"Professor, let me get this straight. Even without a Muggle-Repelling charm, they're just... not seeing this?" Allen asked, watching a frantic businessman in a sharp pinstripe suit charge right through the glowing green arrow pulsing on the sidewalk. The man didn't even stumble; he just kept checking his watch, his mind clearly miles away from the neon-green magical navigation system guiding their feet.
The arrow flickered with a steady, rhythmic light, leading them deeper into the heart of Manhattan. Around them, the city was a symphony of screeching tires, shouting street vendors, and the heavy thrum of millions of lives overlapping.
Professor Flitwick steered Allen around a sidewalk vendor selling hot pretzels. "It's a refinement of the 1792 Privacy Act amendments, Allen. We have to be more subtle here in the States. The Rappaport's Law era might be over, but the cultural hangover remains. In America, we don't just hide from the No-Majs—we blend into their blind spots. The spell ensures that if a non-wizard's eye happens to catch the light, their brain immediately provides a very urgent distraction. A sudden, pressing need to check an oven, or more likely in this city, a desperate search for the nearest restroom."
They turned a corner, and the gray skyscrapers seemed to part, revealing a magnificent neo-Gothic structure that looked like a cathedral dedicated to commerce.
"The Woolworth Building," Allen whispered, craning his neck. It was a masterpiece of terracotta and steel, reaching toward the clouds. Above the spinning revolving doors, where hundreds of white-collar workers in long coats were flowing in and out like a tide of ink, the stone was carved with intricate details that seemed to shimmer if you looked at them long enough.
"Don't follow the crowd, Allen," Flitwick warned, nudging him toward a modest side door tucked away in the shadow of a massive stone buttress.
Standing guard was a man who looked like he'd been carved out of the building itself. He wore a deep navy uniform with silver piping, a wide-brimmed hat, and a cloak that seemed to absorb the streetlights. He wasn't just a doorman; he was a sentinel.
"State your business and present your credentials," the wizard said, his voice as flat as a New York pavement.
Flitwick didn't miss a beat. He reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out a blue-sealed travel permit. It was a thick, parchment document that hummed with a low magical frequency. The guard took it, his eyes darting between the magical photos and the two wizards standing before him.
With a crisp movement, the guard tapped the document with a short, black wand. A silver seal materialized in the air—a circular emblem that spun like a coin before expanding. Allen caught the letters 'MACUSA'—The Magical Congress of the United States of America—flashing in the center before the seal dissolved into a shower of sparks that drifted upward toward the gargoyles.
"Proceed. And keep your wands holstered unless you're in a designated practice zone," the guard grunted, swinging the heavy door open.
Stepping through that door was like stepping through a veil between worlds. One second, Allen was smelling bus exhaust and dirty snow; the next, he was standing in a lobby that defied the laws of physics. The interior of the Woolworth Building had vanished. In its place was a cavernous main hall that felt like a cathedral of light and bureaucracy.
The ceiling was an impossible arch of gold and marble, so high that clouds of enchanted mist drifted through the upper reaches. But the most striking feature was the massive dial hanging in the center of the hall. It looked like a clock designed by a paranoid watchmaker. Dozens of gears and plates ground against each other, shifting colors.
"The Magical Exposure Threat Level," Flitwick noted, pointing upward.
The indicator was currently hovering in the green—Level 0: Safety—but Allen could see the other tiers: Low, Medium, High, and a terrifyingly dark crimson section labeled Emergency. Beneath the dial hung a portrait of President William Piquery, a man whose stern, regal gaze seemed to follow every wizard who walked across the polished floor.
The hall was a hive of activity. Owls didn't just fly; they dived through designated air-corridors, carrying scrolls that smoked with urgency. Allen noticed a distinct difference in the wizards here. Many were broader, moving with a fast-paced aggression that felt very 'American.'
"They certainly don't lack for appetite over here," Allen murmured, noticing a wizard in a pinstripe robe who looked like he could have played professional rugby if he weren't busy levitating three coffee cups at once.
A wizard with a frantic mop of curly hair practically bowled Allen over, his wand sparking with a faint yellow light. "You damned beasts! I'll have you in cages by sundown, I swear it!" he muttered, his eyes fixed on a trail of glowing footprints that only he could see.
Close behind him, a group of junior aurors in sleek black robes were in heated discussion.
"What's the word on the illegal migrants?" one asked, checking a clipboard.
"Knox says they're going straight to the holding cells," another replied. "The guy's a machine. If he keeps this up, he'll be running the office by spring."
