Disclaimer: With undying gratitude to J.K.Rowling for allowing me to breathe new life into the embers she left behind.

---

One
A Fish Out of Water, er, Make that a Barracuda



It was always disconcerting to wake up anywhere but in your own bed, Bellatrix Lestrange considered glumly. Not that this dank alley was the worst, mind you.

That dubious honor was held – now and forever – by her putrid little cell in Azkaban. What’s worse, she had only her own recklessness to blame. Since childhood she’d been impetuous, overzealous, all manner of euphemisms that her mother employed in support of her eldest daughter. Her father had been more direct: “She’s a right hellion, that Trixie is,” employing the nickname that she’d Crucio anyone else to try.

A very controlled, cautious Cruciatus, mind you. Let it not be said that Bella hadn’t learned her lesson in Azkaban. A curse was like a fine perfume: used in parsimonious moderation, it could work wonders to convince others of your point of view. But overplay your hand, enjoy yourself too much, and others tended to take offense.

Lesson learned. Just like she had with that cloying red currant rum her youngest sister had insisted they finish off after discovering it was Cornelius Fudge’s favorite. Minister for Magic or not, that man had revolting taste! Bella had been sick for days after she’d slept off the giddiness. Never could stomach fruit pies after that incident, either.

Which brought her back to the present. Clearly this dingy spot had to be Knockturn Alley. The single star visible through the clustered eaves signified that it was long past closing time at even the seediest pubs. Other than a vague sore spot over her breastbone, she didn’t seem to be injured. So she probably hadn’t been assaulted.

Her last memories were a haze. The crumbling towers of Hogwarts coupled with unbridled euphoria. Not a good sign, Trixie. Every time you surrender yourself to your natural exuberance, things tend to fall apart. Remember the Longbottoms.

Bollocks, it was hot! Humid, like there’d been a summer shower which had scurried away too soon. She’d always preferred winter; but considering that she hadn’t brought her tweed cloak, perhaps she shouldn’t complain about the season.

It was hardly surprising that the weather in London was so different from the Scottish Highlands. Never cared much for Scotland, anyway. A bunch of kilt-wearing savages when you got down to it. What sort of a man wrapped himself in warm woolens to stave off the perpetual cold and damp -- then left his bits dangling in the wind to prove his manhood? Absolute, barking lunatics!

Finding a bench nearby, Bella unlaced her boots and set them carefully aside before peeling off her leggings. The air circulating freely beneath her dark skirts was refreshing in the balmy weather. Not to mention the joy of wiggling her toes with abandon. With a practiced movement of her wand, she transfigured her boots into evening sandals of blackest suede to match the night sky. As an afterthought, she added a sprinkling of stars.

Rolling her leggings into a neat ball, she flicked her wand to shrink them into a more portable size. Like steam being forced through a narrow pipe, her wand sputtered and died. No spell, no matter how rudimentary, could get the obstinate stick to respond to her commands.

With an impatient scowl, she buckled the straps on her sandals by hand. Merlin, she hadn’t done that since she was a little girl. Even then, there were usually house-elves about who could be put to the task with a simple snap of their long, creepy fingers.

Fine, she’d just replace the sodding wand at Ollivanders. She could see a portion of the sign past the mouth of the alley. She abandoned her leggings behind a loose brick and strode purposely into the main thoroughfare.

Bugger! Ruddy Ollivanders is still restocking.

She peered through the glass in the next shop and it was much the same. A maze of scaffolding stretched the length of the cobblestones. It was hardly surprising considering the swath of destruction the Death Eaters had caused during their last rampage. A bunch of short-sighted blighters, in her opinion. If they put Diagon Alley out of business, where did they expect to find specialized wizarding gear? Just try finding a decent cauldron at Harrods, she dared them. They’d end up with a ceramic birdbath if they were lucky!

This was odd, she considered as she noticed the sign for the Three Broomsticks. What happened to the Leaky Cauldron? Oh, well, businesses changed hands all the time. Perhaps someone had thought to reward Rosmerta for her superb actions while under the Imperius Curse.

She staggered into a small alcove as the tide of memories engulfed her. She’d been dueling with the Weasley girl, all fire and spit and self-righteous anger. The rosy dawn had been pouring in through the windows as the battle which had begun at midnight raged on. Mother Weasley had broken in and shoved her daughter aside, calling Bella a bitch in the process. Before Bella could frame a response, she’d been bowled over by a beam of green light.

Gingerly, Bella messaged the spot on her chest where that uncouth woman’s spell had connected, but the dull ache was already subsiding. Her outrage, on the other hand, was just gathering storm.

How dare that dumpy witch call her names! Why Molly Weasley was nothing more than a brooding cow consigned to disgorge ginger offspring until they burst the seams of their very household!

A lot of good it did her to think of a snappy comeback now, Bella berated herself. It had been hours, days, possibly even longer. It was always the same, though: quick with a hex, but slow with the scathing remark that would put her enemies off-balance.

How did Severus always manage it? Was it the elasticity of his deadly drawl that gave him extra seconds to compose his thoughts? Not entirely, she’d seen him shoot from the hip enough times to marvel at the accuracy of his acidic tongue. If sarcasm ruled the world, Severus Snape would have been the undisputed king. Even the cheeky students couldn’t keep up the invectives for hours on end. Right now, she could use a bit of the man’s dark irreverence to put the vagaries of the world into proper perspective.

Would Severus still be barricaded in the Headmaster’s Office, his candle burning late into the night as was his habit?

Bella could envision it so well, she focused with deliberation on the image. Her skirts floated in the warm air as her supple shoes guided her through the familiar spinning motion. She gritted her teeth with determination, but there was no tightening around her ribs to signal the start of a successful Apparition. With a weary sigh, she released her pent up breath and opened her eyes just in time to see the dark planks crisscrossing the walkway before her.

A detour around what looked like discarded railroad ties and she arrived on the backside of the buildings once more. Bella caught her breath as the pale moon illuminated the graceful spires of Hogwarts castle. To her right, the gilded letters of Honeyduke’s Emporium attested that she was standing in Hogsmeade village. But how could that be? She hadn’t Apparated anywhere. Or had she?

The feeling of disorientation increased as a short walk took her to the tall wrought iron gates topped with gaudy winged boars. She recalled a much longer walk from the school to the village in her youth; had it just been a product of shorter, schoolgirl strides?

The gate opened at her touch with no remnants of the mighty enchantments which had once made the school such an impenetrable fortress. Not even the slightest residual tingle as she ran her fingers lightly over the intricate metal tracings. A malfunctioning wand shouldn’t have prevented her from making contact with the familiar frisson of magic, even if she couldn’t bend it to her will at the moment.

Only a Muggle or a Squib could stroll so blithely up the incline to the massive front doors and she was neither, Bella reminded herself. Or was she? What did she really know about the inelegant hex that vile Weasel-woman had thrown her way?

Instead of clearing her head, the deep breaths of night air only made her thoughts whirl in all directions. As if she’d taken a long nap and was still half-caught up in the lingering dregs of dream logic.

Could she trust her last memories of the smoking edifice crumbling beneath the assault of vengeful giants? The persistent images in her mind faded before the reality of the impassive stone walls towering above her. Soundlessly, the massive oak doors opened into the cavernous entrance hall. More scaffolding and the absence of familiar paintings and furniture attested to a massive renovation here as well.

