She was back.

He could dimly hear Ma yelling from the steps of Federal Hall, George Washington standing near her. She liked her symbols and her statues, his Ma. But the Wall Street spot was even less successful than the last spot. Here, people hadn't the time to stop and listen for even a few minutes of entertainment. Here, men made and lost fortunes and they couldn't have cared less about Ma and her signs or her wards in their dowdy clothes. These men wore straw hats and three-piece suits, and Credence had exactly one pair of third-hand shoes to his name.

He didn't know how he knew, but he did. Like someone had just breathed down the back of his neck or walked over his grave. It was a sensation he couldn't quite place but it was as real as the ground beneath his feet, and he'd only felt that sensation once before.

He had a little bit of luxury, since he, Chastity, and Modesty were scattered down the road, Modesty closest to Ma and him farthest away. Chastity hovered by the doors of the Stock Exchange, and he'd passed her moments before on the way to his spot, looking quietly furious as men breezed past her like she was part of the building.

Credence didn't even have to try to fade back into the shadows. All it took was a small back step into a niche in the façade of a building and he was gone from view, people paying him as little attention as they did Chastity.

All he had to do was take a moment to focus, to listen to his gut – the guiding hand of God, his Ma would correct him with a screech – and he found her.

She was standing under a sign advertising ice skates and sweaters, trying to get a jump on the cold season now that it was fall. Her dress was a brilliant indigo that matched her hat, which had babies' breath stuck in the brim. Her hair looked nearly white against the color, done up in curls and hanging to her shoulders. Her lips were painted that same wonderful shade of red, and she wore a camel coat that clashed nicely against her dress. Shopping bags were draped over her arm with labels on them that he'd seen Chastity eye covetously.

She stood next to an equally well-dressed woman with a young child's hand held firmly in her own. They were chatting pleasantly, the woman's other hand holding a sack lunch. She was probably on her way to deliver it to her husband, along with herself and their son for a surprise visit at the office.

Credence watched jealously, trying to imagine what it would be like to be one of the men in the straw boaters, wallets full, commanding respect wherever they tread, with no one and nothing to answer to. A loving wife who would visit him in the middle of the day to drop of a lunch she'd made herself because she loved him. On her heels would come a young boy, his own son, who would never know what it was like to walk the length of the city in shoes that were two sizes too small or feel the touch of a belt on his skin.

The very idea of a life like that was so close to heaven Credence felt guilty for thinking it up. Surely a life like that wasn't for him. A successful job, respect from others, a loving wife and son… Those things weren't for the likes of him.

But how he craved them! Standing there watching the girl – he didn't even know her name, he wanted to know so badly – he could see it clear as day and she starred in his fantasy. Himself behind a heavy wooden desk, looking up from important papers as she walked in. She would perch on the edge of his chair and press a kiss to his lips like it was the most natural thing in the world, because this was Credence's fantasy and in his fantasy it was normal for them. She would produce lunch and it would be his favorites, made herself because she had to be a good cook, after all, she seemed too perfect to be real already. Their son, with his dark hair and her luminous blue eyes, would peer up at him, chin resting on his knee, and he'd look at Credence like he was a man worth looking at, and everything would be perfect.

And somehow, she had to go and add to his fantasy. She smiled, setting her shopping bags on the pavement beside her as she crouched. Credence couldn't quite tell, but it looked like all she did was flick her wrist and produce a brightly-wrapped candy, which the offered to the delighted child with a laugh that he was sadly too far away to hear. He'd seen the trick before from buskers on the street, he knew the candy was just hidden up her sleeve, but he was already half-convinced she was an angel, so why couldn't it be real magic?

The woman pulled her son away clutching his treat triumphantly and she straightened, picking up her shopping bags. She turned and smacked sharply into a man who was coming down the road towards her. One bag fell back to the ground from her startled hands. Immediately, the man bent and picked it up, offering it to her with a charmingly crooked smile and a wink.

Credence felt rage building inside of him, because that man was everything he wasn't. He was handsome, tall, broad, well-fed, well-educated. Doubtless the man's body wasn't littered with belt marks under his jacket the way Credence's was. His hands were probably smooth and unblemished and soft, unlike Credence's own oft-brutalized flesh.

She took the bag from him with a shy, polite smile and a nod. The man's grin widened and he caught her wrist – don't touch her! You're not good enough to touch her! – and lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. He said something over the top of her hands and she smiled again, gently pulling her hand away. She made to step around him, only for him to quick-step into her path.

Credence had seen that look before. He'd seen it more than once. It was the look men gave to women that they wanted. He'd seen it so often, but never dared to direct it in any woman's direction. It spoke of confidence and charm and wit, not things he exactly had to offer.

