"Niamh, good to see you again."
Niamh O'Reilly looked painfully uncomfortable being in the Cactus Cat during operating hours. She eyed the man who was slumped over the bar next to her, head in his arms, with a wrinkled nose. She pressed as close to the bar and Elvira and relative safety as she could manage.
"Well?" she asked, raising her voice slightly to be heard over Iliana's singing. "What have you found out?"
"The Second Salemers are still currying support," Elvira explained, glancing down the bar towards a hag who'd just yelled her order. She turned and grabbed the bottle, pouring liquors together and mixing them with thick, red liquid. Niamh stared in horror as the resulting concoction began to steam and bubble before it went flying down the bar. "They aren't making any moves from what we can tell. There's no signs that they've done anything against any real witches and wizards, though they're petitioning for support among some of the higher circles."
"But my kids…" Niamh added nervously.
"She's been approaching kids on the streets around her church in general," Elvira continued, waving her wrist and collecting a wave of dirty glasses from tables around the bar. They sailed up over the heads of the customers and over to her behind the bar. Her fingers wiggled and the glasses were sparkling clean as they slid into place on the racks under the bar. "Your children just happened to be magical. Her plan has been to try and get kids handing out her flyers in exchange for a solid meal."
"Then… it was random?" Niamh asked. "She didn't mean them any harm?"
"That's what she said, isn't it?"
Niamh gave a small yelp as the man to her right suddenly sat up, resting his chin in the heel of his palm morosely. Elvira rolled her eyes and poured a shot of firewhiskey, setting it in front of him.
"Alfie, I'm sorry about your nice young lady, but you were only seeing her for two weeks."
"She was the one, Ellie!" Alfred wailed, grabbing the shot and tossing it back. "She was perfect!"
"She was screwing your neighbor," Elvira reminded him, turning to Niamh's startled face and mouthing 'sorry.' "She wasn't as perfect as you thought she was. Point is, Niamh, that your kids are safe. Just tell them to steer clear of the Second Salemers and there shouldn't be a problem."
"Are you sure?" Niamh pressed, laying her hands on the bar. "I mean… can't you watch them some more?"
"You've already taken up quite a bit of our time," Elvira reminded her. "We'll check up on them, make sure they haven't gotten any real power behind their cause, but I'm not going to keep stalking them like I have been."
"Leave Elvira be, lady," Alfred muttered irritably, swirling his glass around with the tip of his finger. "She's got plenty of duties to her community to fulfill right here. 'nother shot please."
Elvira poured obligingly as Niamh drew herself up and huffed.
"This is a private conversation, sir!"
"Then don't have it a foot away from me at a public bar, m'kay?" Alfred countered, tossing back his second shot.
"Alfie!" Elvira rebuked as Niamh turned on her heel and stormed for the door like she couldn't get out of the Cactus Cat fast enough.
"What? She's a mouthy one." Alfred tapped the bar. "Hit me again."
"My hero," Elvira replied, rolling her eyes and pouring him a third shot.
Elvira,
I had no idea that Ilvermorny was so connected to Hogwarts! It was Salazar Slytherin, that was his name. As far as I was aware his line had died out in Britain several decades ago. It's fascinating to think that there may be some wizards roaming around America who share a lineage with one of the Hogwarts Founders! Some of the Slytherins I grew up with would likely be appalled to learn that, however. It's strange, you'd think it's something that would be well-known given that every magical child in the United Kingdom attends Hogwarts, but I can't recall the last time I heard someone claim kinship to one of the Founders.
We do things a bit differently at Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat is placed on your head and it searches your mind and memories. Originally it belonged to Godric Gryffindor, you see, and he gave it a certain degree of sentience to do the divvying up after he and the other Founders passed on. A bit more invasive than a statue, I'll admit! Once the Hat makes its final decision, it yells it out to the Great Hall and the new student joins their house table, and that's how I became a Hufflepuff. Although, strangely enough, the Hat considered putting me in Gryffindor for a moment.
