Capítulo 294: The US of A
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The United States of America . . . the land of opportunity to the non-magical world, where any dream could come true, and everyone seems to be pursuing the "American Dream." But in the magical world, it had a different, peculiar reputation of being controlling and buried in strict mandates that exercised excessive control over its magical residents and those who visited the country. The country's magical culture was shaped through its history that included the horrifying Salem's Witch Trials and nationwide hunt for magical kind, labeling them as against nature and dangerous, not to be allowed to exist, and executing them through the cruel method of burning them on stakes. [1]
The magical congress had strict rules regarding magicals entering the country through non-magical means. They had methods of detection on every airport, waterway, and major roadway border for magical detection. And would be interviewed without fail. On the magical side of travel, Portkeys to enter the country were heavily monitored and required a secure process to procure. If found that one had entered the country through an unauthorized Portkey, the person would be charged within the country and put in prison, and Magical America's stance on negotiations on such cases was infamous for being unyielding.
"Business or pleasure?"
Quinn looked at the man sitting in front of him. The man was a MACUSA official, one employed in the Tourism(?) department, supposedly responsible for interviewing those who arrived in the country through a Portkey. This was a first for Quinn— in his recent travels, though the influence of Wests, he had obtained Porkteys directly at his destinations without going through 'customs.' Even when he had traveled to America during the world tour with George, he had never sat in an interview because of his young age.
Quinn stared at the man, wondering if his grandfather wanted him to experience this because he for sure knew that with the West's influence, he could dance into the country naked, and no one would question his intentions. Well, at least, he was in a private room and not in a queue.
"Both," he replied to the official.
The official looked up from the documents and furrowed his brows. "Both?"
"Both."
"Would you care to explain?"
"Well, I have business to take care of," asked Quinn. "But I am also looking forward to seeing some popular public spaces. I would like to have numerous New York slices; I have heard a lot about pizza here. Do you have any suggestions for me? Where should I go to get the best pizza; give me the keys to the motherload, if you know what I mean."
"I do not," said the official plainly.
Quinn shrugged. So much for the hospitality.
"How long are you here in the country?" asked the official.
"Less than two weeks."
"Please give me a specific date. What day does your Portkey return back home?"
Quinn took out a palm-sized square tile from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. "I was provided with a custom Portkey that I can use anytime I like to return home. The reason I say I'm here for two weeks is that that's the maximum duration I'm personally planning to stay in the country . . . but if I were to answer with respect the Portkey, I can stay here in the country as long as I want."
Such was the power of Wests.
"What?" The official picked the Portkey tile off the table and pointed his wand at it while looking at Quinn and suspicion. His expression changed to shock as the spell gave back the result.
". . . I-It's really a custom Portkey."
"Yes, as I told you earlier," Quinn took his return Portkey back from the official.
It would be a while before I can apparate inter-continent,' he thought. Cross-country apparition was easy for Quinn, and he could even skip to neighboring countries with no problem, but cross-continent and inter-continent travel of humungous distance was still impossible for him.
«It's possible if I let the curse— . . . . . .»
". . . Where would you be staying?"
"I have a place in Manhattan. That would be my place of residence for my stay here." And by that, Quinn meant there was a West-owned property that was going to use.
The official stayed silent as he picked up his quill and wrote on Quinn's form. When he was done, he put down his quill, pushed his chair back, and pressed a button on a golden appliance sitting on a shelf behind him.
He turned to Quinn and raised his hand towards. "Your wand, please. We need to register it in our records."
Quinn thought for a moment, wondered about his choices before he spoke, "I don't use a wand."
". . . . Wait, what?"
"I do not use a wand," said Quinn. He pointed at the pot of ink on the table, and the black liquid rose out and levitated in mid-air.
The American official started at the floating ink before turning to Quinn for a while. "You're British, correct? Do you use another form of focus? We also need to record other foci."
"No, I don't use any form of magical focus," said Quinn.
The official's eyes remained fixed on Quinn for a while before he sighed and looked at the form as his hand went to his temple, his fingers rubbing it.
There was a minute of silence in the room as the official contemplated, and Quinn sat in front of him with a smile.
"Are you sure you don't have a wand?" asked the official. "That if we check your belongings, we won't find a wand or other form of foci."
"No, you won't be finding anything in luggage," said Quinn. They wouldn't find "anything" in his briefcase. It was, after all, charmed to hide the expanded space, and over the years, Quinn had added his own additions to it, making it extra-secure.
". . . Alright, but if we find that you're lying and you're caught with a focus, then you'd be immediately arrested and tried in the court of law here in the country."
"I'm fine with that," said Quinn.
The official nodded, placed his hand on the hefty stamp on the table, and brought it down on the form with ka-ching, leaving behind a green approved mark on the paper.
"Welcome to the United States of America."
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New York, the city that never slept, the Big Apple, was a fascinating city. For Quinn, who spent most of his year in a big castle with not enough people to occupy it, the most populous city in the entire of America, was too much of people. Standing in Times Square, he felt like he was standing still in the sea of people even though he was walking. The buildings were so tall that he had to crane his neck up to look at the top, and everything was shiny, throwing their billboard lights on him.
Quinn, who was now of age, didn't require a chaperon to accompany him on his trips aboard; as such, for the first time on his solo trip, he was alone. George had tried to stick to someone with him for protection, but Quinn had bluntly refused.
"Man, there sure are many tourists here," Quinn chuckled as he saw myriads of visually notable people who clearly looked like visiting tourists with their fanny packs and backpacks— traveling in hoards with their travel guides, pointing their lenses at the sights.
