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Chapter Text

It’s during another one of his mother’s meetings when he feels it, a sudden tingling along his skin not unlike what he feels around Mr. Graves. Shivering slightly, he glances up at the same moment his mother calls out: “You, friend.”

The man his mother points at is tall, handsome and wearing a rather fetching peacock trench that brings out his strange blue green eyes. He looks rather uncomfortable by the sudden attention on him though takes it in stride, smiling sheepishly: “Oh, we were just passing.”

He gestures to the woman next to him whose wild black curls tumble freely down her back in vast contrast to the short neat hair styles of the women around her. Her attire is strange too, navy form fitting trousers with an over-large yellow and grey stripped sweater partially tucked into the waistband. Still, Credence finds himself captured by her eyes, glittering like emeralds he sometimes manages to get a glimpse of in jewellers shops. “Are you a seeker? A seeker of truth?”

“I’m more of a chaser, really.” Emerald orbs brighten as a smile, barely there, curls the woman’s lips, her tan fingers discretely brushing against the man’s in a way that makes Credence wonder if she even realizes what she’s doing.

He’s taken aback when that smile abruptly disappears, the warmth of her eyes chilling at his mother’s next words: “Witches live among us! We have to fight together for the sake of our children!” Orbs of emerald shards focus on him, dulling as they linger on his cold, bruised hands and worn clothes -

“For the sake of our -”

Ma freezes, a slight tremor raking her form despite the sudden warmth of the air that has their audience searching the sky for clouds. But there’s none, not up there. They gather in the strange woman’s eyes as they did during the Egyptian Plagues – a foretelling of things to come.

Suddenly, the man leans against the woman so that their sides are pressed together, sea-sky eyes soft though she doesn’t so much as twitch. He presses closer, his large hand gripping her small fist – thumb brushing over white knuckles before stepping forward, tugging gently. Willingly, the woman follows. Credence watches them hurry up the steps as his mother shakily continues where she left off, chest tightening with incomprehensible longing when the woman entwines their fingers.

Ma ends the rally almost a whole half-hour early not long after, features eerily still as they take the familiar path towards the church. Chastity follows close behind her, glancing back at Credence who lags at the back with Modesty, her hand gripped tightly in his.

When they enter the small church, Mary-Lou places the remaining leaflets on the table carefully as the three kids gather behind her, heads bowed. “Have any of you seen that woman before?” Ma says finally, an edge to the soft words that has the siblings exchanging wary glances. “Well?”

“No, mother.” Chastity answers finally, eyes shifting to watch the woman “We have never seen her.”

Ma’s knuckles are white on the edge of the table, “Are you certain.”

“Her eyes are very distinct.” Chastity continues carefully, placing her hands on Modesty’s shoulders. “The man she was with had an accent, perhaps they come from abroad? I heard a ship docked not too long ago.”

The air seems to grow colder at Ma’s silence, seeping beneath his thin clothes. If any of them breathed, it would mist. Ma’s grip relaxes, “Prepare more pamphlets for the next meeting.” Icy orbs flick over to them, then around the room. “And clean this place.”

Without another word, Ma strides past them out the door.

Only after it slams shut do they dare to breathe.

I~I~I~I~I~I

That night, Credence twists to the soft creak of his door.

“Credence?”Modesty whispers from the doorway, the small candle illuminating her pale face. “Are you awake?”

Rubbing his eyes, Credence sits up allowing the thin scratchy blankets to fall around him. “What are you doing up?”

Closing the door, Modesty walks forward on light feet to place the candle on the rickety bedside table. “Couldn’t sleep.” Credence shuffles over so she can sit, their knees brushing against each other’s as she crosses her legs. Leaning on her forearms, his sister sneaks a quick glance towards the door before whispering: “I keep thinking about the green-eyed lady.”

“What about her?” Credence questions with a frown as she shivers, reaching for the softest blanket.

Shaking it out, he carefully places the worn fabric around her shoulders as Modesty bites her lip.