I've never told anyone that.
Thunderbird, isn't that a coincidence! They seem to have defined our whole relationship, haven't they? Adventurous, that seems fitting, though I'm not surprised you considered Wampus if it is as you say. Both seem like they could easily fit. Somehow it makes sense that you made an impression when you started Ilvermorny. Forgive me if I've gotten the wrong idea of you from our letters, but you seem to make an impression wherever you go.
Thank you for telling me about your family. I understand it must be difficult to talk about for you, but it makes me happy to know that you trust me enough to tell me. Is that terrible of me?
At the risk of prying into things that aren't my business, have you ever contacted your mother? I find it hard to imagine what my life would have been without mine. My brother, Theseus, and I gave my mother fits. We never got along well. He likes following the rules and taking charge too much for us to have done well as siblings. Don't mistake me, I love him the way you love your sister – I can't imagine what I'd do if I saw someone assaulting my brother, though he'd likely sort it before I could even think to get involved – but as children we were simply too different to get along most of the time.
Theseus always complained that I was tied to mother's apron strings, and perhaps he was right. She bred hippogriffs, and it was she who started my interest in magizoology. She used to let me come with her to feed her flock and she'd let me watch while she treated any diseases or fixed any wounds. Father thought I was too young for such things but mother used to say, 'you're never too young to learn to help out another living creature.' She was hardly shocked when she started getting letters home from Hogwarts complaining of my trying to smuggle creatures I'd found on the grounds into the castle.
Please, never feel bad about anything you've written me. You could send a treatise on troll toe jam and I suspect I'd find it fascinating. You have such a strong personality in your writing that I swear I can hear your voice in my head when I'm reading. It's silly since I've never heard you speak, obviously, but there you are. Perhaps it's the lack of conversation in English that's beginning to get to me.
Newt
Elvira was blushing a bit as she set the most recent letter aside on her desk. Send him a treatise on troll toe jam and he'd still read it to hear her voice in his head? It may not have been the most romantic line ever and it almost certainly hadn't been intended in that way, but it still made her heart rate pick up a bit to think that Newt enjoyed her words so much.
More than once she'd gotten dirty looks going off on tangents, though she'd managed to temper that over the years. Iliana had the same habit, though she hadn't quite learned to control it the way her sister had. It came from Absalom, he'd been the same way. He hadn't even tried to smother it though, cheerfully going on for hours about whatever topic had gripped his fancy.
One thing that was certain though, Elvira was glad she hadn't gone to Hogwarts. A sentient hat going through her brain! That sounded horribly invasive and incredibly mad. The wizarding world tended to be a bit ridiculous in general but that really took the cake.
But, if he was so interested in Ilvermorny and its ties to Hogwarts… Elvira rose and ventured to her bookshelf, one finger tucked between her teeth as she scanned the rows.
"Looking for something?"
Elvira glanced towards the door, where Iliana was lingering, still clad in her fascinator and little maroon flapper dress from the night's show. "You haven't changed."
Iliana ignored the comment as she walked into the study. She glanced at the top of the desk, saw the letter, and took a guess as to who it was from.
"Another letter from Mr. Scamander?"
"He was interested in the history of Ilvermorny. It's a lot different from Hogwarts apparently. Newt and I have been trading stories about Sorting ceremonies."
Iliana's eyes slanted towards her sharply. "It's Newt, now, is it?" she commented, and was surprised when Elvira said nothing, merely ducked her head and kept scanning the shelves. "Ellie…" Iliana said leadingly, drifting towards her sister's desk.
"Not for you," Elvira warned as Iliana perched on the edge. Iliana rolled her eyes, reaching down to unbuckle the ankle straps of her heels with one hand while the other picked up the picture of Newt resting amongst the collection of silver-framed pictures. Elvira glanced at the small cluster and made a mental note to get a picture frame for her latest addition soon.
"This is him?" Iliana asked, examining the picture while she worked the buckle of her other shoe free.