Of their own volition, her footsteps carried her past the torturous staircases and across the parapet gallery that led to the Headmaster’s Office. Although the wall brackets were empty of candles, enough moonlight pooled through the tall windows to light her way through a black and silver maze.

---

She woke up to the echo of her father’s voice inside her head: Things will straighten themselves out in the light of day. Just you wait and see, Trixie.

The settee that had once stood in Dumbledore’s office was comfortable enough. The rolled pillows at each end cushioned her head and the length had not been too confining for someone of Bella’s stature.

The brocade with golden bumblebees was a bit too overwrought for her liking, but somehow perfectly indicative of Dumbledore’s eclectic tastes. How the man could ever think his preferences were a secret was a mystery to Bella. Even among wizardkind, Dumbledore’s eccentricities stood out rather boldly.

The soft sunlight tickled Bella’s nose and made her sneeze, causing the dust motes to float in carefree spirals up the height of the tower portrait gallery. In the early light, she noticed a spidery confection of scaffolding snaking its way to the tower heights.

No wonder the portrait frames were empty of their inhabitants, Bella mused. She quickly smoothed her skirts to make her escape before she was likewise confronted with builder’s bums as far as the eye could see.

On a whitewashed wall near the dungeon entrance, she found a calendar of sorts with the days marked off. Suddenly the numbers stenciled above made sense even if they were out of order: 6/18. The deadline for the renovation was the 18th of June: inspectors would be touring the facility on the 17th for certain. And today was the 16th. She peered at the small scratchings in the box but could only make out: VIP tour.

Who was VIP? Victor somebody, most likely. Was he the new Minister for Magic? Virgil maybe. Either way, she didn’t know anyone by that name.

Which led to the next question: Which side had triumphed at the Battle of Hogwarts? Somebody surely; the ruins would have just lain dormant if the war had raged on.

She calculated that it had only been a little over a month since she had battled the Weasley woman. How clearly she remembered the bonfires of the Beltane celebrations they’d bypassed in the wilder parts of the land before reaching their destination in the Scottish foothills. That meant she had been knocked unconscious on the second of May.

She needed to find a newspaper of some sort. Review the lay of the land before she integrated herself into the new order. With the unerring sense of a born Slytherin, she knew that the true winners were those left alive at conflict’s end. Taking sides was a luxury she had enjoyed, but she had no desire to die for her convictions. Fighting was one thing; dying was quite another. Make no mistake about that.

It was still early enough that the dew hung wetly upon the grass as she made her way down to the school gates. The workmen would still be at breakfast, she considered as her stomach growled in commiseration. Perhaps she could circumvent any curious onlookers until she could devise an immediate plan of action.

The metal gates felt warmer this morning; but it was not the static charge of magic, just the gentle caress of morning sunlight. Surely the magical wards would not be reinstated until renovations were complete and the school staff returned. Otherwise, it would be a constant hazard with absent-minded workmen about.

Once again, she was caught short to see the wooden structures of Hogsmeade so near the school. The stumbling giants who had fought fearlessly for the Dark Lord must have squashed the original buildings beyond repair, she concluded. Likely churned up the land into a huge bog of sorts with their clumsy footsteps. Small wonder the entire village had relocated before rebuilding.

The bright red locomotive of the Hogwarts Express caught her eye as it waited patiently along a small branch of track. She hadn’t realized it was housed so near to Hogsmeade when not in use, but it didn’t surprise her that she had paid no attention during her youthful forays into the village. She had been more intent on checking out the available boys from Slytherin House and then claiming the roomy corner booth at the Three Broomsticks with her friends.

Or to make a clandestine visit to Honeyduke’s, knowing full well that her strict mother did not approve of candy and sweets for young ladies. She recalled fondly that her sisters also broke than cardinal rule more often than not; their shared guilt acting like a bond between them when they returned home at term’s end.

Around the corner, she was confronted with the empty bank of windows below the familiar Ollivanders signage. No wonder she’d been confused last night. There had been a different establishment next to Dervish & Banges before. She screwed up her features for a moment before deciding it was likely Gladrags Wizardwear. She had never frequented that store, anyway; her mother much preferred the tonier dress shops in Diagon Alley. No, wait, there was Gladrags across the street, the display in the window heralding party dresses geared to ingĂ©nues. She couldn’t fault them for trying to lure the ready-made customers from beyond the school gates.

After a bit of deliberation, her memory rewarded her with the name of the store which had once stood in Ollivanders’ stead: Sticks and Stones. How could she have forgotten such a pit of adolescent testosterone? Why half the students in Slytherin House were constantly trading the wizarding comics they’d purchased there.

On the far side of the High Street, she found the weathered bench where she had retooled her shoes the night before. The loose brick was now mortared securely in place and there was no sign of her leggings. She shrugged it off, thinking that she likely wouldn’t need warmer clothing for a while at least.

The need for a new wand, however, was more pressing. Why she would be at the complete mercy of any witch or wizard she encountered! Just because the area seemed to be deserted didn’t mean others wouldn’t show up as the day wore on. Peering past Ollivanders’ glass showed that more boxes were piled in the receiving area than the night before. If stock was arriving from the main store in London, then they would soon be opening their doors. Perhaps she could catch an employee while they were stocking shelves and conduct a quick bit of business.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be Ollivander himself, Bella considered with a small grimace. That man had strained her patience when he’d been accorded guest status at Malfoy Manor. If only she’d been allowed to encourage his cooperation at wand point. But no, he’d been simply locked away in the dungeon like an errant child banished to a corner.

More unsettling was the memory that Ollivander had escaped with Potter and crew. Did that mean that the other side had somehow managed to emerge victorious? There was no telling, she concluded. Ollivander was the premier wandmaker in all of Britain. Just as they’d been unable to exact any punishment for his prior sales of wands to Muggleborns, re-establishment of his business would be essential for both factions.

Not to mention that a savvy businessman like Ollivander was well aware of that. She could still recall his oily voice attempting to defend his actions before Lucius Malfoy.

“What would you have me do, sir?” he’d beseeched without the requisite humility that his ragged robes demanded. “I’m a businessman, nothing more. I’ve always abided by the laws that prohibited me from selling wands to non-humans such as goblins and such. But there was no restriction from making sales to Muggleborns when I conducted my transactions. Personal feelings aside, it’s not my business to inquire the buyer’s intent when he purchases a wand. Only that the instrument in question responds to his touch. It is not my practice to judge my customers.” In a bare whisper he’d added, “I’d be out of business if I did.”

“Does this mean you’re willing to cooperate with the Dark Lord’s wishes to craft specialized wands for the use of his army alone?” Yaxley growled impatiently.

“I wish to be allowed to practice my craft under less stressful conditions.” He’d held up his spindly hands to demonstrate how they were unsteady. “If the laws have been changed
.”

“You know very well it takes months, even years, to motivate those old bats to draft new legislation!” Bella raved. She raised her wand to emphasize the point, but Lucius grabbed her elbow in warning.

Ollivander’s woeful eyes had slowly surveyed his captors. “Without the backing of the law, what’s to keep others from accusing me of criminal acts?”

