Walking Gus around New York City was one of the ways Iliana decompressed, pulling her head out of her books or her music for some time to breathe. She could walk for hours with the axehandle hound disguised as a corgi or something else relatively small at her side, just wandering around to see what she could find. It was how she found the most interesting shops, the best cafes and restaurants, the most perfect places to just sit and observe.

Today, it was when she hit Bethesda Fountain that Iliana decided to settle in for a while. She took a few moments to stare appreciatively at the fall colors reflecting in the lake before hopping the balustrade. It was a bit tricky with Gus in her arms, but there was a gentle slope up to a few trees, and it was under a gnarled, squat one that Iliana decided to curl up.

She cast a quick look around before drawing her wand and turning her handkerchief into a large sheet, laying it out in the shade. Gus, panting a bit, eagerly laid down and Iliana situated herself next to him, back propped against the trunk. She spotted a dropped twig and picked it up, setting it in front of the hound. With a grateful woof, Gus began to gnaw at it.

Iliana reached into her purse and pulled out a copy of Magical Theory of Magical Beings' Magic. Despite having a terrible title, it was a fairly good treatise on the innate powers of magical beings. 'Beings' in this case meaning humanoid magical creatures such as merpeople, centaurs, and, of particular interest to her, veela.

She was just getting to the section on the veela's natural affinity for self-transfiguration and fire magic when she heard a strident voice echoing across the terrace.

"Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool, which is called Bethesda! Whoever then first after the troubling of the waters stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had!"

Iliana knew that voice perfectly after following the Second Salemers for several days in a row, but today she hadn't planned to run into them.

The anti-magic No-Majs that had been gathered outside of the library were at the foot of the fountain, their leader flanked by the large statue of the angel in the middle. Iliana moved up onto her knees and sat up, tilting her head and wondering if the choice was one the woman had made consciously.

"Magic is the disease afflicting New York City, and this place cannot purify all! It is down to us, the loyal lambs of god, to lead the witches to their destruction, to save our friends and neighbors!"

The woman yelling at the passers-by – many of whom looked annoyed at having their quiet afternoon at the park interrupted – was of little interest to Iliana. She was curious to see if that boy with the injured hands was there again. She wanted to know if he had listened to her, if the onions had helped. It was a No-Maj remedy, a potion or spell would have worked better, but it did do what she'd claimed and it was the best non-magical advice she could offer.

Among the woman's group there were two older men who were holding up the same banners with hands snapping wands that she'd seen last time, and she recognized the girl with blonde curls and dowdy dress as well. There was no sign of the boy though, and Iliana thought disappointedly he must have been left at home, and that didn't really bode well.

But then a flicker of black caught her eye, and she could see a wide-brimmed flat hat that was several decades out of style by one of the thick stone pillars of the balustrade, just at the corner of the bottom of the terrace. He was hiding, she realized, and she didn't blame him at all.

Iliana cast a vicious look at the woman speechifying. While some might say it wasn't any of her business what happened in another person's house, her particular situation and the fact that some seemed to think not being fully human meant she was basically an animal made her very sensitive to abuse of other people. Whatever that boy had done, short of pulling out a gun and trying to shoot someone, he definitely didn't deserve to have a leather strap taken to his hands.

Loosely gripping Gus's leash, Iliana turned her blanket back into a handkerchief and stuffed it into her pocket, stowing her book away. She carefully picked her way down the hill to the pillar where the boy stood.

"Hello?" she said softly, remembering the way he'd jumped and recoiled when she'd touched him last time. "Do you remember me?"

He still whipped around, but the cringing wasn't quite as prevalent. He made eye contact with her just long enough for her to register the surprise and fear in his dark eyes before he looked away. He didn't even seem able to make eye contact.

Again Iliana was reminded of a stray her father had brought home – a habit that Elvira had inherited. In his case, it had been an Aethonian covered in whip marks with cracked hooves. It was the one horse she had been forbidden to go near, given that she was still quite young and the horse was so skittish. She remembered watching her father work with it in the ring, the horse dancing this way and that, tossing its head, running the length of the fence to try and get away from him. It had taken Absalom weeks and weeks of patience to get the horse even comfortable with being around him, let alone being worked with and trained.