"Mmm."
"He's your type."
"We've never met."
"You write him enough you'd think you've been friends since childhood."
Elvira made a sound of triumph and reached up, pulling down a pair of books with quick tugs. Piling them on top of each other, she returned to her desk and set them on top of Newt's most recent letter.
"It feels that way," Elvira admitted, brushing a stray bit of hair behind her ears. She reached down and picked up her glasses, sliding them onto the end of her nose and peering down. She began to flick through the first volume, one of her great aunt Ingrid's journals, searching for the bits about thunderbirds that she'd promised him. "Have you ever met someone like that? You might not have known them a long time, but it feels like you have?"
Iliana shook her head. "I'm not as sociable as you are," she commented with a wry, self-depreciating smile. "Most of my evenings are spent singing at the bar and most of my days are spent here on my own hobbies and research."
Elvira smirked teasingly, glancing up from the book. "We need to find you a man."
"Oh, is that what you've done then?" Iliana countered smoothly, and Elvira's smirk dropped into a scowl.
"Touche… ah!" She lifted her cane from where it was hooked on the back of her desk chair and twirled it. The wood melted away, revealing her wand. Pointing the tip at the pertinent pages Elvira made a copy and set it aside. A quick spin of her wand and it was once more concealed inside of her cane.
"In all seriousness, do you like him?" Iliana asked curiously.
Elvira shook her head helplessly. "I've never met him. Even if I did have some kind of feelings towards the man, it's only for words on a page, not a real person. I've met many a person who is vastly different in their letters than they are in real life." She shut her aunt Ingrid's journal with aa snap. "Safer not to get emotionally involved until I've actually met him. It would be a shame to be let down just because I built my expectations too high."
"Right," Iliana said softly, and something in her tone made Elvira look up and narrow her eyes suspiciously.
"Annie," she said lowly. "What'd you do?"
Her sister replied with a buoyant smile. "Nothing, what do you mean?"
"Annie…"
"It's getting late, it's time for me to get changed and get to bed I think," Iliana chirped, hopping off the edge of the desk. She hooked the heels of her shoes on two fingers and trotted for the door. "Goodnight, Elvira!"
"Uh huh," her sister replied drily. "Night, Iliana."
Newt,
Somehow, this letter turned into a bit of a care package. Enclosed you'll find the relevant sections of my aunt Ingrid's journals as promised. I threw in my copy of The Story of Ilvermorny from when I was in school. It's considered the best for background on the school. All first years are required to read it as it covers everything from the founding to the proper way to wear your uniform. You needn't worry about returning it, I could go to any second-hand shop and find about eight copies. It's a dime a dozen here.
Also enclosed you'll find a bit of Cactus Cat Juice. It's my place's signature drink and namesake. A while back you asked about why the little burrs tear up cacti – that's why. They leave the juice to ferment all day then come back and drink it at night. It's illegal here because getting it requires dealing with the cats themselves which is, as you know, also illegal. More than one bootlegger has lost an eye going after a cactus cat's stash. It's damn strong, so watch yourself, but my particular stock is better than most anything else you'll find. Seems you could use a drink anyway, give how your Africa lead is apparently panning out.
The last thing I sent will explain itself, so I won't bother here.
I can't imagine sitting on a stool and letting an animated hat go through my brain. It sounds a bit silly since I'm assuming it's not as if the Hat runs around Hogwarts spreading gossip, but I don't like the idea of someone or something knowing some of the things I have floating around in my head. For one, then they'd know about you and I and our fabulously illegal endeavors.
How is Frank doing? I'm assuming well, or you'd have mentioned he's taken a turn for the worse. I spent quite a bit of yesterday dealing with a goofus bird that some idiot bought as a pet for their child. What people don't realize is that goofus birds are used to ranging far and wide. You can't keep them in a tenement, and you can't turn them loose once you've gotten them. Being black, silver, pink, and green, they stick out a bit among the local pigeons. This poor thing is stunted from being kept in a cage and I'm having to hand feed it.