With an overblown sigh of regret, Lucius concluded, “We had hoped to convince you to see reason, Ollivander. Appeal to your pragmatism as a merchant. A gesture of goodwill that was obviously wasted!” Turning to Wormtail who was groveling in the corner, he barked, “Throw him in the dungeon until he reconsiders!”

In so many ways, that seemed a lifetime ago, Bella mused. Before she’d been cast into oblivion by that ghastly woman’s spell.

Determined to make the best of her current circumstances, Bella continued down the High Street and noted that all establishments seemed to be gearing up for the upcoming deadline. She was pleased to see that Zonko’s Joke Shop was back and not those ginger-haired upstarts who thought they were born comedians.

Garish to the point of lewdness, there was no other way to describe the Weasleys Wizard Wheezes store which had sprung like a violet fungus in Diagon Alley. Her nephew, Draco, had been bold enough to venture past their tasteless doors, but she had prudently kept her distance. Borgin & Burkes had more than enough gadgets for her liking, thank you very much. All it took was a little imagination to integrate them into a much more refined prank, to her way of thinking.

A long shadow fell across her back and she reveled in the brief respite from the relentless sun. Then, with dismay, she heard voices and the clatter of work boots on scaffolding. She made to duck away down the nearest side street, but she was too late to avoid notice.

“Hey, toots!” one of the workmen hailed her. “That’s a mighty fine outfit you’re sportin’. What’s say you and I share some dinner tonight?”

Recalling that she was still uncertain of her current status, Bella tempered her initial disdain with some difficulty. Pasting a smile across her lips, she slowly turned to face her tormentor.

She was unprepared for the white hot glare of the sun that caused her to stagger back a step. Shading her eyes, she allowed her gaze to rake over the three bricklayers. Clearly Muggles by the trowels they carried instead of wands.

“Sorry, mate,” Bella replied, hoping her voice didn’t betray her annoyance. “Married.” She held up her left hand, tilting it so the sun illuminated the gold ring.

The Muggle shrugged his broad shoulders in a mock apology of sorts. “Too bad,” he rejoined with a toothy grin. “Might have been fun to catch a bit of karaoke as well.”

“Did you hear that posh accent?” his companion whispered loudly. “Dead sexy, too.”

As flattering as their comments might be, Bella bristled at the thought of Muggles eating that uncouth Japanese food. Raw fish was for feeding to trained seals and walruses, not for civilized human beings. Not to mention that only barbarians used make-shift wands to consume their food. Muggles never changed. Always trying to emulate their betters and getting it dead wrong time and again. Good thing she’d been prudent enough to decline his invitation from the onset.

It wasn’t until the next day that she realized her own gaff. She was arrested by the bright images from one of those vertical Muggle pensieves that had just been activated throughout the village. An advert for a local establishment that offered karaoke entertainment, not food. The fishy stuff was called sushi, Bella belatedly recalled with a measure of chagrin.

She shook her head in consternation as she watched the hapless duo belt out songs as they held a sonorus stick up to their mouths. Leave it to Muggles to distort a perfectly acceptable activity like singing in the shower into an overblown group event! Public humiliation of the most tasteless sort. As if ‘electronical’ devices could hope to duplicate the well-known acoustic properties of tile enclosures, water, and steam.

She couldn’t help pondering what they’d think if she announced she was only in her best voice when unclothed?

With undying gratitude to J.K.Rowling for allowing me to breathe new life into the embers she left behind.

---

Two
Lestrange in a Strange Land



Merlin’s fur-lined nuts! There were Muggles everywhere!

After the third roadblock that she broke up, Bella abandoned any attempt to keep a pleasant expression on her face. Better to grace them with the scowl that their inconsiderate behavior merited. She was pleased to see how many, especially children, moved out of her path that way.

Was that endless queue leading to Ollivanders? Bloody hell! What did all these Muggles want with wands anyway? Wave about a gnarled stick from the playground for all the magic they were likely to conjure up! Save a few galleons in the process, too.

Now, Trixie, her father’s mellow voice sounded in her ear, all dogs like to have their toys. You wouldn’t want them to chew on your slippers, now would you?

Perhaps if she blasted a few of them in the arse, they’d expedite their selections. Make that: prod them in the arse, she corrected herself with a grunt of displeasure. Her own wand wasn’t much good for anything else these days. That’s what she got for using one of Narcissa’s castoffs. It was long past time she replaced her stalwart walnut model since that blood traitor and his fuzzy-haired harridan had made off with it.

Those in queue made way for her to march to the front of the line without complaint. Probably thought she was the proprietress come with the key ring to open up. Much to her dismay, the queue snaked past the open archway and into the darkened shop interior.

Well, they were barking mad if they expected her to sandwich herself between badly-dressed Muggles and wait until she died of old age! She’d found her first grey hair last week and she was not about to watch the rest grow in while she twiddled her useless wand.

With sudden inspiration, Bella bustled around to the end of the lane and worked her way to the employee entrance. The Muggle who’d decided to rebuild each establishment so that it butted up against its neighbor was a royal idiot! Sure, nobody liked alleyways, but they were a necessary fact of life. Access, egress, and a place for the rubbish cans.

Bella was stumped. The side of the last building was connected to the wooden restraining fence, yet she was certain she’d seen the small slivers of private courtyards from the castle ramparts. The benches of the employee smoking area were unmistakable.

A a fellow Insider emerging from a nearby wooded area gave Bella an alternate idea. She’d just have to use the Muggle Floo system that accessed various parts of the village from a series of underground tunnels. Forget that it made her feel like an errant gopher for resorting to such an inelegant mode of travel. Of course Bella knew that Hogwarts castle was riddled with similar magical passageways, but she’d never fancied having to deal with the spiderwebs and other obstacles that likely loitered within.

If it wasn’t for her sodding wand, she’d just Apparate onto the back patio. Hell, if it wasn’t for her wand, she could bypass Ollivanders entirely!

Luckily, Muggles were squeamish as well as geographically challenged and she found the prosaic underground chutes and ladders meticulously labeled. Scrabbling up the narrow steps, she emerged in the back room of the store itself.

Hidden behind a tower of boxes, Bella hesitated as she heard the drone of voices from the next room. She remained perfectly still for a few more moments, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the low light. Luckily, there were no other noises to indicate that anyone was stocking the nearby shelves. Admittedly, a Disillusionment Charm would’ve been ideal and once again Bella silently cursed her wanking wand.

Standing up, she was barely tall enough to see over the stack. But really, didn’t one bunch of boxes look the same as another? The narrow shelves that she recalled once rose to a height of twelve feet or more were absent. Nothing but smooth walls and boxes stacked in various rows along the floor. Likely, the interior renovations were incomplete, Bella decided. Can’t very well store the inventory without proper cubbies.

On the far side of the narrow room, an arched doorway with a brocade curtain beckoned like the maw of some foreign beast.

Get a hold of yourself, Trixie. Since when are you the nervous type? Acting like that imbecile Longbottom offshoot just because you’re surrounded by hordes even more inept at magic?

So what if the resemblance to the Veil of Death was uncanny? Most of it was a trick of the shadows, anyway. Yet there had been voices drifting from that damnable arch in the Department of Mysteries as well.

Get a grip, Trixie. So afraid you’re going to come face to face with your cousin, Sirius, on the other side? He’ll be the first wizard you’ve seen in days, won’t he?

How hard would it be to be to wrestle a ghost to the ground, anyway?