After a moment, she asks quietly; “Do you think she’s a witch?”

He pauses, dark eyes meeting earnest pale blue.“She doesn’t look like one,” He says carefully, brushing some more lint from her shoulders.

“She has green eyes.” Modesty points out, drawing the blanket closer to her. “And she made Ma go quiet.”

“She’s too pretty to be a witch.” He tries again, trying not to think of Mr. Graves handsome face or the strange taste in the air when she glared at Ma.

Modesty rolls her eyes, “As if that matters.”

“But having green eyes does?” Credence argues.

She frowns, eyes narrowing despite her soft voice: “What if she’s like Glinda, from Oz?”

Credence gapes, “Where -” Quieting, he glances towards the door before looking back at his sister. “Where’d you find that book?”

“Under your bed.” She raises an eyebrow, challenging. When Credence’s shoulders slump, her gaze softens. “Don’t worry, I returned it to the library. That’s where you got it, right?”

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Credence nods, “Yes.” He doesn’t bother pointing out that she shouldn’t have gone through his things, if she hadn’t Ma would have at some point and -

He wraps his arms around himself, dark orbs focused on the sad excuse for a mattress. He really ought to find a better hiding place, it’s a miracle Ma hadn’t found any of the ‘sinful’ books already.

A light poke pulls him from his thoughts to see Modesty looking at him with concern. Offering a slight smile, Credence nudges her knee with his own. “Glinda had a wand.”

“I know,” she nudges back, nose wrinkling in thought. “I mean – if the lady is a witch, she could be a good one? Maybe...” She glances down, fingers picking at the frayed stitching of the blanket.

Some brittle thing in his chest fractures at the longing Modesty doesn’t quite manage to cover with seeming indifference. Not for the first time, he wonders if Mr. Graves would allow him to take his sisters with them – he said it wasn’t allowed but surely there could be exceptions? Credence’s arms encase Modesty’s small body, placing his head on hers when she leaned onto his shoulder. “Maybe.” He breathes deep, dark orbs fluttering shut to imagine a life free of this place. A life of magic.

Chapter Text

Today is not his day.

Looking back, Jacob muses he probably should have realized this when the fumes in the factory seemed extra poisonous. If not then, at least when he had just a half hour to make it back home, change, then make his way to the bank ten blocks from where he lived. But no, Jacob had remained stubbornly optimistic despite the grumbling of his stomach, and the weird but pleasant English-guy he apparently would be competing against for the loan.

Even being turned down hadn’t fully managed to damage his spirits. He might have to wait a little longer, pick up some more shifts in the god-awful factory but it will be worth it to get enough for collateral -

Now, he’s somehow in the stairwell leading down to the vaults where he definitely shouldn’t be because one: he doesn’t know exactly how he got here, and two: it’s illegal for him to be, and he’s regretting ever getting out of bed this morning.

A strange sound, ‘squawking, the egg’s squawking’ has him glancing down, eyes widening at the smooth beak protruding from the shell. English-guy stuffs his stick (because why the hell shouldn't he carry a twig around) into his mouth, gently pulling the egg from Jacob’s open palm, watching with bright eyes as the shell cracks open more.

Golden orbs peer out from a small, feathery head that is a blue Jacob did not know even existed. ‘Oh’ Jacob cannot help leaning in closer, enchanted by the small, strange beautiful thing that kind of looks like a bird but isn’t. ‘Are you seeing this?’ He wonders, turning to English-guy who is already looking at him, a bright light in his eyes as he smiles around the stick in his mouth.

Then he just starts walking away, just like that. No explanation whatsoever.

‘Alright,’ Jacob brushes off his suit, turning to go back up since the coast was clear. He pauses, eyebrows furrowing, ‘What was that though? How the hell did I get over here? Why a stick?’ “Doesn’t matter.” Jacob places his foot on the first step, frowning at the scuffed leather of his shoe: ‘Why’d he go into the vault?’ He tightens his grip on the case, biting the inside of his cheek. “Damn it.” Spinning back round, he jogs down the steps. “I’m goin’ to regret this...”

