Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own Fantastic Beasts. Or a Newt Scamander coat. Not sure which is more tragic.

Specially commissioned to Feathered Filly. Thank you for your donations to Compassion International. :)

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New York.

The clamorous compilation of automobiles, clomping feet, police whistles, hot dog stands, stray cats, and more grit than could fill all of America. It was all Jacob knew, but that didn't mean it was all that appealing. Sure, New York was great – loads of interesting people, tourists, funny things happening here and there, and no one cared if you dropped dead in the middle of the street, but it was still grey most of the time, and loud, and about as lively and cheerful as the inside of a canning factory.

One day, Jacob hoped, things would be different. There'd be more children smiling. People would stop for a moment to say hello. No one would care as much if the fog delayed traffic. They'd spend less time shouting at each other. More time being happy.

Maybe he'd be part of that difference. Maybe. If the bank would just give him fifteen minutes to explain his vision.

Clutching his briefcase with more confidence than he felt, Jacob pushed into the crowd mingling on the steps outside the bank. Mary Lou Barebone, or the Witch-Preacher as all the neighborhood and most of the city called her by now, was waving pamphlets under people's noses again. Her same exhorting cry, "Witches are among us!" was more ear-ringing than alarming any more. Jacob had heard the speech so often – now as he went to work, again as he was measured for a suit, again as he purchased lunch – that he could almost predict the measure of her voice and the correct enunciation as she called for true seekers. Hearing her protest was almost as dreary as working in the factory. He kinda felt sorry for her kids.

Really, he felt awfully sorry for them. Children shouldn't have to look like ghosts as they handed out papers with a ring of naked girls dancing on the front page.

But today Jacob didn't have time to sympathize with kids who should've had better homes. He had a slim chance that the bank would appreciate pastries as much as his grandmother, and he hadn't come this far without a fair dash of optimism and a heaping tablespoon of hope. Soon enough he'd have the chance to pass both of those attributes out to others who needed them.

Well, he would if he didn't keep tripping over people's stuff that they left lying in the middle of the sidewalk (which was intolerably rude, but he didn't say that to the blank-eyed, blue-coated oaf who scooped up his trunk with as courteous an apology as an old grandma with a teacup – and Jacob had the best grandmother to uphold as an example). If he managed to keep his footing, and if he managed to find and persuade a banker with a generous heart, then he might bring that little burst of sunshine back into New York City. For now, he'd rally his wits and smile at the world, just like Grandma had told him when he was a boy. It still worked….

Sometimes.

He was almost to the glass doors when he heard a shout. The 'my pocket just got picked and some snot-nosed brat's gonna get his ear pulled' kind of shout. It shouldn't have warranted any attention, stuff like that happened all the time, but something made Jacob hesitate.

He wasn't sure later if he would call it fate, providence, or sheer stupidity.

He stopped at the glass doors, one stride away from his future, and turned around.

At first he just saw a crowd of googling, empty-headed, turncoat sheep-brains eager for some new form of war. Then he saw the beggar who had been slouched against the corner. Previously a man unnoticed, the old man had captured the attention of an entire crowd.

"This thing'un's taken all my money!" The beggar held up a squirming black animal, shaking it at the crowd.

"What is it, a coon?" a business man asked. He peered at the creature, his nose crinkling like a snobby pig.

"It's a shrew!" one of Mary Lou's girls suggested.

"I don't care what it is!" the old beggar said, giving it a more forceful shake. "It stole all my money, I tell ya!"

His allegation was disregarded; his outrage unpitied. For as the creature was slung back and forth, a blue light flashed out of the crowd just as a gold watch, three coins, and a stoned ring clinked onto the stone steps.

Twenty pairs of eyes swung from the scattered plunder, to the flying furry critter, to the wide-eyed, mousey man as he tucked the filcher under one arm, stammering excuses in an unmistakably British accent.

"I'm so terribly sorry. It's harmless, really. Bit of a niffling habit. I'll return your valuables in a – "

"That's my wedding ring!" a woman shrieked, scrambling up the bank steps.

"And my watch!" the pig-man announced. "What else has he stolen?"

"No – no, you don't understand," the Brit exclaimed. "They're not malicious. Look, I'll –"

"Is that a wand in your hand?" Mary Lou's permeating voice silenced both the crowd and the defendant. She stepped closer and the onlookers retreated in turn, leaving her standing alone before the shifty-eyed blue-coat. "Are you a wizard?"

Faced with a question that blatant, any sensible guy would've taken his chances and split. Maybe this Brit wasn't all that right in the head, or maybe he didn't know that much about people. Jacob knew what could happen, and so did the girl with the hot dog in the back of the crowd. She ran to grab the wizard's hand (and Jacob wondered how sane he was for believing in all that witchery stuff), and that's when the crowd picked up on her cue.

Maybe the girl was trying to do something nice. Maybe she was helping him.