The fear, the anticipation of pain, that Iliana had seen in that animal's eyes was echoed in his and her heart absolutely broke even as she felt physically sick to her stomach at the thought of what must have happened to him to make him like this.

"What's your name?" she asked gently. She pressed a hand to her chest. "Mine is Iliana Velikova."

She stood patiently, trying to imitate Absalom in the middle of the ring with his hands at his side, waiting. The boy tilted his head further away from her, the muscles in his shoulders twisting and jumping. He opened his mouth and closed it repeated, like he was trying to work out the answer to that himself.

When he finally did say something, he spoke so quietly that Iliana almost didn't hear it.

"Credence Barebone?" she repeated, eyes widening slightly at the last name. It certainly explained why someone who seemed as painfully timid as him was involved with such an aggressive hate group. If he was actually Mary Lou's child and not just a ward, though she could have given her charges her last name… Iliana was quick to gather herself, saying, "That's a nice name."

"I-I have… I have t-to…" Credence took a quick, nervous step away from her, glancing back fearfully at the woman leading the rally.

"Wait, please?" Iliana begged, stretching out a hand instinctively. He jumped badly, face twisting into a grimace, and Iliana bit her bottom lip, slowly drawing her hand back to her chest. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I only wanted to ask about your hands. Did the onion help?"

"M-My… Ah…" The way his face suddenly went from somewhat pale to completely ashen made Iliana's eyes drop to his hands fearfully. He tried to shift his bundle of papers so that she couldn't see them, but it was too late. Iliana knew what they had looked like that first day, they should have been slightly better today. Yet the scabs looked fresh, there were faint pink patches that looked almost like burns, and, most alarmingly, a faint ring of ugly purple and blue around his wrists.

"Oh my god," Iliana breathed, shaking hand coming up from her chest to press over her mouth. Underneath the lines of blood and the bruising she could see the scars of other beatings criss-crossing over each other, the variance in color and depth telling her that they spanned across years. "Who would do that to a person?"

Credence's cheeks were red, his eyes closed tight, his face angled towards the ground. He seemed to be trying to hide under the brim of his hat. "I disobeyed," he said quietly. "Ma has to…"

"No!" Iliana said sharply, and inwardly cursed herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. Credence responded to the sudden noise like she was the one coming at him to hurt him. Instead she splayed her hands on the edge of the railing, fully within his view even with his head bowed, and leaned forwards. "I know you don't know me, but you need to know this – I don't care what you've done. I don't care how often you've disobeyed your mother. You do not deserve this kind of treatment. Nobody does."

For the first time, Credence looked up at her, mouth opened slightly. His eyes were darting to her eyes and away like he was fighting years of conditioning, but he was trying, and that gave Iliana hope that he might have a chance. If he still had even a little bit of grit left to him then maybe he'd be able to do just what Abigail Schultz had done – go to the authorities, get away, build a new life.

"I-I…"

"Begone, she-devil!"

Mary Lou came flying over, managing despite her small size to shove Credence aside and into the stone pillar. Iliana saw several people looking over in disbelief as Mary Lou seized her arm and half-dragged her over the railing.

"Ma…" Credence moaned as he slid down the pillar, curling into a ball. "Please, no…"

"Coming here, spreading your poison about, filling my boy's ears with unnaturalness and temptation!" Mary Lou growled at her. Iliana pulled and thrashed, trying to get her arm free, her hip scraping painfully against the corner of the balustrade. At her side, Gus was going nuts, barking loudly and jumping, but he was unable to get over the solid barrier.

"Let me go!" Iliana shrieked. "Get off me!"

"The lips of a seductive woman are oh so sweet, her soft words are oh so smooth. But it won't be long before she's gravel in your mouth, a pain in your gut, a wound in your heart. She's dancing down the primrose path to Death; she's headed straight for Hell and taking you with her!" Mary Lou chanted. "You will not take from my flock! I command you to be gone, witch, by the power of God!"

A hand slammed down on Mary Lou Barebone's shoulder and a deep, dangerous voice intoned,

"Woman, you get your hands off my sister, or this will be the last day you have hands."