At the first sign of a hand pulling back the curtain, Bella crouched down and held her breath. She could hear footsteps and snatches of humming. Then a woman’s voice breathed, “There you are, you little devil!” Stealthily, Bella watched the retreating back of the employee return to the front of the store with her prize in hand.

Bella flattened herself against the wall and inched as close to the curtain as she dared. The voices were much clearer as she allowed the clerk to complete her transaction. Taking a deep breath for courage, Bella boldly pushed the curtain aside and strode into the next room.

It was as if she had stepped back in time. Here were the shelves stretching at impossible angles all the way up the walls and into portions of the gabled ceiling. A spindly ladder of metal and wood ran along castors the breadth of the shelves. Vividly, Bella remembered Mr. Ollivander himself scrambling like a spider to retrieve wand after wand for her to sample. Behind the counter that had reached to her eleven-year-old chin, a woman with long brown hair was dressed in elaborate wizarding garb that cinched her waist to an impossibly tiny radius. Even at a distance, Bella could tell by the way she handled the wands that she did not feel the pent up energy within their cores.

The pretend-witch looked up at Bella’s entrance and blinked her eyes in surprise. Meanwhile, the queuing Muggles issued a murmur of anticipation. Bella focused on the shopgirl and ignored the jostling of bodies through the front window as everyone vied for a ringside seat.

“I need to replace my wand,” Bella announced. A bit lame, but to the point.

“You’ve certainly come to the right place,” the shopgirl replied with an overly perky smile. “Ollivanders is known throughout the wizarding world.”

Just wait ‘til I get my hands on a new wand, Bella promised herself gleefully. Aloud, she issued, “Mr. O is out, then?”

Only a brief hesitation indicated that the clerk had not expected that. “He’s minding the premises in Diagon Alley,” she improvised.

“This shouldn’t be too difficult then,” Bella crooned. “I just need a replacement wand, same as before. The name’s Bellatrix Lestrange. It should be in your records.”

The whispers in the audience indicated that the name was well-known to them, if not to this saccharine poseur behind the counter. Bella licked her lips in anticipation as she tasted the keenness of the spectators in the charged atmosphere.

“Those parchments are still in Diagon Alley, I’m afraid. Our owl shipment of the copies was delayed due to the extraordinary distances involved.”

How far could it be from Hogsmeade to London? Bella pondered, but decided to cut the chit some slack. At least until she got her hands on a proper wand.

“Perhaps I can refresh your memory,” Bella coaxed as she allowed her fingers to caress the counter’s edge with unmistakable menace. She waited for the shopgirl to gulp noticeably before adding, “Walnut, dragon heartstring core, twelve and three-quarters inches.”

“Let me check in the back,” the shopgirl made as if to escape.

With lightning quick reflexes, Bella blocked her way before the fluttering brocade cloth. “Not so fast. Check those shelves behind you.”

Inches from Bella’s face, the shopgirl faltered. “There’s nothing there,” she supplied in a bare whisper.

“Have you checked?” Bella insisted lowly.

Barely moving her lips, the clerk explained, “It’s nothing but fake fronts. Nobody wanted to dust individual boxes up to the ceiling at day’s end.”

“I see,” Bella whispered. She spun around to peer at the towering rows of imitation wand boxes. In a voice loud enough to carry, she instructed, “I believe Mr. O kept the hardwood wands in this section to your far left.” She pointed with her defective wand for emphasis. Finally, something the bothersome stick could do.

“But you already have a wand,” the shopgirl sputtered as she took in the rapt faces of the audience for the first time.

“It’s defective,” Bella pronounced. “Couldn’t wring water from a rain cloud.”

“Could you demonstrate?” the clueless clerk suggested.

Bella swept her hawklike gaze over the assembled minions, lingering every few faces or so to heighten the suspense. “Any volunteers?” she drawled with a fair imitation of Severus’ inimitable timing.

As one, the crowd gasped and took a noticeable step backwards. Or rather tried to, as they were too tightly packed to allow for much movement at all.

Good, Bella thought with a wicked smirk. Lesson one: don’t corner your enemy unless you want them to fight back.

“No one wants to play?” Bella urged with barely banked glee.

“Not with a defective wand, I’m sure,” the clerk found her voice once more. “No one wants to regurgitate slugs for the remainder of the day!”

The youngest faces screwed up with displeasure and then smiled in anticipation.

“Perhaps something innocuous then,” Bella allowed as she racked her brain for a show-stopper. “Reducto!” she intoned, thrusting her wand towards the front display window.

The few alert ones in the audience covered their heads, but they needn’t have bothered. With a dyspeptic spray of red sparks, the wand mocked Bella with its total worthlessness. Even so, the Muggles cooed on cue as even the shopgirl gasped in delight.

“How did she do that?” a little boy implored as he turned beseeching eyes upon his father. “This one’s brand new and it doesn’t do squat!” He brandished a newly purchased wand with a tiny grimace.

With impeccable acumen, the lad’s mother interjected, “That’s because she’s been to Hogwarts, sweetie. Like any skill, you have to take lessons before you can work magic.”

“Let’s go then!” the little imp demanded as he tugged on her sleeve. With an indulgent look, his father eased a little girl from his arms back into the pram before him.

“That’s right, folks,” the shopgirl announced as she resumed her place behind the counter. “Shopping for a wand is just the first step in a long journey. Everyone has to mind their lessons at school – wizards included.”

As the Muggles reshuffled into a vague queue, the pseudo-witch motioned the next group forward.

Bella was closest to the main door as the other group started the stream out. “Just remember the name,” she declared with an evil smirk. “Bellatrix Lestrange. Trouble-makers and other volunteers welcome day and night!”

But instead of being intimidated, many of the impertinent Muggles gathered ‘round her instead, peppering her with questions until she didn’t know which way to turn. Quite a number of them pressed paper bills into her hands and pockets, whispering that she was ‘first rate’ and ‘the best yet.’

A bit overwhelmed, Bella escaped to the back of the shop just as the clerk entered looking for some inventory.

“You really were great!” she whispered with a broad smile. “Even had me convinced!” Seeing the Muggle money poking in all directions, she handily plucked the bills from Bella’s person and arranged them into a neat stack. Handing them back, she breathed, “We’re not really supposed to accept tips, but I won’t rat you out. You more than deserve it.”

Caught speechless, Bella barely managed to croak, “What about my wand?”

The clerk shrugged easily. “Take whichever you need as a prop; I’ll surplus it out. But I doubt any will work as well as that one. Those special effects geeks really outdid themselves this time.”

Still reeling from a sense of unreality, Bella dutifully worked her way through all the narrow boxes stacked within larger boxes arranged on movable pallets. Every single wand was a dud. No wonder Ollivander didn’t show his face!

But then again, he was selling useless wands to Muggles who couldn’t work magic. Why expend costly core materials when they would be just as inert in Muggle hands? The well-worn platitude about selling iceboxes to dementors came to mind as Bella considered that perhaps Ollivander had more business acumen that she’d originally supposed.

By late afternoon, Bella’s random entrance had been incorporated as part of the day’s schedule. Workers had secured the brass lantern which hung on a long chain to swing alarmingly from the ceiling’s apex each time Bella issued her Reductor curse. The shopgirl winked as she practiced working the tiny switch secreted in her pocket.