A long time later, long after it was over, Jacob kept telling himself that. She was too nice to be one of Salem's advocates.

But the people surrounding them didn't care who was wizard or who was innocent. They just wanted a riot, and this pilfering, naïve foreigner had given them that chance.

Twenty of them converged at once.

Jacob saw a flap of grey as the dark-haired girl slipped backwards and hit her head. Lady's hands, gangster hands, hands blackened with newspaper ink, hands belonging to children, too many hands grabbed at the blue coat. A police whistle shrieked on Jacob's right and he startled back, rubbing his ear while thinking thank goodness, it was going to be over before someone got seriously hurt.

And then someone seized the black squirrel. There was a panicked look on the Brit's face, a fierce struggle as the suited man tried to wrestle it from his arm, and then the Brit got his other hand free and blue light flashed from his wand as he hollered, "Petrificus Totalus!"

Pig-nose snapped upright and fell. Blue-toned and limb-locked, as though he was already….

"Oh, no." Jacob clapped a hand over his mouth. No, no, no….

Tucking the black critter into his coat, the mousey man hunched amidst the crowd. A little girl with brown curls began to sob.

"Daddy?"

"Dan?" a woman with a feathery hat whispered, clasping the front of her dress. "My Dan! He killed my Dan!" She was on her knees before him in an instant, wailing.

"No – he's not – he's not dead," the Brit said, still trying to talk the crowd into passivity while a man lay murdered in front of them. "He's just petrified. It's a spell, it'll wear off eventually."

"He is a wizard!" a man in the back hollered.

"Witches among us and you stand idly?" Mary Lou screamed above him. "Where is your devotion for your families? Where is your courage in the face of this…?"

Jacob didn't hear the rest. The uproar from the crowd muffled her provocation. Finally realizing the sense in fleeing, the wizard flourished his wand, only to have his wrist yanked behind him. Someone docked him in the chin. Another set of hands ripped at his coat, threatening the beady-eyed creature underneath. His brown case slid against the lowest step, as if the sentimental idiot had kicked it out of harm's way, before he fell under the cuff and shove of New York's finest citizens.

"Some – Somebody's gotta stop this," Jacob realized, scanning the staircase for an officer. There were security guards, all right. Each one of them watching passively as a man was beat to death in front of the bank.

"They're gonna kill him!" Jacob insisted, jabbing over his shoulder.

Blank stares roved across him and moved on.

Some sense of American justice. One lady called 'witch' and nobody cared who died anymore. So maybe the guy was a murderer. Didn't that count for an official court of law? Wasn't that what officers were for?

But the one policeman on scene had apparently given up. A few half-hearted tugs at the rioters and he edged away, blasting his whistle for backup. More people began to mill around the bank entrance, looking on curiously as they waited for their name to be called.

"This…. This ain't right," Jacob stammered, waiting for a lawyer – the doorman – anyone to do something! He gestured frantically to the man beside him. "Come on, we gotta … we gotta…." He waved hopelessly as a wailing, scuffed child was dragged out of the melee. "We have to break this up!"

Tipping his hat over his eyes, the man brushed past him and pushed his way into the bank.

Jacob's attention was yanked back as light flared amidst the horde. For an instant a blue-clad arm was flung over the crowd, thrusting towards heaven like a cry for salvation, before dainty fingers twisted into the gravel-scraped hand and clawed a reedy stick out of its grip. Blood marred those pretty white gloves.

The arm vanished and Jacob felt a thud vibrate under his feet. He hoped it was just an automobile parking too close to the curb.

Black wriggled at the edge of the crowd. Beady eyes glimmered, one swollen under matted fur, one flinching with terror. Limping out of reach of a crushing heel, the quivering creature looked back into the swarm of legs, chittering high and long.

A brown suitcase smacked the pavement. Doughnuts enhanced with orange zest rolled into the gutter. Before sense could claim him, before his brain could warn him about the dangers of picking up stray animals, Jacob found himself shuffling away from the verges of the mob, a shivering, wounded thing huddled under his suit coat.

What am I doing? This…. This is just a nightmare. A really bad dream. Witches ain't real. Funny creatures that steal coins ain't real, either. It's all a dream.

He looked down, nauseous with the inevitability that he really was awake… and halted in flop-tongued surprise as the man with the pig nose – the 'dead man' himself – slowly hauled himself up. The blue tinge faded from his skin as his limbs creakily unwound. His wife spotted him, shrieked, and became yet another limp body as she fell against the rallying policeman.

"Hey, he's…. He's not dead!" Jacob squeaked. He waved to the others, begging them to see. "He's not dead! They're … They're killing him for nothing!"

They're killing him for nothing….

Gripping his head, Jacob looked back into the mass. Somehow this was worse than Europe. They didn't just hand these people a gun and tell them to shoot. These were fine, neighborly folk who probably taught their kids every golden rule. He'd likely said hello to them once or twice. They were good people.