Credence stared up in shock. He'd seen people dressed like this woman on posters for the theaters, but he'd never seen a woman wearing such things. From her cowboy hat to the matching boots, the tops concealed under her brown slacks, she would have looked right at home on one of those posters with cacti and tumbleweeds. In New York, she looked alien and strange, other. She had blue eyes that absolutely screamed wrath about to be unleashed on his Ma and her red-brown hair was scraped back into a long braid that fell over her shoulder. Clenched in one hand was a gold-handled cane with a black shaft.

But the one thing Credence couldn't help but notice was that, tanned, tall, broad-shouldered, and brown-haired, this woman looked nothing like the smaller, paler, blonder Iliana. His Ma seemed to have noticed too, for she released her grip on Iliana to knock the woman's hand from her shoulder.

"Children born of sin!" she seethed. "Bastards! You cannot possibly come from the same mother!" The woman's eyes flashed in rage at this pronouncement. "The sins of the father are visited upon the sons and daughters. Your half-sister came here to seduce a weak, gullible child. She flaunted herself before him, using her wiles to grab his attention!"

"He was so rude!" Iliana interrupted, and Credence looked up at her in surprise. He cringed when he realized she was glaring at him. That was it, then, she hated him. "I tried to ask him for another one of those flyers, to ask him to meet me somewhere to discuss your message, but he wouldn't say anything! He wouldn't even look at me."

Credence's breath caught and he found himself locked in place in disbelief. She… was lying. For him. To try and protect him from his Ma's judgment. She was trying to help him again, even though it was all his fault that Mary Lou had come charging over and grabbed her, had upset her pet, had bruised her side.

"And if you knew my sister, ma'am, you'd know she doesn't go around looking for attention from men," the woman snapped. "Opposite, actually. So you'd better watch who you're accusing of what, because I don't take kindly to people spreading such nasty lies about my sister."

"You will burn in hell," Mary Lou spat. "You and your sister will suffer the fires of the devil for your unholy actions, assaulting a child of god. You will be struck down!"

The woman moved, her grip on Mary Lou's shoulder shifting. She lunged forwards, her forearm stretching across his Ma's chest. Credence watched in a mix of awe and fear as Iliana's sister bent his mother nearly in half over the low balustrade wall.

"Annie, I think that was a threat. Did that sound like a threat to you?" she asked conversationally, despite the fact that she was holding a thrashing woman tight.

"It did," Iliana agreed.

He looked around as feet suddenly landed beside him. Iliana had hopped the railing and was crouching down in front of him, reaching out her hands carefully. Instead of taking his hands, she gently pressed her fingers to the back of his shoulder.

"Come on, on your feet," she said gently, and Credence hastened to comply, because he was pretty sure that his original theory was right. No one but an angel would be so unearthly kind even after she'd been assaulted just for being near him. He stood, hunching his shoulders and keeping his face low to hide from the many stares the scene had caused.

While her sister kept Mary Lou occupied, she leaned in close and whispered, breath brushing against his ear, "If you ever need to get away for a while, or just want to talk, look at the paper in your pocket. You'll be able to find me." He felt a faint tug at the pocket of his coat as she slipped the paper inside.

She stepped back quickly, gave him a hearty scowl for show, and moved to her sister's side.

"Elvira, come on, she's not worth you getting in trouble," she said, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder.

"In that case," she was growling in Mary Lou's face, "let me rephrase: if you ever lay hands on my sister again, they will never find your body." She released Mary Lou with a light shove, straightening up and sneering. Elvira waggled her fingers mockingly. "Perhaps I'll turn you into a toad, or simply make you vanish from existence… with a snap of my fingers!" She snapped her fingers, the leather fingerless gloves she wore making the sound seem oddly muffled. Nevertheless, the bystanders who had gathered to watch laughed as Mary Lou flinched, her normally neat bob ruffled from her struggles.

"I am garbed in the armor of Christ!" she said, straightening herself up and trying to appear self-righteous when the whole exchange had clearly rattled her. Credence didn't blame her. There had been times when Ma had been so furious at him that she beat him until he was sure he would die. He even wished for it. But this woman, Elvira, had looked so completely confident in her ability to carry through her threats, speaking like she was simply stating facts.

