The exit of the Woolworth Building was a bottleneck of pure, unadulterated terror.
Professor Flitwick, despite his legendary dueling status, was at a severe physical disadvantage in a stampede. In the crush of panicked bodies, a wizard of his stature could easily be swept underfoot, trampled by the very people he was trying to protect. Allen didn't hesitate. He reached down, his fingers locking onto the Professor's sleeve with a grip of iron.
Though Allen was still technically a student, he had the height and the steady nerves of someone much older. He used his shoulders to carve a path through the throng, dragging Flitwick along in his wake like a small, determined tugboat leading a ship through a storm.
As they pushed toward the grand rotating doors, a group of wizards in matching midnight-black robes cut through the crowd in the opposite direction. They moved with a synchronized, lethal grace that made the panicked civilians part like the Red Sea.
Allen's eyes locked onto the man at the center of the formation. It was William Piquely, the President of the Magical Congress of the United States. Allen had seen his face only minutes ago in a massive, shimmering portrait in the lower courtyard. Up close, the man looked even more formidable. His eyes were like polished flint, sharp and predatory, scanning the lobby for threats as if he were looking for something—or someone—specific.
The strategy of the American leadership was clear: they weren't trying to lock down the building. Doing so would have trapped hundreds of terrified wizards in a confined space with whatever monsters and dark sorcerers were currently tearing the place apart. Instead, they were letting the "chaff" blow away so the Aurors could have a clear line of sight for the real fight.
Just before they burst out onto the sidewalk of Broadway, Allen cast a final glance at the magical threat clock hanging above the entrance. The hand hadn't just moved; it was vibrating against the edge of the SERIOUS segment. Unexplained Crisis. It was an ominous label that felt entirely too understated for the sounds of screaming coming from the elevators.
They tumbled out onto the street, the cold New York air hitting them like a slap. They didn't stop running until they were several blocks away, the towering spire of the Woolworth Building looming behind them.
Then, the ground groaned.
A series of thunderous, bone-shaking explosions ripped through the air. It wasn't the sound of fire; it was the sound of stone being pulverized. People on the street stopped dead in their tracks. A massive crack spider-webbed up the side of the ornate skyscraper, and a section of the facade—tons of stone and glass—erupted outward.
Rubble rained down on the street like meteors. Cars were tossed aside like toys, and the shockwave sent No-Majs (Muggles) flying into shop windows.
Within minutes, the "Clean-up Crews" arrived. Groups of wizards Apparated into the chaos, their wands already moving in complex, rhythmic patterns. They weren't there to help the injured; they were there to manage the narrative. Blue sparks showered the approaching police officers and confused bystanders as Memory Charms and Confusion Hexes were deployed with clinical efficiency.
"We can't stay here, Allen. The No-Maj authorities are going to swarm this area in seconds, and I'd rather not be caught in a mass Obliviation," Flitwick said, his voice strained. He grabbed Allen's arm, and with a sharp crack, the world twisted into a blur of suffocating pressure.
They reappeared on a quiet residential street lined with identical brownstone buildings. Or, they should have been identical. One of the houses in the middle of the block looked like a giant had stepped on it and then tried to kick the remains away. It was a pile of splintered wood and crushed brick.
A lone, harried police officer was trying to hold back a group of hysterical residents.
"Everyone just stay back! I'm taking statements!" the officer yelled, his face flushed red.
"Statement? Officer, that was a bomb!" a woman in bright red silk pajamas shrieked, her arms flailing. "I'm not taking my kids back inside until you find the terrorists!"
The officer looked unconvinced, scribbling notes in a damp pad. "Ma'am, we have no reports of explosives. We think it might have been a gas main..."
"It wasn't a gas main!" a middle-aged man shouted, smelling strongly of cheap gin but looking remarkably sober in his terror. "I saw it! I saw a dragon! A huge, scaly beast with wings like a plane!"
Professor Flitwick didn't miss a beat. He slid his wand from his sleeve, keeping it hidden against his forearm. A subtle flick, a whispered incantation, and a thin thread of white light hit the drunk man square in the chest.
The man blinked. His eyes glazed over for a second, then snapped back into focus with newfound conviction.
"Wait, no... what am I saying? A dragon?" The man laughed nervously, turning to the crowd. "It was a tractor! Some crazy farmer must have modified his engine and went on a rampage. I heard he crushed seven cars down the block! Absolute terrorist, that one."