Great! Bella moaned to herself. She was matched with a lightweight poseur in the bargain. Granted, it was a definite improvement over Wormtail.

But it still didn’t solve her problem with her defective wand!

---

The fly in the pudding was so barking obvious. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Bella berated herself as she settled down to a nice plate of fish and chips behind the Three Broomsticks.

How did all these Muggles become so alarmingly familiar with the workings of the wizarding world? Not all, but many, even expected spells to yield tangible results. Yet she saw no evidence that anyone, herself included, could wield magic in this place.

Had those idiots in Potter’s entourage been successful against the Dark Lord then? Bella couldn’t imagine anyone other than those Neanderthals being short-sighted enough to abolish the Statute of Secrecy seemingly overnight.

Don’t jump to conclusions, Trixie. Why aren’t Muggles clamoring to learn magic? Has anyone threatened to imprison or torture you if you don’t share your secrets with them?

Not really. The prevailing attitude among the Muggles was one of playfulness, nothing more. As if they were all sharing a cosmic joke.

If there was no magic, then there would be no need for secrecy. Of course, then there would be no witches or wizards, either.

But how could magic be abolished? No government could pass an edict that superseded the laws of nature. No one had that kind of unlimited power. And surely, it was in the Dark Lord’s interest for magic to exist. Without it, he lost his hold over just about everybody, Death Eaters included. Without magic, the Dark Lord was nothing but a noseless carnival oddity.

Bella racked her brain, but no explanation made any sense. She needed to find a newspaper as soon as possible. Even a Muggle newspaper would allow her a few meager clues with which to begin.

Her patience was rewarded the next afternoon. One of the workers still toiling in restricted areas took a short lunch break and pulled out a rolled up newspaper from his rucksack. From a distance, she could only make out a portion of the title on the masthead: Orlando.

Almost immediately, she discounted that it was the name of the writer. So it had to be the name of a city. Somewhere in Italy, perhaps. Certainly the intensity of the summer sun was consistent with her memories of the Amalfi coast during her honeymoon years before. Many local residents were golden skinned like the residents of the Mediterranean. Problem was nobody was speaking Italian. Granted, Rodolphus had always insisted that the main problem with Italy was that it was full to bursting with Italians. It had seemed inordinately funny over endless goblets of local wine.

Bella held her breath as the construction worker finished with his paper and tossed it into the dustbin. It would not be there for more than a minute before the relentless sanitation workers spirited it away.

The instant the workman was out of view, Bella pounced upon the dustbin and retrieved her treasure. Certain that the spot was out of view of the Muggle crowds, she smoothed out the pages on the bench before her.

It couldn’t be! Her imagination reeled from the reality that was stamped underneath the banner. It couldn’t be 2010! It was ruddy impossible! She hadn’t aged a day and now she was supposed to accept that over a decade had passed? While she took a little nap, it would seem.

Well, no wonder everything seemed different, she mused. Almost familiar and yet not quite so. That alone was a clear symptom of the passage of time. Nothing ever stayed the same.

She stoically squared her chin before delving further. Lots of drivel about wars and government spending and corrupt politicians. Admittedly, some things never changed.

Nothing about any sites in Britain, no familiar names. Then what part of the English-speaking world was this? Where was this ‘Florida’ that kept cropping up everywhere?

Like gazing into a faded photograph, she reviewed the stultifying geography lessons of her youth. Another of her mother’s ill-conceived attempts to educate her girls before they were shipped off to Hogwarts. The region of Florida was located in America, across a vast ocean from the seemingly insignificant island of Britain as seen on the globe. Bella was across the pond, as the expression went. A land very different from Britain – despite the commonality of language.

But she didn’t remember anything about magic not existing here. Vaguely she recalled the name of a wizarding school, the Yank counterpart to Hogwarts. Was it in Sleepy Hollow? Yes, that was it!

Of course, there was magic in America! There had to be. Magic existed the world over; her mother had been very clear about that. Magical spells and customs varied from one culture to the other, but magical children were born the world over. Not in large numbers -- wizards were still a fragile minority by all counts -- but their existence was universal.

It had to be. How could a country which had originated the term ‘witch-hunt’ not have a few of those very creatures among its population?

But if there were any magical beings in the vast continent in which she found herself, Bella had yet to find a sign. Perhaps they had been wiped out by an epidemic of some sort: dragon pox, malaria, rabies. Now that would have been news to the rest of the world. Surely something worthy of interest in the Daily Prophet
.only the story would have likely run a number of years ago.

How’s that for circuitous logic, Trixie? If you had access to the Daily Prophet archives, you wouldn’t have been digging for some Muggle’s discards in the dustbin, now would you?

Maybe it was just the province of Florida that was a wasteland, Bella postulated. That name, too, elicited half-buried memories of childhood. This time is was her father speaking, expounding upon the virtues of the Statute of Secrecy. That had been a favorite topic of his.

As a case in point, he’d told his three daughters that a rather befuddled Italian named Christopher Columbus had attempted to glorify his name in history by sailing past the edge of the known ocean. His own sovereigns had thought him mad and laughed him out of the palace, but he soon found a sponsor in the Queen of Spain. Instead of winning her over with the promise of riches or an expanding empire or even a new source of servants, however, he had promised her magic. He was going to find the fabled fountain of youth so that the Empire of Spain, and its current queen, could rule forever. But as yet another example of Muggles’ unquenchable desire to harness magic for their own use, Columbus had died a broken man. It didn’t matter to him that he had found a new continent, land as far as the eye could see. He hadn’t found the fountain of youth. The area he’d visited was christened Florida for its lush vegetation.

If only old Chris could see what the last five hundred years had wrought, Bella considered wryly. Why these very islands on which someone had somehow rebuilt or transported Hogwarts and its environs had a bubbling fountain in the very center. Likely it was a Muggle invention; but as an homage to Columbus, it worked very well indeed. Face it, Chris: like many others, you were simply born in the wrong place and time!

Now that she had some answers, Bella was still uncertain where she fit in. There was still that nagging fear that Molly Weasley’s curse had somehow changed her into a Squib. It had transported her through time and space certainly enough. Could it also change the fundamental structure of her genes? Especially for Bella, that last one was a tough swallow.

Homesick, she decided. It was no more than ordinary homesickness. If she could just get back to her familiar haunts, everything would be sorted. Well, as sorted as they could be after twelve years’ time! Face it, Bella, you’re buggered!

With a long suffering sigh, Bella chafed at the notion that she’d have to earn a tremendous amount of gratuities before she could afford a transoceanic flight. She shuddered at the thought of being enclosed shoulder-to-shoulder with Muggles for hours on end with no escape in sight other than flushing herself down the loo. Best conform to current circumstances, she concluded. They really weren’t so bad.

Sure, she was in a plasticine environment surrounded by Muggles; but some of them, the Insiders as she’d dubbed them, weren’t so bad. They had certainly adapted to her eccentricities easily enough, even though they still thought of her as Angie Underwood, a method actress from New York City who had initially wired that she had landed a part off-Broadway and would be unable to accept this post. When Bella arrived in her stead, the reviewing committee had been so impressed by her authenticity that she had easily played along as if Angie had suffered a last minute disappointment in New York. Such tales were all too common in theatre communities the world over.