And, just as it had happened the last time, Credence suddenly found himself staring at Iliana's back as she moved away, Elvira to her right. Her dog trotted nicely at her side.

Credence had felt it under his skin, stronger than ever, when Ma had grabbed Iliana's arm. When she had shrieked her surprise and pain, when he had seen her bent sharply by Mary Lou's grasp, his vision had gone nearly black and he'd felt curiously absent in his own head, nothing but a bystander watching a maelstrom of anger and hate. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, but he was so used to beating back that unnaturalness in himself that all it had taken was the jolt of hitting the ground and he'd been able to wrest back just enough of a foothold to brace himself against the tide and swallow it down.

Slowly, Credence's hand dipped to the pocket of his jacket where he felt the faintest crinkle of paper under his palm. He didn't know if he'd ever dare go to her even during his few free hours a week. Surely she had better things to do than waste time with him. But maybe just being able to catch a glimpse of her for a few seconds would be enough to remind him that someone actually cared.

Elvira took a deep breath as she sat at her desk, glasses perched on her nose and hair unbound. While nights at the Cactus Cat had long-since become predictable, they still usually held something interesting, be it a new client or a particularly good set from her sister or a duel. But tonight had seemed to drag on and on because of the very letter sitting and waiting on the desk in front of her. She'd received it right before opening, there hadn't been any time to open it even though she'd desperately wanted to.

She needed to know if Mr. Scamander thought she was too forward, asking for his picture, calling him by his first name. If he'd been a traveler who'd walked into her bar he'd have been 'Newt' within minutes, of that she was sure, and she'd have had a face to go with the words. But through letters things were different, communication was like molasses, and she wasn't quite sure where she stood with the man. He seemed open and friendly, but maybe it was that sort of 'business' friendliness some people had that she'd seen when she was in Europe.

Christ, she didn't even know where he was from. His spelling said not the US, but it could have been Canada just as easily as England!

Elvira picked up a letter opener and tucked the tip under the wax seal, popping it loose and lifting it. She was delighted to see the stark whiteness of a photograph paper staring back at her, tucked in front of her latest letter.

Forcing herself to temper her excitement, Elvira kept the picture face-down and laid it on the desk, turning to the letter first.

Elvira,

I suppose you're right. If we're going to be involved in illegal dealings together, we might as well be on first name terms. It'll seem strange if, at our trial when these letters are presented as evidence, we're so formal with each other.

Your aunt Ingrid seems like she was indeed quite the character. You mentioned your family are known to be somewhat different but I wasn't sure if that was all just talk or if it was the truth. A woman who would approach an injured and territorial thunderbird – I don't know if even I would have the courage for that, and magical creatures are my life's work! You come from very interesting stock.

Your mention of her journal biting my fingers off intrigued me, and encouraged me to ask a somewhat rude question: are you a pureblood? Please understand, it makes no difference to me what your parentage is, but that particular spell reminded me of one that's common to the old pureblood families back home in England. It sparked me thinking – I suppose that with intermarriage between Muggles and wizards being illegal, there are likely more pureblooded American witches and wizards than English. It's an interesting thought, especially to an ex-Hufflepuff who used to be made fun of for being a blood traitor by the Slytherins.

But you wouldn't know! At Hogwarts we get Sorted into houses by the Sorting Hat. There's Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. The Gryffindors are brave, the Hufflepuff's loyal, the Ravenclaw's wise, and the Slytherin's cunning. Another, less pleasant trait common in Slytherins is a preoccupation with blood purity – it's where one finds a high concentration of the remaining pureblooded families in the United Kingdom.

I know unfortunately little about the American magical school system. I know that your school is called Ilvermorny and I know that it's somewhere in Massachusetts. Illuminate me, please?

I'm afraid my multitudes of questions are going to have to wait a bit longer. I've arrived at my destination in West Africa and have confirmed my worst fears. I don't wish to tell you too much, I don't want to worry you, but it's a bit of a mess at the moment and I have no idea how long this is going to take to sort out. This is particularly bad because I also don't know how much time I have here.