But what he did have was a body that could take abuse, and he was perfectly happy to put it between the angel and the man who was daring to profane her with that look if it meant she could get away from him. She didn't want to be there, he could read it clear as day in the way her shoulders shifted and tightened, the way she rocked back onto her heels and subtly scooted away, looking ready to bolt.

The man reached out, fingers curled like he planned to trace them along her cheekbone or the line of her jaw. She surprised both of them by reaching up, pressing a finger to the man's mouth before he could say another thing. He looked frozen, eyes wide, and she calmly adjusted her bags and stepped to the side. Giving the man one last annoyed look, she took off down Nassau Street. It was only when she was gone from view that the man finally moved again, shaking his head and blinking like he couldn't figure out what had just happened.

Credence knew exactly what had happened. She'd dazzled him, the same way she had him when they first met.

It was good to see her. Validating, in a way, because even with the residual pain in his hands he still wasn't sure that he'd actually seen her that day, because she couldn't be real. Even more gratifying, she'd rejected the man in the straw boater, the one who had everything, and that gave Credence hope. Hope for what, he wasn't sure, but it was hope nonetheless and it buoyed him enough to drive him out of his hiding place and return to passing out flyers, a secret warmth twisting inside of him.

"Oh I wish I had someone to love me," Iliana crooned on stage dressed in a short spangled silver dress. "Someone to call me their own. Oh, I wish I had someone to live with, 'cause I'm tired of livin' alone."

It was a typical night in the Cactus Cat. While Elvira manned the bar her sister sang, backed by magically animated instruments. She set a quintet of shots of the house special, Cactus Cat Juice, a highly potent and highly illegal form of alcohol, on a tray and waved her hand. It took off, floating through the door into the back room where a goblin, a vampire, two werewolves, and a garden-variety wizard were playing poker with quite a few dragots on the line.

"Iliana sounds lovely tonight," commented a regular near the bar. His name was Alfred Plonker. He was a brewer, able to whip up everything from a dose Pepper-Up for a housewife with a sniffling child to a cauldron of Polyjuice for those with more nefarious things in mind. He wasn't picky about who his clientele were – "a dragot's a dragot after all!" – and as such he often found himself meeting in places that bordered polite society, much like the Cactus Cat.

"She does," Elvira agreed, casting a glance up at her sister on stage. Iliana reached up, stroking a gloved hand up the microphone stand seductively. "Got a date tonight?" she asked, nodding to the rose resting by his hand.

Alfred smiled smugly. "Matter of fact, I do! A nice young lady came to me for some moonseed extract-"

"That stuff's poisonous. You sure she's a nice young lady?" Elvira challenged, one eyebrow raised.

"Nice enough." Alfred waved off her concerns. "I figured I'd show her my favorite bar." He nodded and winked at her slyly. Elvira blinked.

"You angling for a free drink for your lady friend there, Alfie?"

Alfred winced at the nickname. "Aw, come on, Ellie!" he whined. "I bring in enough business, bringing my clients here to do hand-offs."

"Yeah, and give me heart palpitations every time hoping that MACUSA doesn't decide to do a raid those nights," she countered.

Alfred grinned cheekily. "Losing faith in your warding, Blodgarmr? Never thought I'd see the day."

Elvira's eyes narrowed. "Watch it, Plonker." One finger pointed squarely into the brewer's face. He had been to the Cactus Cat often enough to know that finger was as dangerous as a wand.

"Aw, Ellie," Alfred chuckled awkwardly, reaching up and gingerly guiding her finger in a safer direction. "You know I only tease you because I love ya!"

"Your date will be crushed," she replied drily, nodding in response to an order that was yelled down the bar. She grabbed a bottle of firewhiskey and a No-Maj Cola and mixed them together before sending the beverage skidding unerringly down the bar.

"If I could get you to go out with me, you think I'd be messing around with all these other dames?" Alfred asked wryly. "But you keep turning me down! You know I'm a stand-up guy…"

"I don't date men who come to my bar, Alfred," Elvira told him for the thousandth time. "They're never as clean-cut as they seem."

"What do you want with someone clean-cut anyway?" Alfred countered. "Girl like you needs a man with a little bit of adventure in him…" His hand crept towards hers across the bar.

The only thing that saved him from getting his hand a warning shock from a bartender who was all to used to being hit on was that someone else had attracted her ire.

"Come on, baby doll, get down from there and come to the back with me!" yelled a drunken German wizard who was seated next to the stage. Iliana shot him a withering look but didn't falter in her set, continuing to sing like nothing was going on. He grabbed his crotch lewdly. "I'll give you a little German sausage-"

Alfred scooped up his drink and rose and stepped aside a second before Elvira vaulted the bar with ease. He sighed and shook his head at the wizard's stupidity as Elvira's booted feet slammed to the ground. She straightened up, the German completely unaware of the danger he was in as he laughed drunkenly. Regulars, though, they knew he'd crossed a line and they moved out of the way as Elvira stormed forward, hand coming up.