He almost runs back up the steps when the first thing he sees is a furry something somehow squeezing through the practically nonexistent cracks that outline the vault’s door. “Absolutely not!” English-guy snaps, pulling that weird stick-thing from his pocket again. Pointing it at the vault, he says something strange: Alohamora -

The vault just opens. Just like that.

Jacob knocks his case against his leg, blinking when it aches.

Not dreaming, good to know.

“Confundus!”

Jacob yelps, spinning around. A dopey-eyed Mr. Bingely gapes at him before promptly tipping forward, hitting the ground with a loud THUD.

“Oops.” Dark eyes stare, numb legs staggering backwards into a wall.

A small woman had just appeared out of thin air, right there.

“There’s two of you-” Jacob whispers hoarsely, gaping at the smooth stick the woman holds firmly at her side.

Oblivious to the hyperventilating man, English-guy glances at Mr. Bingley’s prone form before looking to the newcomer to this madness. “Hazel,” he sighs, tilting his head towards the downed man. “We’ve talked about this.”

The woman - ‘Hazel, that’s a nice name for a crazy person.’ - shrugs. “He’s been following us since we came in, and I don’t fancy being arrested for such a shitty bank robbery.” She squats down to poke Mr. Bingley with her stick, nose crinkling when his head lolls over, a bit of drool dripping from his mouth. “’Side’s he’s a banker, he probably deserved it.”

Jacob presses a hand to his mouth in to stop the hysterical laughter threatening to spill out. He’s in front of an open bank vault with two crazy people who just knocked out his potential investor. Nothing about this is funny, nothing at all.

English-guy bites his bottom lip, not quite managing to hide the slight upward curve of his mouth. “That’s not the point-” Loud scuttling cuts him off, the three strangers unanimously glancing towards the vault where the strange furry thing from earlier rolls happily in a pile of jewels. English-guy’s mouth parts in clear disbelief: “Little thief...”

“I did tell you to get that lock fixed.” The young woman’s face is almost perfectly straight, tone amazingly even. Only shinning emerald orbs give away her amusement.

English-guy sighs, the sound dragging out as he rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, “I know.”

Her mouth twitches, just slightly in the right corner, “Ages ago.”

A pink flush tinges English-guy’s cheeks, “I know.”

“Yet here we are -”

“Can we have this conversation later?” The colour in the man’s cheeks darkness to a vivid red.

A row of white teeth peek out from smiling lips, “Course.”

English-guy opens his mouth, snapping it shut when more rustling sounds from the vault. Shaking his head, he begins walking backwards: “And don’t think we aren’t discussing your habit of concussing muggles!”

“Accidentally concussing.” Hazel’s intensely focused on the tip of her now glowing stick aimed right between Mr. Bingely’s eyes.

‘How’s it doin’ that?’ Jacob wonders, stepping forward despite his better instincts.

English-guy talking over what sounds like a hundred couches worth of lost change falling to the ground, brings them right back. “MACUSA won’t know the difference.”

“MACUSA can take their opinions and shove it up their arses.” The sudden viciousness in every syllable of those words unnerves Jacob almost as much as the shadow darkening emerald orbs. It reminds him a bit too much of the medical tents in Europe where the slightest noise would have bed-ridden soldiers returning to whatever hell they went through. But that can’t be right. She would’ve been way too young, too female and too British to be anywhere near the war -

“Hazel -”

The room’s suddenly too quiet without the noise as English-guy steps from the vault holding a small furry thing by a paw in one hand while his stick hangs loosely in the other. But Jacob’s attention is caught by the man’s strange eyes, the softness of them as they stare at Hazel’s tensing back. The man licks his lips, eyes sliding over to Jacob briefly before snapping back to the girl, whose grip seems to have tightened dangerously on her stick. “Hazel –”

“It’s fine Newt.”