Her new colleagues had readily acknowledged that she wished to be called Bella at all times. Perhaps ‘B’ for short when they were alone, but never in front of the Visitors. It was an exercise in not breaking character for any reason, and Bella had been praised lavishly for her unwavering professionalism.

Even more surprising was that they had accepted her unequivocally. The caustic manner that her mother had dubbed antisocial they found to be immensely droll. They would laugh uproariously at her unique takes on life, even in those instances where the peculiarities of the Muggle world seemed incomprehensible to Bella. Her aphorisms often created a new lexicon of expressions that enhanced, rather than detracted, from the wizarding world they were studiously trying to emulate.

The first case had been when she discovered that the local premises of Gringotts Wizarding Bank were rather abbreviated, to say the least. Granted, there had never been a Gringotts in Hogsmeade when she was at school. She was absolutely certain of that even though most students rarely did their own banking. As it happened, Bella did. Or rather, her parents had encouraged her to interact with the goblins herself from a tender age. Why entering the bastion of money and privilege, as her father liked to say, always made Bella stand taller as the scion of a pureblood wizarding family. Even if she hadn’t needed to make a withdrawl, Bella would certainly have ventured inside any Hogsmeade branch for the simple pleasure of soaking up the atmosphere of wealth.

But as always in the new-and-improved Hogsmeade, as Bella had come to think of it, things were often less than what she expected. After waiting for a long queue of sightseeing Muggles to dissipate, Bella walked up to find that there was no bank at all. No marble floors, no golden cages behind which the crafty goblins sized up their customers, no sounds of the beaded counting devices used for toting up accounts. It was nothing but a tiny cubicle with a metal Muggle contraption that she had tagged ‘the aluminium goblin.’

Her co-workers had found her comments uniquely insightful and appropriated the term for their own use almost immediately. Some were even so detailed-oriented as to copy her singularly British pronunciation which added the additional ‘i’ that was omitted in common American parlance.

Even her living accommodations were not as unsettling as one supposed. She had her locker located along the underground ‘Floo’ network with everyone else. Surprisingly, the greenish wall tint reminded her of how the lighting in the Slytherin Common Room had been enhanced by the algae-festooned lake. Why it was just like trudging down the dungeon stairs in her youth, the camaraderie of the other Insiders not unlike that of her school chums.

She had declined the offers to share a suite in a lush ‘condo’ (whatever that was) with a group of females. She needed to get away from Muggles at the end of the day, not rub elbows with them in an even more disconcerting environment. She’d flashed her wedding band as an excuse and they had relented. Bella still shuddered at the photos they’d shared: all those tiny units crammed into close proximity, neighbors above, below, and to either side. To tell the truth, it had conjured up images of gigantic termite colonies in Africa, but Bella had not shared that with them. Somehow she had sensed that would be going too far – even if it was her unvarnished opinion.

Instead, she opted to find what accommodations she could within Hogwarts castle itself. There were certainly enough dead ends and alcoves that were only peripherally visible from the snaking Muggle queue. The furniture was comfortable enough and it made Bella feel that she was returning to familiar surroundings. As long as she picked up thoroughly behind herself, no one was the wiser.

And of course there had been the unforgettable incident with the self-acknowledged trouble-makers which had become legendary in a trice.

Once again, Bella had been caught short by the incomprehensible behavior of Muggles in general. Instead of taking her ritual warning at the end of the Ollivanders’ shtick as a sign to steer clear, a group of three gormless teenagers had actually sought her out in an unguarded moment.

Right in the midst of the milling herds in the High Street, the rogues had accosted her.

“Bella,” they brazenly intoned. “We’ve found you a volunteer. One who needs a bit of disciplining.”

She’d ignored the blatant innuendo as the crowd gave them a measure of space before jostling into a large circle to better view the floor show.

Bella looked the lads over with a contemptuous glare that just made them smile even more giddily. The two smaller ones shoved their wide-shouldered comrade forward and pointed their new wands at his mid-section for good measure. She sneered at the ragged trainers and short trousers that seemed to be the current uniform. The tops of his thighs and shoulders looked as if they’d encountered a malfunctioning rotisserie.

“We need you to sort him out, just like you said,” the small wiry one whined.

Actually, she’d said no such thing, not in so many words at least. In a land where the term ‘sort’ often conjured images of a three-legged stool and a ragged hat, she was not about to fall into that trap. But she had asked for volunteers – never expecting anyone would be stupid enough to come forth. Obviously, she had underestimated the depths of their self-destructive tendencies.

Bella could feel the intensity of a hundred eyes boring into her back as she circled the ragged trio. The spectators were clamoring for blood – or its equivalent. But without a functioning wand, she had only her words and attitude to convey the proper menace.

Boldy, she stepped up to the largest lad and placed her wand underneath his chin for emphasis. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing at children’s games?” she glowered.

He stared her down truculently. “The same could be said for you, sister.”

The crowded cooed their approval with whistles and catcalls.

“You’ve long out-grown the title of trouble-maker,” she hissed.

“How so?” the third companion demanded as he lowered his fake wand in confusion.

“Trouble-makers are this tall,” Bella spat as she held her hand about a meter above the pavement.

“What about this height?” The Muggle used his wand to indicate an imaginary spot a short measure above Bella’s hand.

“Miscreants,” Bella supplied.

Another notch higher the wand pointed.

“Reprobates.”

Next level.

“Hooligans.”

At Bella’s shoulder now.

“Delinquents.”

A few inches above Bella’s head and she growled, “Insurgents – and well beyond my sphere of influence.” She deflected the wand with her own as if it were nothing more than a bothersome midge, which it was to Bella’s thinking. “At his age, you might as well buy him a black beret and be done with it!”

The companions chuckled at their mate’s expense.

“Always said you were hopeless, Bryce,” the wiry one attested.

Catching the eyes of the crowd, Bella intoned, “And if it’s sorting you gentlemen seek, I suggest you get yourselves a singing hat from Zonko’s.” At the tittering of laughter at her back, she added wryly, “Just don’t complain if it rejects you outright. Just because you place the Sorting Hat on a...” She hesitated as she took in his pasty jowls. “
bullfrog doesn’t mean that he’ll be accepted into Hogwarts’ hallowed halls.”

All three of the teenagers bent over with laughter as the spectators applauded with enthusiasm. With a disdainful toss of her long hair, Bella stalked past the edges of the crowd and dove for cover in one of the employee areas.

Within the hour, the insult du jour had spread like wildfire and Bella found herself striking up similar disparaging comparisons with all manner of wildlife. A feckless fox, a bull-headed moose, and a lugubrious anteater all felt the sting of Bella’s tongue.

She was enjoying herself immensely.

Disclaimer: With undying gratitude to J.K.Rowling for allowing me to breathe new life into the embers she left behind.

---

Act III
Another Fish in the Pond



Bella gasped at the words that she was obviously not meant to hear. How dare that dreadful woman judge her? She was her own person, always had been. Never one to steal ideas or fads or anything from others. Leave that to the lemmings who didn’t know what to think of things until someone else told them. Bella had always come to her own conclusions. If she was wrong-footed, then it was her own fault. Not the fault of following in some self-anointed expert’s footsteps.

Deep breaths, Trixie! You’re jumping to conclusions again. Step back and analyze this piece by piece.

Recognizing the sincerity of her father’s advice, Bellatrix allowed herself to review the events of the day.