The man's laughter suddenly choked. He seemed befuddled for a moment as his mouth opened and closed uselessly. Then the fear set in as he realized he couldn't breathe. He threw himself off his chair as he thrashed and clutched at his throat, trying to peel away the pressure he could feel there. Slowly, like a puppet being lifted off a stand, he was dragged upright so that his feet dangled above the floorboards. He rotated on the spot, turning to face Elvira.

Her face was a mask of disgust and protectiveness. One hand was poised like she was squeezing his throat even if she never made contact and the other was upraised, holding him aloft.

"You kiss your momma with that mouth?"

Iliana continued to sing even though the attention of the crowd was long-since lost. The minute they realized they were going to get to see Elvira lay down the law that night, they had leaned forward in interest to hear her quiet words.

"Sir… you come into my place and get drunk, that's fine. S'what it's for. But you start mouthing off to my sister like that… Then you're out on your ass."

The German was trying to bite out curses from the way his lips moved and the rage on his face, but he couldn't draw enough breath to make any sound come out.

"Thirty seconds and you're unconscious. Sixty and you're dead," Elvira said lightly. "So what's gonna happen is I'm gonna let you down, and you're gonna scram, otherwise I'm gonna see how long you last. Got it?"

The drunk crashed to the ground. Iliana rolled her eyes and lifted a hand as his foot connected with the table he'd been sitting at, sending it flying. Like her sister, she was capable of wandless magic, though she tended to prefer a wand. Instead of flying across the room, the table caught and righted itself, multiple shot glasses that used to hold gigglewater setting into neat lines with a musical tinkling sound.

The German got to his feet, spitting out curses in English and his own language. Elvira rolled his eyes and flicked her wrist, fingers twining in a complicated pattern. Once again the German choked, but this time it was because his tongue had just seen fit to roll back into his mouth , making it impossible for him to talk.

Elvira wasn't fooling around anymore. Alfred, still lingering by the door, obligingly moved to the door and pulled it open.

"Clear on the other side!" he called cheerfully as Elvira swung her arm like she was throwing a baseball. The German was picked clear off the floor and launched over the tables. He sailed cleanly out the door and landed in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk outside.

"I have been a rover since I was a child, no one to love and care for me, knocked around all over, kinda grew up wild. My home's wherever I may be," Iliana continued to sing as the bar settled back down, contented now that Elvira was brushing her hands together. "Ain't no someone yearnin', wonderin' where I may be. I'm gone, but no one's missin' me."

Alfred greeted her with a wink as Elvira took up her place behind the bar again. "Thanks for taking out the trash before my nice young lady showed up. Wouldn't want her to get the wrong impression of the place."

Elvira rolled her eyes and poured a shot of Cactus Cat Juice. Alfred's eyes lit up and he reached for it, thinking he'd gotten his free drink. This time he did catch that warning shock as Elvira batted his hand assigned, lifted the shot, and downed it in one without flinching.

Miss Blödgarmr,

While I admit that I'm still very curious as to what you were charged with, I'll do you the courtesy of not prying. You've been very good to me thus far and I don't want to press my luck. We hardly know each other well enough to be prying into each other's secrets.

Thank you very much for the pictures you sent to me. I appreciate any sort of new information about magizoology. These American creatures seem fascinating and I'll admit to being terribly ignorant. What is the purpose of slashing the cacti? And the axehandle hound, do they eat wood in general or is it a specific kind? Where are they native to? If and when I get to New York, I suspect I'll have a hundred questions for you.

Speaking of which, it shall be quite a while before I arrive in New York City I fear. My lead in West Africa is something I've never seen the likes of before and it's turned into quite a bit more of an adventure than I originally intended. Though I hesitate to rank such things, I believe this to be even more important than Frank's return to North America. Please, don't think less of me for that. Frank's cause is still very dear to my heart but this is… another level entirely. Forgive me, I'm hesitant to provide details.

I realize I never told you what I do: I'm currently writing a manuscript about magical creatures that will hopefully generate curiosity and interest in them on the part of our fellow witches and wizards, instead of simply a desire to reach for a wand. A sentiment which, I'd hazard a guess, you share?

On the subject of Frank, I have brewed the potion you sent to me and it's been amazing! While my workspace does smell faintly of burnt rubber at the moment, it has cut his plucking in half. It's been an experience trying to win his trust enough to let me get close enough to put it on him, but I seem to be making progress. I'd probably be doing better if I didn't keep turning up in his enclosure to smear that stuff on him!

