Quito, the wizarding pub “The Hummingbird’s Nest.”
In front of the bar sat a massive crocodile skeleton.
Frey was sitting on the crocodile’s head, gripping his yew wand and testily prodding a leather backpack that looked as if it were about to burst.
This was a practice tool Newt had just given him.
Originally, Newt wanted to give Frey his famous Undetectable Extension briefcase, but in the eyes of a pragmatist like Frey, running through the rainforest carrying a suitcase was simply too stupid.
He planned to transfer the space inside the briefcase into his backpack.
“Capacious extremis!”
With a dull thud, the pack swelled like an overinflated balloon, and a turbulent wave of magical smoke puffed out from the zipper.
Beside him, Newt, wearing his signature peacock-blue coat, was studying the drink menu.
He had clearly developed an immunity to such explosions; without even looking up, he flicked his wand, casting two non-verbal spells in succession: “Scourgify,” then “Reparo.”
The magical smoke dissipated silently.
The leather stitched itself back together within seconds, slumping in front of Frey like a deflated punching bag.
“Frey, the secret of the Undetectable Extension Charm is to push space open, not blow it apart,” Hermione muttered, resting her chin on her hand.
She shook her delicate little beaded bag.
“You put in too much magic. Look, if you’re gentler, the space will listen to you.”
Frey glanced at her bag.
The space inside was indeed delicate, but at most it could only hold a few books and a change of clothes.
Hermione’s control was near-perfect; what she lacked was just raw magical power.
“I know, the concept is simple,” Frey pinched the bridge of his nose weakly.
“But this is like asking you to embroider with a spear. It’s too hard.”
Frey’s magic was like a rampaging flood; sculpting miniature spaces was absolute torture for him.
Behind them, Newt spoke up.
“If you don’t get it right before sunset today, you can just carry the briefcase. I’ve used it for half my life and never found it inconvenient. If all else fails, you can sew a couple of straps on and wear it on your back.”
“This is a Chilcano for the lovely young lady—pisco, ginger ale, and lime juice. Very refreshing.” The bartender timely slid over several glasses of colorful liquids.
“And this is a Pisco Sour for the esteemed Mr. Scamander. Pisco, lime juice, simple syrup, egg white, and a perfectly measured dash of Angostura bitters. Smooth and velvety, just as it is every time you visit our humble establishment.”
Finally, a glass of liquid so dark red it was almost black was pushed in front of Frey.
“And for this strong young man, the ‘Hot! Hot! Hot!’ It’s our house specialty, infused with Amazonian ghost peppers. You’ll feel like you can breathe dragon fire. Not many wizards can handle it.”
Frey took a large gulp.
The intense spiciness, which would have sent an ordinary wizard rolling under the table, only stirred a faint warmth in his throat.
He exhaled comfortably and patted the crocodile skeleton beneath him.
“Do you really have beasts this big around here?”
“The big ones in the rainforest are far more vicious than this.” The bartender turned to Newt and bowed slightly.
“Hi, I’ve heard people say that even if you put all the magical creatures in the world together, it still wouldn’t match the variety in the Amazon basin. In this regard, you are the true expert.”
“No one can count how many species there are here,” Newt murmured, rubbing his glass.
“I’ve been here five times, and every time there are new surprises. This time, we plan to go to an even more interesting place—the Pastaza River.”
“The Pastaza River!” The bartender’s hand shook, nearly dropping a glass.
“That’s no tourist destination. That’s Third Salem territory. The wizards who go there end up as ornaments on the tree branches.”
Hermione took a sip of her drink, squinting from the sourness.
“What is Third Salem?”
“Extreme anti-magic zealots,” Frey replied flatly.
“A bunch of fanatic wizards who make it their life’s mission to eradicate magic. They excel at slitting their opponents’ throats before they can cast a spell.”
“The Jivaros under Third Salem are not to be trifled with. No wizard who goes there has ever returned alive. Just last year, two wizards went and vanished completely. They like to shrink heads to use as war trophies. Look over there—that’s how they’ll deal with you.”
The bartender pointed to a strange object on the mantelpiece—a human head, though shrunk to the size of an orange.
Hermione stepped forward to take a closer look, but didn’t dare touch it.
“I bet that’s a baby’s head.”
Newt said softly, “No, that’s an adult warrior. Jivaro head-shrinking. They believe this traps the enemy’s soul. However, this one wasn’t done very well. A well-shrunk head should retain its memories and ability to communicate.”