Quinn raised his camera, pointed his camera at the Tim Square sight, and clicked a picture from an angle that was pro-approved as there were a bunch of people with professional gear standing around him, doing their own photography.
"Hey, what's that camera," one of the professional photographers.
Quinn looked at the non-magical person and the Nikon camera in their hands and then looked at the camera in his hand. It was around the same size, similarly black in color, and the design did follow the current template of SLR cameras.
But there was one glaring issue with the camera.
"This is from a company called QuinnTech," said Quinn with a shameless smile.
The man stared at the camera, "Man, that's one good looking screen . . . your camera doesn't look like a digital camera."
Yes, the SLR cameras lacked screens on their backsides. There were viewfinders through which you could look at your framing, but no screens. A screen in a camera hit the consumer market in the mid-90s in the form of a digital camera, but even then, those screens were just for framing shots and lacked eyeballing exposure or the entire live image package. But Quinn's camera, which worked on magic, had a screen with stellar image quality, showing the frame that the dynamic lens in front was catching.
"Oh yeah, it's a great screen . . . it shows a live image, meaning the image on the screen is exactly what will come out when printing. I can even mess with the aperture, shutter, ISO . . . and all the works right from here and see the results on the big screen. Though this model still needs work on stability, though," he said. The dynamic lens utilized transmutation to change lens type, making it a one-lense camera.
"C-Can I see it for a minute," the man had a hungry look in his eyes, "just for a little while, man."
"Yeah, about that . . . how about no," Quinn moved his camera holding hand away.
"Come on, man, just for a minute."
"Nope," said Quinn and waved a snapped his fingers. The man's eyes blurred for a moment before he backed up and walked off to what he was doing before spotting Quinn's camera.
'Using magic in public . . . in the middle of the Times Square! Man, if MACUSA is going to throw me in prison if the caught me,' Quinn chuckled.
After being happy with his photo collection and sightseeing around Midtown Manhattan, Quinn went around asking New York residents about their favorite pizza places, and his accent and clean and classy appearance worked wonders as he was able to find many good recommendations, which he compiled and went to the most recommended one.
"I wonder if it's different in Brooklyn," Quinn patted his belly with a toothpick in his mouth. He spat it out, and the pick turned to wood dust before it hit the ground.
He looked at the nondescript multi-storied building in Upper Manhattan, and from the outside, it didn't look much except a lot of blacked-out windows— though Quinn noticed that it appropriately matched the buildings in the surrounding. Its front door was closed with a black inner shutter from the inside, and it didn't look like the building was occupied. Quinn looked at the side of the building and saw an alleyway. The alleyway was deserted and surprisingly clean. However, more importantly, he felt the presence of a ward as he stepped inside.
"So, that's the entrance."
There was a side double-doored entrance opening up to the alleyway, though it was chained up with a chunky lock with charms laid every from chain links to door hinges to the lock itself. It made it clear that the occupants didn't want people entering from the doors to the building.
"Whatever," Quinn waved his hand, and the lock snapped open with the chains slipping down to the floor. The door opened, and Quinn stepped inside. The door immediately closed, and the lock and chain were back up again with the charms recast, just much stronger.
The building was abandoned. . . or it seemed like it. Not a single soul could be seen in the hallways; however, they were spotless with a spot of dust, and because of the blocked windows, the lights were on. And Quinn could tell that the light panels fitted in the ceilings were MLEs in disguise and that, like every other magical building, this one didn't have any electricity running through it.
The building, as Quinn was informed about, was a residential building, and because of its location in a non-magical dense area, the building indeed had actual two-bedroom apartments. However, there wasn't a single non-magical soul in the building, and none of the apartments were occupied by anyone.
In actuality, the building wasn't a residential building but a commercial building for the magical population of New York. Besides, every apartment's door was a magical door hidden with charms, and those were the actual "rooms" of the building, and behind those doors was a business owned by several people who leased the space from the building owner.
Quinn arrived at the ninth floor of the building, and he could see a set of apartment doors and a complementary set of hidden doors. Those two sets of doors had something in common, which was that all of them were locked— apartment buildings locked with simple locks, while the hidden doors were locked with strong magical charms.
Every single hidden door was locked, just like the front door of the building. Which Quinn thought was very American because, in Britain, the magical buildings had "anti-muggle" charms on the front, which did a more than enough job of keeping the non-magical outside, but the front doors were rarely magical shut close with strong magic.
Quinn finally reached a hidden door and waved his hand for it to click open, instantly disabling the locking magic on it. He pushed it open and stepped inside. Immediately, he had left the darb hallway and entered a place with a very high-end vibe to it. From the royal red walls and the lush carpet beneath his feet, he could tell that some good work was done in the space.
"He has done a good job," said Quinn, looking around.
Walking deeper into the space and exiting the entrance hall to find himself in a small dining area, with tables and chairs stacked to the side, and as he was looking at the painting on the walls, he heard footsteps, and before he could turn to face them, he heard.
"Don't move. Who are you? How did you enter? What—"
The voice halted when Quinn fully turned. He smiled and greeted the man who owned the restaurant.
"Hello, Abraham," said Quinn to the shocked man. "Surprise!"
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Quinn West - MC - I'm here, America!!!
Official - Customs - For some reason, the red denied stamp calls for him.
FictionOnlyReader - Author - Ignorant about cameras, Customs, and pizza.
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[1]: This is my fictional vision of magical America. I have NOT built it from my views of "real" America, and even those views are ignorant at best, as my only access to America is through popular media. I know jack shit. Same goes for all the other countries I have ever written. I won't even say I know my own country well enough to be an authority.
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