The Blind Pig was alive with its usual evening chaos. Cigarette smoke drifted in lazy ribbons beneath the low ceiling, curling around the dim, mismatched lamps that cast the room in amber and shadow. Somewhere near the back, a glass shattered, followed by a burst of jeering laughter. A house-elf in a grease-spotted waistcoat scurried past with a tray of empty glasses balanced above his head, muttering something unflattering about the clientele.

At the bar, a goblin named Gnarlack stood polishing a glass that had long since lost any claim to cleanliness. His sharp eyes moved over the room with the ease of a man accustomed to knowing everything that happened under his roof. The door opened, admitting a faint breath of cold street air and a man who looked as though he had wandered into the wrong establishment entirely.

Newt Scamander hesitated just inside the threshold, his shabby blue overcoat already collecting glances from the room's more unsavoury occupants. He scanned the crowd with the cautious, searching look of someone who would much rather be elsewhere, then adjusted his grip on the scuffed leather case in his hand and made his way towards the bar.

Newt's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He set his case down beside his boot and began to speak, his voice measured, but whatever he offered was evidently not enough. Gnarlack's smile only widened, the kind of smile that belonged to men who enjoyed watching others squirm.

On the counter between them, a small green creature had clambered out of Newt's breast pocket. Pickett, a bowtruckle no longer than a man's finger, sat huddled near Newt's sleeve, his tiny hands gripping the worn fabric as though it were the only solid thing in the room. His twig-like body trembled faintly, and his dark, bead-bright eyes darted towards the goblin with open distrust.

From the little stage at the far end of the room, a woman's voice rose above the noise, smooth and unhurried, carried along by the soft, bluesy notes of a piano. The chatter dimmed, just slightly, as though the room itself had leaned in to listen. Newt glanced towards the stage, momentarily distracted by the voice, or perhaps by the sudden hush.

Newt looked back. Gnarlack had stopped smiling. His long fingers tapped once against the bar, then gestured, unmistakably, towards the bowtruckle. The proposed bargain hung in the air between them, ugly and plain.

Pickett, as if understanding the direction of the conversation, pressed himself flat against Newt's sleeve and gave a tiny, frightened chirp. Newt's hand moved instinctively to shield him.

Then the song ended. The room gave a scattered, appreciative round of applause, and the woman on stage stepped down, making her way through the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged there. She moved like a regular, her path towards the bar as natural as breathing.

Newt watched her approach with a guarded, uncertain expression. But when she reached the bar, she did not speak to him. Instead, she rested a hand on Gnarlack's shoulder and greeted him with warm, unhurried familiarity.

The change was immediate, and almost embarrassing in its completeness. The shrewd, calculating goblin who had been methodically cornering Newt moments before was now beaming up at the singer, all his attention fixed on her as though the Englishman had simply ceased to exist.

A pointed glance followed, brief and unmistakable, directed at Newt. He understood. While Gnarlack was distracted, Newt scooped Pickett off the counter with a careful, urgent hand and slipped him into his breast pocket. Pickett vanished without protest, his tiny fingers clutching the inside of the fabric. Newt let out a small, nearly silent breath.

Newt remained where he was, his stance still tense, his hand lingering near his coat pocket as if he half-expected the goblin to demand the creature back. His eyes flicked towards the woman, uncertain, searching her face for something he could not quite name.