Subject: So that's what they want you to know.
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Posted on: 2016-03-11 20:59:00 UTC

(Disclaimer: The following ficlet is entirely speculative, based on what we've seen this week. It's also rendered in British idiom rather than trying to aim for something appropriate, because I do have my limits.)

If you listen to their high-and-mightinesses up in New York, you'd think that they're the centre of American magic - that they encapsulate everything worth knowing about it, and lead an entire continent of witches and wizards.

Merlin's scratty beard they do.

The centre of American magic is right where it's been for three hundred years - down on the mighty Mississippi, in the melting pot where French, English, African and Native magic came together and made something better than all of them. Up in the icy north, the Rap is a way of life that keeps witches cowering in their homes, terrified to do anything that might bring MACUSA down on them. Down here, it's more like a guideline, if you get my drift.

And they know it, too. You should see them when they Apparate down here to buy their wands, all noses in the air and disdainful looks, haughty accents and fancy robes. No, President Pickles, we don't all have magical tailors who make our clothes for us. We're a bit busy doing real magic, not your fancy fakery.

Okay, we're not stupid. We play along when there's northerners in town, hiding away from our neighbours in magical streets that sit empty half the time. But when they're back in their cathedral of magical purity, of course we're gonna help out a neighbour if she needs it. It's a dangerous world, and we should all stick together.

Up in NYC, they call the people around them No-Majs. Like they can talk. Pure-Majs, the lot of them, who haven't cooked their own meals in decades.

And don't get me started on oh-so-wonderful Ilvermorny. I've seen neighbourhood kids go off to their highfalutin' school, but you know what? I don't think I've ever seen one come back.

Says it all, don't it?




My theory, encapsulated. MACUSA's rule is heavy in New York; it's much, much lighter down in New Orleans, whatever President Pickles Picquery might want you to believe.

hS

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