Vides, another Frenchman, January of this year. Franz Keingeist, a German-American brewer, only last month. Each attacked has increased in intensity."
"There's a lot of Europeans," Newt noted.
"Yes, Grover pointed out the same trend. Seems like our girl's got a thing for guys with accents!"
"Ha ha, yes."
"Oh, but don't worry, none of the attacks have been near Chester County. They've all happened in densely metropolitan areas."
Newt picked up the photograph of Franz Keingeist, who looked especially wiped out. "What exactly is it that the Succubeast takes from them?" he asked.
Washingbeard slugged Newt in the back. "Their essence, old boy! Their spirit! And enough of it to leave them useless to women for the rest of their pitiful lives!"
"Well, as much as I would love to include a chapter on the Succubeast in my Catalog of Terrible Magical Monsters of the Known World: Their Environs…"
"Yes, yes…"
"…But we don't have much to go on. When Dean Ruthephus offered me the residency here, I naturally accepted. I only make two sickles a week at the Ministry, and my work for Augustus Worme at Obscura is pro bono. The Dean's offer was enough that I could afford to take a leave of absence from my job at the Beast Division. But as for this Succubeast, to be frank, I'm not sure I believe it exists."
"Oh, it's real," the American warned. "And it's power is growing. Mark my words: it won't be long before it strikes again. Bachelors of Manhattan, beware!"
"Right," said Newt, taking a piece of parchment out of his briefcase. "You sent me this drawing. Where did you get the visual?" He handed the sketch of the busty demon to Washingbeard.
"Oh, that, yeah, that's just a little doodle I did based on the crime reports."
"So, you have no evidence that it looks anything like this?" asked Newt.
"Some victims said it was a 'orrible monstre, others said it was a feminine seductress - who knows what to believe?"
The Magizoologist stood up. "Well, thank you, Garfungal. I'm here for four months, as you know. I'll take this folder and interview some of the victims, but I can't promise that this elusive Succubeast has what it takes to make it into my Catalog. As far as I can tell, it might not be fantastic enough."
"Have it your way," replied the Professor. "But, just to be safe, I'd lock those sliding doors on Suite 7a. Ha ha!"