It clearly isn’t, whatever it is. The young woman’s smile a poor mockery of the one just seconds ago. It doesn’t fool Jacob, who barely knows her so he wonders why she would think it could fool English-guy - ‘Newt’ - who’s eyes narrow knowingly.

‘Maybe it’s not about fooling him -’ Some part of Jacob whispers as the two strange people stare each other down, noticing for the first time the shadows under the girl’s eyes. ‘Maybe she’s not used to anyone caring.’

Before he can think more on the depressing notion, a scream has him jumping a foot into the air, heart pounding in almost perfect rhythm to the clacking of heels that’s nearly drowned out by the woman’s continued screams.

Then alarm sounds, deafening in his ears. Too much like...

‘Don’t think about it -’ He grits his teeth, dark eyes focusing on the closest wall. ‘Don’t think about it Kowlaski...’

Someone grabs his arm; unrelenting even as he pulls against it. “Hey!” Fingers dig in almost hard enough to bruise, a familiar voice yelling above all the noise.

“Breathe through your nose!”

Then Jacob’s choking, blurs of colours assaulting his vision. There’s no up or down, every bit of air he tries breathing getting caught in his lungs. ‘Through your nose’ he reminds himself through his panic, inhaling deeply.

Then he’s lurching, colours snapping into focus as he stumbles forward – inhaling familiar smog filled air. “Ugh.” His shoulder hits something solid – a wall. He slides down, staring up at the grey sky. ‘wh -what’s it doin’ there?’ dark eyes flicker to the side, widening at the familiar sidewalk stretched to the side where Hazel is bent over, tanned hand not quite managing to cover the steadily spreading splash of red on the arm of her sweater. ‘Th-that’s blood...’ Jacob realizes, trying to straighten up just to sway a little to the left when the world tips under his feet.

A loud CRACK announces English-guy’s entrance, blue coat flapping elegantly around his lean form as he materializes; his sea-sky eyes curiously bright for someone who just narrowly escaped arrest. Jacob falls back against the wall at the reminder – half-hoping it will give way, hiding him away from the world. ‘I’m an accomplice in a bank robbery. A failed robbery. Does that make it better?’

“Probably not.” He mutters aloud, knocking his head back against the concrete.

Dark eyes glance back at the reasons for his predicament, watching Newt gently grab Hazel’s arm to ease up the bloodied sleeve despite her feeble protests, “It’s fine, really.”

‘Is ‘fine’ her catchphrase?’ Jacob swallows, staring at the short, deep gashes along the girl’s upper arm still dripping blood. ‘Cause she should change it.’ Newt seems to agree, eyes darkening to evergreen as he waves his glowing stick over the split flesh, lips moving soundlessly. Slowly, the skin begins knitting itself back together until the wound may as well not have been there at all. Jacob blinks, dark eyes shifting from the girl’s now flawless arm to the bloodstained sleeve – Today’s been weird. More than usual New York weird. But there’s gotta be a line somewhere, right?

Oblivious as ever, Newt tucks his stick away, thumb gently rubbing over the healed skin. “Now it’s fine.” He corrects, eyes meeting Hazel’s firmly.

“Thanks.” The woman’s voice is softer than usual, cheeks pinking when Newt smiles softly.

It’s sweet; normal. The most normal thing about this impossible day, actually. Again, Jacob almost forgets they are both crazy.

Then English-guy strides over, asking him to “Stand still” after straightening his suit, and he remembers.

Wincing when his case collides with the man’s face, Jacob rambles out a quick “Sorry” while sprinting away, unable to help glancing behind him when English-guy yells:

“Hazel! You’re letting him get away!”

“He deserves to, for a hit like that.” Even from this distance, the curve of Hazel’s lips is visible as she cups Newt’s face, tilting it to assess the damage. “Did you really think he was just going to stand there -?”

Jacob turns back, slowing his stride when the rest of her words are drowned out by the busy street. He does not look back again.