"First, he has to find his way out of that basement," a third joked, and they all shared a rough laugh as they disappeared into a bank of golden elevators.
Allen watched them go, but Flitwick was already pulling him toward a different set of lifts. On the way, Allen saw a line of weary-looking wizards standing before a house-elf. The elf was using a delicate, shimmering feather duster to polish their wands, the wood glowing with renewed vigor as the dust was whisked away. It was a level of maintenance Allen hadn't seen at Hogwarts.
They stepped into an elevator operated by a goblin who looked like he had been born in a tuxedo. His skin was the color of old parchment, and he looked at them with a mixture of boredom and professional disdain.
"Level?" the goblin rasped, holding a long, clawed stick over a panel of buttons.
"Wand Licensing," Flitwick said.
The goblin tapped a button near the bottom of the board. The elevator didn't just drop; it plunged. Allen felt his stomach perform a somersault as the golden cage hissed down through a shaft that seemed to go on forever.
When the doors finally wheezed open, the transition was depressing. Gone was the marble and gold. This was the basement—a cramped, windowless labyrinth of low ceilings and flickering lights. The air was thick with the smell of old ink and ozone.
Hundreds of antique typewriters were arranged in rows, their keys clacking away with a rhythmic, ghostly speed. There were no typists. Instead, thick glass tubes snaked across the ceiling like transparent intestines. Every time a typewriter finished a page, the paper would roll itself up, transform into a tiny, glowing mouse-shaped cursor, and zip into a tube to be sucked upward to the more important floors.
"Not exactly the height of glamour, is it?" Allen whispered, dodging a low-hanging pipe.
They found a door with a peeling sign: Wand Permit Office. It was essentially a glorified storage closet, overflowing with mountains of unopened applications. In the center of the mess sat a single desk, buried under so much paperwork that it looked like a paper-mache mountain. The room was empty.
"Professor, why are we down here?" Allen asked, confused. "I thought you'd already handled the paperwork by mail. And why would a world-class duelist be in a place like... this?"
Flitwick's expression softened into a look of genuine regret. "Because, Allen, the wizarding world is the same everywhere. Skill in a dueling ring doesn't always translate to skill in navigating political minefields. Leonard Knox is a legend, but he's also a man who speaks his mind. And in MACUSA, speaking your mind often gets you sent to the basement."
A man entered the room from a side door, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and looking like he hadn't slept since the 1970s. His hair was a tragic 'Mediterranean' fringe—mostly gone on top, but clinging desperately to the sides. He didn't even look at them.
"ASA permits are backlogged," the man said, his voice a gravelly monotone. "Go back to your hotel. Wait for the owl. We're short-staffed. The guy who actually knows how to run this place is way too qualified to be sitting here, so he's usually off doing the jobs the Aurors are too lazy to do. Probably won't be back today."
"Sir, if I could just explain—" Flitwick started, his voice polite but firm.
The man waved a hand dismissively, not even looking up from his coffee. "I said go back and wait. I don't care if you're the Queen of England. We're busy. Please, get out."
He was the quintessential bureaucrat—arrogant, lazy, and shielded by a wall of red tape. Flitwick sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly. He turned to lead Allen out, but Allen stayed rooted to the spot. He remembered the name the Aurors had mentioned upstairs.
"Leonard Knox!" Allen shouted, his voice echoing sharply through the cramped office.
The balding man jumped, nearly spilling his coffee. He shoved past Allen to peer into the hallway, his eyes darting back and forth. Finding it empty, he turned back, his face turning a mottled shade of purple.
"What is wrong with you, kid? Why are you screaming? You trying to give me a heart attack?"
Allen offered a calm, razor-sharp smile. "We're looking for Mr. Knox. And since you're clearly not him, perhaps you could tell us where the actual talent in this office went?"
The man's eyes narrowed. He looked at the tiny, bearded Flitwick and then at Allen, his suspicion growing. "Who are you people? What do you want with Leonard?"
"We're from the UK," Allen said, stepping forward so he was the one looking the man in the eye. "This is Professor Filius Flitwick. He's the Head of Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts and a Master of Charms. He also happens to be the man who narrowly defeated Mr. Knox in the 1972 World Championship. He's an old friend. And he's not particularly used to being told to 'go back and wait' by someone who can't even handle a filing cabinet."
The bureaucrat's jaw dropped. His eyes bugged out as he looked at Flitwick, the realization hitting him like a stinging jinx. The dismissive attitude vanished, replaced by a frantic, sweating sort of panic.