It had started ordinarily enough. Her walk to the Three Broomsticks for some sticky buns and tea had been interrupted by the now familiar hail from the rooftops.

“Hullo, duckie!” one of them called in a fair approximation of a Grosvenor Square dialect. It had become a ritual of sorts, inoffensive when you got down to it. So Bella assumed the polite smile her mother had instilled upon her as a small child and waved back. Then averting her eyes, she kept right on with her business.

She’d taken a seat with the other Insiders who were chatting away at speeds not visible to the human eye. Bella didn’t mind; it was a lot like the Great Hall in the mornings, a backdrop for her thoughts as she sipped her tea. Everyone was in an uproar about an inspection tour that was being planned for later that day by some bigwig. Bella didn’t recognize the name. Concentrating on zeroing in on one conversation to the exclusion of all others, she was stumped when the big boss was identified by initials only.

What was it with the epidemic of acronyms that had infested these Muggles? Communicating by some arbitrary code and depending upon each other to guess at their meaning. Absolutely barking mad! At least a foreign language came with a dictionary, but not so for these abbreviations. Bella had given up guessing only to be dead wrong more often than not. She allowed the meaningless syllables to float over her head like troublesome insects, not letting them dampen her spirits one bit. If it was that important they would use genuine, recognizable words.

Well, bigwigs were all the same when you got down to it. Compared to the scrutiny and invasive mental prodding she’d suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord, facing a Muggle would be a walk in the park. No ritual Cruciatus Curse for dessert, either.

All the establishments in Hogsmeade village were closing early today in honor of the event, Bella noted. Was this some Muggle holiday she didn’t know about? It just meant she could relax in her own den sooner rather than later.

As the appointed hour drew near, all the Insiders were lined up along the High Street much as if they were to be reviewed by Queen Elizabeth herself. Or perhaps like noble landowners who had their staff muster before their guests. Narcissa had mooned over pictures of such over-blown house parties before their mother had warned her that no witch or wizard wished to be confronted by an army of ugly house-elves. Unlike in the Muggle world, an invisible staff was the hallmark of a well-run wizard’s estate.

It was a small retinue that worked its way down the line, stopping to review clipboards and mostly commenting among themselves. All smiles and murmured words of encouragement. A few notes for the Wardrobe Department. In a matter of minutes, it was all over and the Heads moved on to review each of the Hogsmeade businesses in turn.

It was only later when Bella had been relaxing in a dark corner of the Hog’s Head Tavern that she’d overheard the tantalizing words.

“What did you think of our Bellatrix?” a man’s voice inquired.

Bella drew into the shadows, wishing she could make her escape -- yet being tempted to eavesdrop as never before.

A woman’s light-hearted laughter. “That selection alone should garner you a rise or bonus,” came the familiar cadences of the Queen’s English. “She’s exactly as I created her in my imagination!”

The back door to the pub creaked open and made Bella jump. Realizing that her only opportunity for escape was when the bartender refreshed the bosses’ drinks, she retreated like a wraith into the back room and down the subterranean ladder to her familiar locker.

Bella took deep breaths to calm her rapidly beating heart. Who was this mysterious woman who had traveled across the ocean to oversee the rebuilding of Hogwarts? No one she’d ever met before, that was certain. And from the brief hand-shake she’d accorded to Bella, it was clear that no magic ran through her bloodstream, either.

Perhaps she was a ruddy Squib, Bella pondered. One who had visited Hogsmeade in the company of wizards and then sold their secrets to investors in another continent. Yes, it fit the facts, but it was unlikely that construction on such a massive scale could have been hidden from the wizarding world.

But to claim credit for Bella’s creation, that was really the limit! Even her own parents wouldn’t be arrogant enough to make such a statement.

Ah, Trixie, her father sighed. You’re being too literal. Don’t you remember that enchanting tale that I used to read you and Andie at bedtime? Back when Cissy was being rocked to sleep in the next room.

It could have been anything. Her father had boasted an extensive library of obscure texts from the darkest corners of the world. He was a walking encyclopedia of wizarding lore, or so it had seemed to his favorite child.

Luckily, the memory spooled as if on cue. The stories of the humble bushmen from the African desert who squatted around a fire because their culture had never developed chairs. They imagined that their lives were nothing but the dream of the Dreamer, as they referred to their supreme diety.

Ha! Bella scoffed. Nothing but a dream, you say? Tell me this: could they fly at will in their dreams?

I doubt it, but the Dark Lord himself learned to fly. So that ability would not be a dream invention for wizards. You’ll have to think of something else to use as your barometer.

Can they stretch their limbs to enormous length and then twist them into strange shapes? Bella countered.

Is that something you could do? Ever?

Well, certainly not without a wand. And frankly, she’d never tried in her previous existence.

Then you can’t really say, can you? But consider this: wouldn’t the ability to draw magic through a stick at will seem like something out of a dream to Muggles?

But it isn’t! Bella insisted. I do it
 I used to do it all the time.

Not anymore! the familiar baritone mocked her softly. So how do you really know you’re not the dream and a right Muggle isn’t the Dreamer?

It was a disconcerting theory, but only that: a theory. It certainly shut the door on recapturing her old life, though. Why she’d have to climb into that Muggle woman’s head all over again. Preposterous! Her father was just teasing her as he’d done when she was a child. She remembered the heated discussions that used to emanate from the library when the old Knights of Walpurgis gathered at the Black residence. Only the men participated, of course; the women and children indulged themselves in a more genteel manner. Intellectual debate was the realm of men, she learned early enough. And she knew that her father was not above sparking controversy with his far-flung bits of esoteric knowledge.

Let it go, Trixie. If it was that important the self-proclaimed Queen would’ve said so to your face.

Probably just some asinine Muggle expression that she’d never heard before, Bella agreed. There were certainly enough of them. Slang that changed from day to day, it would seem. Sometimes, it was arguable whether they were speaking the same bloody language!

Like that one time she’d overheard some Insiders talking about ‘the Mouse.’ As if he were a monarch in his own right.

When she’d inquired further, she’d been told, “He runs the kingdom next door.”

Next door? So they were in a patchwork of principalities. She could deal with that.

“How far away is next door?” she pressed.

“Ten or twenty miles to the west.”

Not that she had any idea of what constituted a Muggle unit of distance.

Seeing her confusion, the Insider relented with, “Far enough that it’s over the horizon.”

Finally, something on which to hang her robes. “Is this Mouse fellow a benign ruler?”

“An autocrat to hear Jeremy tell it! Said he was so glad to be working with normal people once again.”

So the Mouse was a petty tyrant, the words echoed inside Bella’s head, making her feel as if her extremities were encased in snow. From a nightmarish reality, the pinched features of Peter Pettigrew swam into focus.

A rat is not a mouse, Trixie.

But could she really rely on an ordinary Muggle to make that distinction?

Biting her lip in apprehension, Bella proffered, “Does this Mouse have a first name?”

“Mickey.”

From a different side came, “Michael, if you want to know the man behind the mask.”

So it was an Animagus, Bella nodded wordlessly. Just as long as his name wasn’t Peter!

---

Just a few days later, Bella’s serenity was threatened once again as she felt another presence behind her. She whipped about to face her assailant but it was just a group of lads intent on hexing one another. Good thing those elaborate carved sticks Ollivanders was peddling these days were child-proof, she noted wryly. Only in darker days could she have made them howl for real – and she doubted they would’ve derived as much enjoyment from it.