"What just …. What are you doing?" Incented, Jacob hauled at the nearest man's coat. "Are you crazy? This ain't a heathen gauntlet! You're trying to – "

Brown shoes teemed in his vision as his head cracked pavement. Lifting a hand to his bloody nose, Jacob swore. These weren't people. They weren't honorary citizens, upholding truth and justice and guiding other nations to do the same. They were animals, snarls and fangs and bloodied fists, clawing anyone who tried to filch their prey.

There were other bodies moaning under their feet. Noble citizens caught up in the throes, beaten down by their own kin.

Thriving in the chaos, Mary Lou wrangled her way back to the sidewalk, brandishing the wand that the Brit had wielded. She shouted to the crowd, unheard, her voice one more gust in the storm. Raising the wand above her head, she snapped it in two. Mutinous applause followed.

The clock struck ten. Only seven minutes had passed since Jacob first approached the bank.

Seven minutes to club a man to death.

Finally, finally, earsplitting whistles broke up the ring as reinforcing officers arrived. The outsiders drifted first, stepping over unfortunates who were trampled in the fray. A few looked around as though wondering where they were; how they came to such a point. Brute force contravened the last huddle of cursing aggressors.

"What are you doing?" Mary Lou demanded, holding out the broken shards of wood. "A witch has been found among us and you would deny us justice?"

One of the officers cast her a look. "You started this?"

Mary Lou tilted her chin. One cheek was bruised. Her chin bled from a nail scratch. "I warned you, Officer Watkins, as I warned you all! Witches have permeated our city! They have endangered the lives of our children, and you denied the truth until death claimed one of your own!"

"There's no one dead here, Miss." The officer shook his head. "Not until you strung this up." He nodded to the reinforcements. "Take 'em in. All of 'em. Get a nurse team up here."

"Have you no sense?" Mary Lou exclaimed, her eyes widening policemen moved in around her. "This man is a sorcerer! A devil cloaked in shadow, the very monster rending our homes! Heed my words, and hear my – "

"Yeah, yeah. Jensen, book her, too," Officer Watkins ordered.

Another day, maybe one with a little more sunlight and less blood, it might have cheered Jacob to see a speechless Mary Lou Barebone.

But he only saw a huddle of blue coat smeared in blood, and angled limbs that turned his stomach.

He fell back against the curb, and his hand closed around the handle of a brown suitcase.

"We need an ambulance down here," another officer called, shaking the brunette who had first grabbed the Brit's hand. She hung limp, blood drying on her right temple. Mercifully she had escaped being trampled to death.

"Aw, man, this was the one they were after?" Officer Watkins grimaced, checking the Brit for a pulse. "Hey Carlson, he's still alive. Get a check on this guy – is he wanted?"

"He's a sorcerer!" Mary Lou screamed.

"Brother!" The word jumped out of Jacob's mouth as his feet lunged from the pavement. "He's my brother. My kid brother. See, he's got my grandma's coloring. You remember her, right? She used to make doughnuts in the square market."

Words tumbled out of his mouth, uncoordinated, haphazard, grasping for a shred of truth that would make this officer believe him. One thing Jacob knew: once the cops learned the whole story, they'd never let the guy out of prison. He'd be stuck there until parliament changed and the president wore fuzzy slippers in public.

It just didn't seem fair.

"I'm telling you, he's my little brother," Jacob prattled on. "We ain't got the same mom, I know, and I I ain't proud to say it, but I promised to look after him." He heaved for breath, pulse hammering in his chest as the black creature squirmed. "Please, Officer. My brother ain't no sorcerer. He was watching this spectacle, same as everyone else."

Watkins paused, his face softening. "Kowalski, right?"

Agitatedly Jacob nodded.

Somber eyes took note. "I remember her," Officer Watkins said. He looked down at the Brit, his face crinkling uneasily.

"Let me get him to a hospital," Jacob begged. "Please."

The look he received was that of pity, and of hopeless sentiment. "Better hurry," the officer said quietly.

Tensed muscles slumped and Jacob barely nodded, stepping over a nameless woman before crouching to pat the Brit's face. "Hey… Hey… uh, Claude, wake up," he whispered, snatching for the first name he could remember. Not that it was a very memorable name – his neighbor had a dog named Claude, an old, limping beagle that couldn't gnaw its own food anymore – but he was pressed for time. "Claude, c'mon. It's…."

He flinched as Mary Lou's accusations grew shriller. More officers began to glance towards him. Foregoing decency, Jacob curled his fingers into the briefcase handle and awkwardly scooped up both case and Brit. Knobby limbs folded awkwardly in his grip, and he knew he'd be calculating broken bones, dislocations, and probably a whopping concussion at the very least. Nothing he could tend by himself. Certainly nothing he'd trust with the doctors of New York – not when the threat of jail was imminent.

It was time to call in a favor from an old army friend.