What's strange is that I actually want to tell you, and I very well may. Perhaps it's because I've been travelling for so long, but reading your letters is as good as having someone sitting here talking to me. It sounds a bit pathetic, I know, but despite our short acquaintance – if one can even call letters the basis of an acquaintanceship – I feel as though you're a kindred spirit. I find myself inordinately glad that Professor Dumbledore directed me to you for advice.

Sincerely,

Newt

P.S. I'd love a copy of your aunt's journals, they could prove to be invaluable.

P.P.S I've enclosed a picture as requested. It's to be the author's picture for the back of my book once it's published. Please, don't think too badly of me. I know it's not a particularly flattering photograph but it's the only one I had on me.

Well, if that wasn't a perfect segue Elvira didn't know what was. She settled the letter on top of her desk to peruse again later as she drafted her reply so as not to leave anything out and turned to the picture. Feeling inordinately giddy, like she was unwrapping presents at Christmas, Elvira picked up the picture and flipped it open.

She let out a low breath. "Damn."

If this was what Newt called a bad picture, she'd love to see a good one. She wasn't quite sure how she'd imagined him – she hadn't really dared to try – but the picture seemed to fit perfectly. It was sepia so she couldn't make out what color his hair and eyes were, but they were light. He had a somewhat shy look in his eyes, his image shuffling a bit in the frame, reaching up and fidgeting with his collar. He dipped his head, floppy curls falling into his eyes. She could just make out a scattering of freckles across his face. He was, in a word, adorable, and very much Elvira's type. She found herself wondering just how far those freckles spread across him...

"Down girl, you've never even met the man," she muttered. "Besides, you wouldn't know how to flirt with him if your life depended on it."

Despite the reputation bartenders had of being great flirts, Elvira fully acknowledged she was terrible at it. She had a tendency of taking her usual teasing too far or coming off as too stand-offish. With a half-veela for a sister, Elvira was most assuredly in second place in terms of looks at the bar on any given night at the very least. Her habit of trying to get acquainted by telling stories of her adventures with her father or sister had a bad track record of scaring men off rather than attracting them.

Pushing thoughts of flirting aside, Elvira smiled at finally having a face to put with the words she was reading. On the corner of her desk were a cluster small silver frames holding pictures of Absalom and Iliana, of her boys in Belgium, of the home where she'd grown up and herself behind the counter of the Cactus Cat the first night it had been open. Elvira propped Newt's picture between the two frames and the image shifted once more, answering her expression with a shy smile of his own. It only added to the endearing, boyish quality he had and Elvira had to shake herself free of the urge to spend a creepy amount of time watching the picture.

"Newt Scamander," Elvira muttered, shaking her head as she reached for a piece of parchment and her quill. "You're gonna give me fits when you do finally get here, I can already tell."

Newt,

You weren't wrong about the amount of purebloods in the US. I suppose I hadn't really thought about how the anti-fraternization law affected bloodline demographics. Of course, intermarriage has happened – we'd have died out ages ago if it hadn't – but it's always been more common out West where there's been traditionally less interference by MACUSA. To answer your question yes, I am a pureblood and no, you haven't offended me by asking. My mother came from a fairly well-established magical family in Texas and you already know a bit of my paternal history.

Ilvermorny is more like Hogwarts that you might expect for one main reason – Isolt Sayre, the founder, always dreamed of going there before she came to the New World. She drew inspiration from stories she heard. In fact, Isolt herself was a descendent of one of your Founders. The Slytherin one, I can't recall his first name at the moment.

We have four houses much like you do, though there's no Sorting Hat. Instead, first years walk through the doors into the Sorting Chamber. We're called forward one at a time to stand on the Gordian Knot engraved in the floor and we wait for one of the four carved symbols to react. There's Horned Serpent, the house of the mind, Wampus, the house of the body, Pukwudgie, the house of the heart, and our old friend, Thunderbird, the house of the soul. After we're Sorted, we move on to retrieve our wands.