Ah, I suppose we can add that to the list of illegal activities I've admitted to participating in. Rebecca Nurse help me if I ever make you mad, Newt. You've enough to sentence me to life at this point.
I don't quite know why, but I had you pegged as an only child. Your mother sounds like my kind of woman. I've always been curious about hippogriffs. We don't see them here and obviously you can't import them. I do know a fellow in France who breeds them though. Jean Henri Buthod? I don't know if you'd be familiar. We met during the war and still exchange letters. A good man, if a bit of a flirt. Every time we speak he asks me to marry him.
I was lucky in that Iliana and I are very similar. She likes her books and theories best, but she's always been happy to go off adventuring with me. We ranged all over the west either following our own leads or running things down for Absalom. It was a very unconventional childhood, but we did have an absolute blast doing it and by the time we would have graduated from Ilvermorny both of us had more real-world experience than most people twice our age.
When you do finally get to New York, you'll have to meet her. She keeps asking questions about you. I suppose I could let her read our letters but for some reason I can't quite make myself do that. It feels a bit too personal. Of course, it's not as if she doesn't know what I get up to, but still. You're my friend and I'm not quite ready to share you yet.
Best of luck in Africa
Elvira
Newt didn't know whether she knew it, but Elvira had revealed two fairly important things about herself in this letter. The first wasn't quite a confirmation, but it was enough to make him wonder. She had said would have graduated. It might have been a turn of phrase, but that seemed to imply that she hadn't graduated. That begged the question of why. Had she dropped out? Had she, dare he think it, been expelled as well? Interestingly, the same word choice applied to her sister. It would be strange enough to have one young witch in a family not graduate but two was almost unheard of.
The second was that she was in the war. Newt had been involved in it as well, dealing with dragons. However, in theory magical Americans shouldn't have been anywhere near the fighting. He vaguely remembered something from History of Magic class about a famous speech by a president 'Country or Kind?' It was a debate about whether or not magical Americans should get involved in their revolution and the answer had been no. That answer held to this day. That Elvira was anywhere near the fighting proved she'd been somewhere she wasn't supposed to be.
The name Jean Henri Buthod rang a bell though. He vaguely remembered his mother speaking of a Marie Therese Buthod, a Frenchwoman who also bred hippogriffs. She'd said that Marie Therese had a son about Newt's age, and that would match up. Newt made a mental note to confirm with his mother that it was the correct family, and then he might write a letter to Jean Henri. He wanted to know more about Elvira and her involvement in Europe but asking her felt like prying. Asking him felt like going behind her back though.
Newt sorted through his spoils, smiling brightly and feeling a bit like Christmas had come early. The bottle was shrunken and spelled to survive travel by owl, but with a flick of his wand it was a full-sized wine bottle once more. There was a handwritten label stuck to it, and the penmanship matched Elvira. Spike, May 1923. He had no idea what that meant, but it was far more than he'd expected.
Curious, Newt popped the cork with his teeth and lifted the bottle to his nose. There was a sharp scent of alcohol and he spluttered a bit as the inside of his nose burned. Elvira hadn't been kidding, the stuff smelled stronger than firewhiskey!
Nevertheless, Newt raised it to his lips and took a small sip, pulling back with a noise of surprise as the sugary flavor spread over his tongue. Other than being incredibly sweet, there wasn't really any taste to it. It was almost like sugar water, but it had a kick like a mule to it. Newt suspected it was usually drunk either as a shot or a mixer. It was fairly smooth and went down easily before a pleasant warmth spread through his stomach.
"I quite like that," Newt murmured to himself, corking the bottle once more and setting it aside to go through the rest of his spoils.
Aunt Ingrid had beautiful handwriting, Newt noted, glad he wouldn't have to pour over it for hours trying to translate chicken scratch. He skimmed a bit, finding everything from drawings of her thunderbirds to potions for healing and advice on feeding. There were more personal tidbits dropped in, comments about the weather and her family, but those Newt mostly skimmed over, feeling as if he were invading her privacy despite the fact that she'd likely been dead for quite a while.