“We… won’t end up like this, will we?” Hermione instinctively touched her neck.
Newt took a sip of his drink and said nonchalantly, “I don’t think we’ll be in danger. They only take the heads of enemies or relatives. We are neither. Don’t worry.”
The owner shook his head.
“Unless the sun rises from the west, I wouldn’t trust them.”
Frey twirled his fingers, looking at the head thoughtfully.
“Owner, is this for sale? Borgin and Burkes would definitely be interested in this. It’d fetch at least thirty Galleons.”
The bartender shook his hands frantically.
“Young master, don’t talk nonsense. Trading in these is strictly prohibited here.”
“Ah, I see. If I find a way to get them to give me one, then there won’t be a problem.”
Hermione said dryly, “If you dare tie one of those to your backpack, I’m not walking with you.”
She was still a bit uneasy.
“What are we actually going there for? I thought we were just drifting down the Amazon River.”
“The Pastaza River is one of the tributaries of the Amazon. A large portion of its course isn’t even marked on maps. MACUSA is particularly interested in it, so they commissioned me to do a preliminary survey. It’s a perfect opportunity to take you two out for some summer field experience.”
“And also because it flows through the territories of those head-hunting tribes.” Seeing Hermione’s anxiety, Frey added another tease.
“We’ll definitely have to pass through there!”
Hermione fell silent.
She sneaked up behind Frey, grabbed the crocodile’s tail, and pulled hard, tipping Frey onto the floor.
“Just you wait. When we get to the Jivaro territory, I’ll deal with you. I’ll help them take your head. Just watch, I’ll deep-fry it and pickle it in brine. The trouble is, you’re such an ugly monster that no one would want to buy it.”
Hermione stopped because Frey had already grabbed her and was trying to stuff her into the crocodile’s mouth.
The pub furniture, under the influence of Frey’s leaking magic, began floating in midair.
“That’s your grandson, right? That magical power… is something else.”
The pub owner waved his hand, and the furniture tap-danced out of the way of the brawling duo.
Newt toasted the owner.
“To teenage hormones.”
After fooling around for a while, until Newt tapped the table with his wand in mild annoyance, Frey finally sat back down at the bar and resumed his backpack modification.
*Puff.*
In that instant, Frey’s magic, chaotic from the alcohol and adrenaline, instinctively found a resonance.
The space that he had struggled so hard to open suddenly became clear in his mind’s eye.
He stopped trying to make tiny adjustments and instead followed his instincts, forcefully carving out a massive void within the backpack.
The Undetectable Extension Charm was a success.
Frey waved his wand, and the furniture, workbenches, and animal pens from Newt’s suitcase arranged themselves neatly inside the backpack.
“See? This isn’t that hard after all,” Frey said to Hermione with a smug grin.
Hermione gasped, eyes wide.
“You—you’re cheating!”
Frey patted his backpack.
“A Scamander only cares about practicality, whether it’s wizard, goblin, or Muggle stuff. What do you think? Want me to expand that pathetic little purse of yours?”
Suddenly, a buzzing sound drifted in.
A small green bird flew through the window and hovered before Newt, who was peacefully sipping his drink.
A strip of parchment was clamped in its sharp beak.
Hermione looked at the tiny bird, her heart melting.
“Teacher Newt, what is that? It’s so cute!”
“It’s a hummingbird. They use them here instead of owls. Owls can’t handle the climate.” Newt replied as he took the note.
The explorer’s bronzed face didn’t change color, but the muscles at the corners of his mouth tightened.
“What happened?” Frey leaned closer.
Newt let out a disdainful chuckle.
“Someone is trying to play games with us.” He handed the note to his grandson.
It was pieced together from words cut out of a Muggle newspaper: [GO BACK TO BRITAIN, THE AMAZON DOES NOT WELCOME A SCAMANDER].
There was no signature.
But Frey’s sharp nose caught the scent of burning sage.
Newt calmly drank his last sip.
“I don’t think we need to lose sleep over an anonymous note. Since the sender didn’t even dare leave their own handwriting, they likely lack the courage to actually harm us.”
“We could trace it,” Hermione pointed to the Quito post office stamp on the hummingbird.
“The sender would have to leave their name and address at the hummingbird post office, wouldn’t they?”
“Very clever, Hermione. But if they didn’t want their identity known, they wouldn’t have left their real name and address.”