Occasionally, more than one will react and you're allowed to pick your house from the options that claimed you. Our current president, Seraphina Picquery, made a name for herself by being one of the very rare few for whom all four statues reacted. Admittedly I'm a bit smug about the fact that three of the four statues chose me. Ultimately, I chose Thunderbird, the house of adventurers, and it's a decision that I've never regretted. Though, if I'm being honest, I seriously considered Wampus at the time.

Truthfully, I've a bit cooking here that has been keeping me busy much like your Saharan problem. There's a group here in New York called the Second Salemers. They've been running around spreading anti-magic propaganda out of a church on Pike Street. They're close to a couple of magical families, one of whom raised concerns with me. My sister, Iliana, and I have been keeping an eye on them. The other day, their leader grabbed my sister. Supposedly, she was trying to seduce the woman's ward.

To be completely clear about the situation, I should explain: Iliana's surname is Velikova. She's my half-sister, but we've always been as close as full-blooded siblings. However, it was my father's affair with Iliana's mother that ultimately drove off my mother. I haven't seen her in almost ten years. But more to the point, Iliana's mother was a veela. As you can imagine my sister is breathtakingly beautiful and though she gets quite a lot of attention from men, it's not something she's ever been comfortable with and, in fact, actively avoids it most of the time.

I'm ashamed to say that I saw red when that woman grabbed my Annie and dragged her over a rail to scream in her face. As a general rule I leave No-Majs alone but this woman I really lit into – death threats, the whole nine. I wish Iliana hadn't seen that but I feel so protective of her after everything she's had to deal with and when people insult her I just… I can't describe it.

I'm terribly sorry Newt, it seems this letter has gone from informative babble to depressing family history. I'm normally a much better conversationalist, but I'm afraid I haven't really been holding up my end this time. Perhaps when I write you next I'll have something a bit more interesting to say.

Elvira

P.S. Don't be sorry about your picture. I think you look quite handsome in it. Much better than me, sprawled out across the furniture like a horned serpent sunning itself.

Newt set the letter aside. Despite her apologies at the end, he was actually delighted by this letter. She was thorough in answering his questions even if everything she had said was very basic information to her. She managed to do it without sounding patronizing either, which was a feat that some couldn't seem to manage. He felt he had a much better picture of Ilvermorny, at least.

What made him even happier was that Elvira was apparently opening up enough to offer up personal details of her life. A half-veela sister and an affair that had shattered her parent's marriage… it wasn't exactly polite dinner conversation but it was the deeper feelings and emotions upon which real friendship was built and it buoyed him that she felt comfortable enough writing those things to him even though they'd never actually met.

It did help him paint a fuller picture of her. There were many moment in past letters where a stray turn of phrase or a word choice revealed a deep sadness, like when she'd spoken of never getting to Africa. As the image of Elvira came into focus he was able to pick out details – a biting wit and adventurous spirit around a caring and protective, if a bit melancholy, core. All in all, a truly fascinating experience with stories that could surely rival even his recent travels.

Still, the news she'd given him about this group, the Second Salemers… It worried him a little, to think that she and her sister were creeping around and watching such people. To want to help the magical community in her area was to be admired of course, but if Iliana was already being physically assaulted over it and Elvira driven to threats to protect her sister, then was it really safe? Salem and magic had a famously terrible history in her country, and the idea of Elvira with a rope around her neck hanging in some New York City back alley haunted him.

Not to say that he was much safer… Newt glanced towards the opening to his tent. Across the way was the tent containing the young girl who, he'd confirmed, held a Dark, parasitic force inside of her. It had taken hours upon hours of pleading through an interpreter for the rest of her community to give him a change to try and cure her. They'd been set to take her out of their village and stone her to death. He'd been evicted from the comfort of the village for trying to help, but it wasn't so bad. Her family had come with him, hoping that he'd be able to help her, and he was trying his best.

Newt found himself reaching for the picture of Elvira which had emerged from his study space within his suitcase. He watched as she absently fed her pet a bit of bark, one calf propped on her crooked knee, foot bobbing loosely as she read the paper.

"Elvira, would you have any idea what to do about something like this?" Newt found himself asking the picture helplessly. It was stupid to expect a helpful response.

Sure enough, all the Elvira on the paper did was glance up at him, nod her head in a bored greeting, and return to her paper.