Sincerely,

Newt Scamander

P.S. Was that you in the picture you sent me?

()()()()()()()()

Mr. Scamander,

I'm glad the potion has been working a treat for Frank. My aunt Ingrid's journals lead me to believe that you're right, you probably would be doing better without the potion, but sometimes such things are unavoidable. She had great success in her dealings with thunderbirds. Her interest came after she found one that had a wing ripped off in a territorial dispute protecting a nesting mate and egg. She took all three in, tending to the father and helping to raise the offspring. I'd be willing to send you copies of her notes if you'd be interested. I'd send the originals, but the books would take off a finger if you tried to open them since you're not a Blodgarmr.

Charming woman, my aunt Ingrid.

Thank you for not pressing me on the details of my conviction. I'll do you the same favor and not press for details on whatever you're up to in West Africa. I wouldn't be much help there anyway, as Africa is one place I never managed to make it to. I suspect now I never will. I'll simply say best of luck and leave it at that.

I'll be happy to answer any and all questions you have when you do finally make it here. I don't know what that would do to your publishing schedule, as I can talk for hours once you get me going on Fearsome Critters. You're right, I'd prefer it if witches and wizards tried to understand what they were dealing with, instead of just going in spells blazing. That's how you get nonsense like the Great Sasquatch Rebellion of 1892 and the Thornton Harkaway scandal. How people like Harkaway and Kneedander get into office is beyond me…

Forgive the shortness of this letter. There's to be a Halloween event at my bar that always brings out the vampires and werewolves so I've been running myself to my whit's end trying to get enough blood and rare steak in stock for that, not to mention that a couple of wizards got into a duel in the back room over cards the other night so I've got repairs to make and idiots to ban. Luckily, they were nice enough to bleed all over the place so I'll be able to lock them out of the bar permanently. I take a very dim view on fighting.

Sincerely,

Elvira Blödgarmr

P.S. Yes, it was me. I've never been very good at subtlety so I'll just say that I wouldn't be opposed to a picture of you. It would be nice to put a face to the words.

P.P.S. At this point in our correspondence you've admitted to illegal smuggling and I've confessed to running a bar that dabbles in illegal business. If it's alright with you, I believe we can dispense with the formalities, Newt.

Newt wasn't quite sure what to make of this most recent letter from Miss Blödgarmr – Elvira. She was right, formalities were a little silly for co-conspirators in illegal activities. He'd always been told that the American wizards were a lawless mess and that's why their MACUSA was so strict. While he still didn't agree with MACUSA on many things – not being allowed to marry Muggles, honestly – corresponding with Elvira wasn't exactly changing his mind on the lawless bit.

He could count on his fingers the amount of times he'd been in a fight, whereas it seemed to be a relatively common occurrence for her. He'd also rarely met someone who was comfortable with the idea of spending their evening in the company of vampires and werewolves, despite the fact that both could prove to be excellent company… provided you caught them at the right time. Elvira was quite the character it seemed, and he was more and more eager to meet her.

Newt's growing smile faded.

That would take some time. As he grew closer to his destination, following rumors and hearsay, more and more of what he was hearing was starting to sound like an Obscurial, and that made his stomach twist into knots. That was a person, not an animal, and he'd never been good with people. He wasn't sure that he was even remotely qualified to be dealing with this – but he was also fairly confident he was the only one who'd try to do anything other than just kill the girl to destroy the parasitic force inside of her.

Sharing that with Elvira… no. They'd only exchanged a handful of letters and Obscurials weren't Fearsome Critters. On that front, he had no way of knowing if she was a hex first and ask questions later frame of mind. She certainly seemed comfortable with violence in a way that he wasn't. If he explained what his plan was, the might cut ties entirely, and Newt was reluctant to do that. Short as their acquaintance had been, he looked forward to her letters and found himself more and more intrigued by the witch-cum-bartender.

Another thing he wasn't quite sure about was sending her a picture. Newt was fully aware that he wasn't what most people pictured when it came to wizards adventuring around exotic locales. He was hardly the broad-shouldered, dashing, swarthy type. He had ginger hair that never sat right according to his mother, an unsightly smattering of freckles across his whole body, and he burned bright red instead of tanning. 'Broad-shouldered' was certainly something he'd never been described as. 'Pencil' and 'twig' were more common.

But nevertheless, Newt's sense of fairness wouldn't let him be. He'd had pictures taken to go on the back of his book when it was finally published, and he'd decided to do them before he went travelling, while he still looked reasonably put together. It was the only decent picture of himself he had to hand and his chances of coming across a camera among the tribes he was visiting were laughably small.

Still feeling reluctant, Newt nevertheless plucked one of the headshots up and set it aside to be mailed off with his next letter.