The neighbors nodded in unison, the suggestion taking root instantly. "A tractor... yeah, that makes sense. Must have been a massive one."
Flitwick nudged Allen, and they slipped into the shadows of a nearby alley.
"The Statute of Secrecy is a heavy burden, Allen," Flitwick said, looking at his wand. He seemed to notice Allen's quiet, analytical expression. "I know you're thinking it—the absurdity of it all. But preventing the No-Majs from discovering our world is the only way both sides stay alive. It's a messy duty, but a necessary one."
Allen nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He was mentally cataloging the sheer level of destruction he'd seen. A modified tractor? Not likely. "Professor, what kind of creature could actually do that? To level a brownstone and crack the Woolworth Building?"
He went through his mental bestiary. An Erumpent? Too much fire. A Zouwu? Possible, but they were rare in this part of the world. He even glanced at his own pocket, thinking of the Occamy in his portable enclosure. If it grew to fill the space available, it could easily bring down a house.
A tiny, high-pitched buzzing sound interrupted his thoughts.
A flash of brilliant, sapphire blue zipped past his ear. Allen's eyes tracked it instantly. It was small, no bigger than a large beetle, with wings attached to the top of its head that spun like a helicopter rotor.
A Billywig.
In that moment, Allen realized why the MACUSA dial had been set to "Serious." In less than an hour, he'd already crossed paths with a Murtlap, a destructive monster he couldn't yet name, and now an Australian Billywig. These weren't just random sightings; these were the escaped contents of a high-security menagerie. New York was currently being colonized by every dangerous magical export imaginable.
The Billywig was fast—so fast that most No-Majs would mistake it for a dragonfly or a trick of the light. Even most wizards would struggle to see it unless it was hovering right in front of them. But to Allen, whose senses had been honed by hours of high-stakes dueling and observation, the rhythm of its wings was as clear as a drumbeat.
"Arachnosia!" Allen whispered, his wand tracing a delicate arc.
A web of ultra-fine, nearly invisible silk appeared directly in the Billywig's flight path. The creature, unable to adjust its momentum, slammed into the sticky threads. It spiraled downward, wrapping itself in a shimmering blue cocoon as it fell. Allen caught it neatly in his palm.
"What have you got there, Allen?" Flitwick asked, stepping closer.
"A Billywig, Professor. Native to Australia, but apparently enjoying the New York climate," Allen said, holding up the bundled insect.
Flitwick peered at the cocoon, a look of recognition dawning on him. "Ah, yes. Their dried stingers are a key ingredient in Fizzing Whizzbees. Gives the candy that delightful levitation effect." He looked up at Allen with a wide, proud smile. "That was a superb bit of reactive spellwork, Allen. Truly. Leonard would be green with envy if he saw you bag that so casually."
"You're a good teacher, Professor," Allen replied with a subtle wink. Inwardly, however, he made a mental note to never touch a Fizzing Whizzbee ever again. The thought of eating a processed Australian beetle stinger was a bit much, even for him.
Flitwick chuckled and patted his pockets. "Right then. I think enough time has passed for the Aurors to at least clear the rubble from the lobby. We should head back. We still have business with the Congress, and I want to make sure Leonard hasn't been eaten by a stray Nundu."
When they finally made their way back to the Woolworth Building, the atmosphere had shifted from panic to a grim, military-style lockdown. The entrance was guarded by a double line of Aurors, their faces set in stone.
They were eventually escorted into a high-level briefing room. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and burnt parchment.
Inside, a group of high-ranking officials were gathered around a circular table. Leonard Knox was there, his face a map of fresh cuts and dark bruises. His glasses were cracked, but his eyes were still burning with that same restless energy. Across from him sat President Piquely, looking like a man who was ready to fire half his staff and imprison the other half.
Piquely's gaze swept the room, landing on each senior Auror with the weight of a guillotine blade.
"This incident is a stain on our history," Piquely began, his voice low and vibrating with fury. "We have multiple security failures to address. First: how did a high-profile prisoner, scheduled for immediate execution, manage to vanish from a maximum-security transport? Second: why were our response teams fifteen minutes behind the breach? And third..."
He slammed a hand onto the table. "How did a collection of illegally imported, highly dangerous creatures get released into the most populated city in the world? Every one of you is going to give me an answer, or you can spend your next shift in the very cells that are currently empty."
The room went deathly silent. Not a single Auror dared to meet the President's eyes.