Those would make good reading tomorrow in between bouts of sitting with the Sudanese girl, but for now he craved something a bit lighter. He picked up the copy of The Story of Ilvermorny. It was slightly battered around the corners, but otherwise was in good shape. Newt opened the front cover and smiled at the sight of Elvira's name written in a clumsy, more childish hand. He flipped through, scanning chapter titles and the few images included, looking for anything that caught his interest.
Two bits of paper fell out. Newt hastened to grab them before they fell to the floor, fumbling a bit. The first one was covered in random scrawls in two different sets of handwriting. One was Elvira's, the other unfamiliar. It was an old paper she'd used passing notes when she was in school.
Abercrombie was ready to kill you for that trick with the fireplace! How'd you get off?
Played innocent. No one saw me, even though they try to pin everything on me. No proof at all, I made sure of it.
.
Have you heard about Mildred and the seventh year Puck?
No?
Yes. Catherine Tamblin caught them out by the snakewood tree.
Mercy Lewis, we're not even supposed to be out there!
.
Have you finished the Native Magic assignment?
I did it last night. Why?
Help? Please!
Newt found himself smiling as he read the exchanges back and forth, getting a glimpse into Elvira when she was younger and apparently just as bold and confident as she was now. He remembered passing notes back at Hogwarts, though admittedly it had only ever been to Leta. He hadn't had many friends.
Nor, it seemed, had Elvira, based on the second piece of paper. It was a crude ink drawing of a witch with long hair and crossed eye sticking out her tongue. The image was animated, bats fluttering around the witch's head. Written across the paper multiple times in bold block letters around the drawing was Batty Blodgarmr! Batty Blodgarmr!
Newt scowled at the paper and set it aside with extreme prejudice, the mocking chant of Newt Scamander kissed a salamander! ringing in his ears as he did so. Children could be cruel to people and things they didn't understand. It was a lesson he'd learned better than most and it seemed Elvira had learned the same thing. It made sense though, with everything she'd told him of her family's reputation. She had showed up to Ilvermorny with a reputation as a kook and doubtless her peers had latched on to that and attacked with it.
Newt turned finally to the last part of what Elvira had called his care package. This one he had questions about – the luridly red envelope was unmistakable. For whatever reason, Elvira had seen fit to send him a Howler. Considering his only experience with the things had been when his father sent them to him for getting caught smuggling this creature or that into the castle, Newt was understandably wary as he picked it up and slit the wax seal with his wand.
The paper began to shake and rattle. The envelope picked itself up, crinkling and tearing until it and the envelope resembled a woman's mouth. Newt cringed slightly, bracing himself, and leaned back.
"If you're going to imagine my voice when you read my letters, you oughtta know what it sounds like, don't you think, English?"
Newt sat forwards in his chair, face splitting into a wide grin. The envelope burst into flames, leaving a pile of ask on his desk, but that didn't matter. Newt was fully aware the tips of his ears were red, but he couldn't believe it. It was a brilliant idea on her part and he was glad he'd mentioned to her that he tried to imagine what she sounded like. The reality was even better than he'd imagined, and he was so glad he had reality to think about now.
Elvira's voice was lower than he'd imagined, and on that single sentence her voice had been shaking with laughter. It did nothing to suppress the molasses drawl of her words or the way some of them slurred together, letters being dropped. She sounded exactly like he'd always imagined a Texan accent, with all the attitude he'd have predicted of a New Yorker. It matched up exactly with the way she wrote her letters. It was perfect.
Newt glanced at Elvira's picture. It was now safe in a little frame he'd bought at a bazaar. It was cheap and made of sandstone, plain and unembellished, but it kept the picture safe and smooth and as he watched, Elvira fluffed her paper and rolled her neck. She glanced up at him, tilted her head in acknowledgement, and winked.