"Isolated incident," Newt sighs, his shoulders sagging. He's worn and weary, and he supposes it shows in the way he holds himself. He finally manages to find a jacket to throw over his layers of clothing, and he holds it tight around himself, as though holding it so tightly will prevent all of the wind chill from reaching into his bones. "I suppose we can only hope."

He bristles at the way his companion calls Squibs failures, his tone of voice taking on an edge. He's reminded too much of the politics of superiority he's hoping he left behind in his world. "People can't help how they're born," he says, tensing. "Either with magic or without. They're not failures for what they can't control."

"They can try to study," he explains, voice still tense. "And they may be able to perform slight spells. But mostly, no. They go on to lead regular lives."