“Well, hello there,” the disembodied voice rang from the shadowy eaves adjoining Honeydukes Sweetshop.

Bella froze in her tracks. That silky cadence
no, it couldn’t be. In one fluid motion she spun around into a crouching position, her wand at the ready. But there was no one there.

Jumpy today, aren’t you, Trixie? Guilty thoughts or just plain boredom this time?

Disregarding her father’s commentary, Bella focused on the source of the voice. It was certainly sinister enough. She could just make out a few syllables every once in a while through the incessant chatter of the High Street. Then a full-throated laugh rang out to put her doubts aside.

Not even in his childhood had the Dark Lord ever indulged in such an open display of 
of what exactly? Happiness? Abandon?

Self-indulgence, she decided as she caught sight of the tall man who had sparked her curiosity. He was carrying on an avid conversation with himself apparently! At the last moment, Bella noticed the portable device pressed to his ear. Another victim of Instant Owling, as she’d come to call the obsession that had claimed just about everyone around her.

The Visitors indulged themselves quite openly. Companions carrying on separate conversations with absent others even as they held hands with one another. The Insiders had to be more circumspect, scurrying into the private areas where they partook of other behaviors which were no longer socially acceptable -- such as smoking.

Well, her mother would have been relieved that multiple Scourgifying spells were no longer necessary to ease the stale cigar smell out of her favorite clothing. Bella could still recall her mum’s recurring rant about those who couldn’t wait to be alone in the loo only to light up a smoke while they conducted their business. Well, the Yanks had managed to outlaw that; their delicate nostrils were no longer accosted by the smell of ash and smoldering tobacco.

Now if only they could do something about the noise pollution! At what point would the very air become saturated with the endless one-sided prattle? Bella mused darkly. She could envision panes of air falling about them like ice sheets when the airwaves could not longer support the blatant abuse. Not even the preening announcers on the Wizard Wireless Network could go on about inane subjects for hours on end – and that was really saying something!

All sorts of private issues were discussed in the open air as if no one but the recipient at the end of the line could overhear. Wake up! No one cares about your meaningless life, but do you really have to subject us to it? Better to leave strangers with the impression that you’re not a total tosser.

Granted, some parasitic gossip like that infernal Skeeter woman would’ve been beside herself with joy! What would these chatter-bugs think once their lives were emblazoned on parchment for the whole world to see?

Probably nothing, Bella decided. Discretion was a thing of the past, an anachronistic concept that had fallen by the wayside in the age of instant information. Why some Muggles posted their daily hum-drum activities on bulletin boards for the world to see! From the few glimpses Bella had gotten over others’ shoulders, it was surprisingly similar to a primer geared to first-time readers.

But as far as Bella could tell just about everyone had their own Pocket Owl. No cage or fear of droppings in this world. Convenience with a perpetual price tag, Bella had come to realize. At least at Eeylops Emporium, a person had only to plunk down his galleons and walk out with his prize. The only commitment involved was a bit a cage cleaning and the occasional box of owl nuts. Not so with these Instant Owls that required an endless influx of coins before they would glow with life. Their ghostly blue-eyed stare was a sad substitute for the amber beacons of flesh and blood owls.

Besides, being at another’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day was grossly overrated. Granted, she’d once allowed herself to be branded for that very same reason, but the Dark Lord had exercised enough sense to not summon his followers at ten minute intervals. Not that she’d stopped wondering what had happened to the Death Eaters. The fading tattoo on her forearm was enough to establish that the previous chapter in her life had been real enough.

Had the Dark Lord assumed control only to be deposed a few years later? Wizarding Britain could be in utter chaos and she would never know it this far on the other side of the pond. But if Voldemort held Britain in a yoke, then where did all these British Visitors come from? There was nothing in their conversations to indicate they had escaped from a war-torn land.

With absolute certainty, Bella knew that crimes against Muggles would’ve reached epidemic proportions if Voldemort had assumed power. If Kingsley Shacklebolt could infiltrate the Muggle Prime Minister’s office, the Dark Lord would’ve surely found a similar envoy. One whose covert mission was to Imperius or Confund the P.M. Within months, if not weeks, Muggle Britain would have found itself part of a new world order, one which subjugated their citizenry to a status barely on par with the livestock. Afterall, one could subsist on the meat and eggs of the livestock; but Muggles, one could do without entirely. Bella had heard those jokes often enough to know that those who repeated them bought into that way of thinking.

How had the duel with Potter fared, she wondered? She had been too intent on her own opponent to keep track of anyone else’s. Even if it was no more than blind luck, there was no denying that the stars shone down on Harry Potter and his ilk.

What did her mother say? Those with no skills are lucky; those with ambition mold destiny to their will.

Only her mum had never mentioned what would happen if destiny turned out to be an unmitigating bitch. Takes one to know one. Childish in the extreme, but she should’ve at least thrown it at Molly Weasley’s smug, rotund face!

Spin it out to the end, Trixie. Sometimes the truth lies at the end of the line, not the beginning.

So perhaps the Dark Lord had been a bit overconfident, Bella admitted. Not that she would’ve dared to entertain such a thought in his presence, but clearly he wasn’t here. What was it he had said before ordering them all to surge up the foothills to Hogwarts castle?

“It’s hard to be modest when you hold the world by its bollocks and Death at bay.”

Not exactly, she allowed with a dry chuckle. He would’ve had some overblown, grandiose way to say essentially the same thing. But in the end if the Dark Lord stumbled, it was because he had miscalculated the situation. Underestimating the enemy was the worst mistake a military leader could make. Then there was the arrogance. Not to mention that he was too paranoid to establish a proper chain of command. Why, many Death Eaters didn’t know the others! Then how were they to know where to turn for assistance or whom to trust? Or whom to ruddy fight, when you got down to it!

It had been a failing that Rodolphus had pointed out time and time again – in private. But the Dark Lord didn’t believe in delegating. His favorites came and went, but he didn’t train anyone to take over in an emergency. He knew only too well that such emergencies might be manufactured for the sole purpose of a coup.

True, it was a risk. But with no chain of command the Dark Lord’s vision would die with him. There would be no one to continue the innovative social programs that he had promised the Death Eaters. Without someone to direct Pius Thicknesse at the Ministry, it would all fall apart due to in-fighting and gross ineptitude.

Bella’s ponderings were arrested by a hint of movement in an ebony corner behind Zonko’s. With the Visitors gone for the day, the surroundings could be eerily peaceful once the moon rose.

Likely, it was nothing but a dustbin which had been knocked over by a puff of wind. As she watched from the safely of a nearby portico, the contours of the dustbin shifted in the gloom, righting itself almost as if by
magic.

For the briefest moment, there was a ripple in the heavy air as if the fabric of time had folded in upon itself. In the blink of an eye, the illusion was gone. Probably nothing but a trick of the intense spotlights that threw areas of the village into deeper shadow by contrast, Bella rationalized.

She clutched her useless wand in her fist as her heart hammered loudly in her ears. Bella might not have a handy curse at hand like in the glorious past, but she could gouge an attacker.

The silhouette grew in height before her eyes and then turned so that its features were illuminated pearly white in the moonlight. Probably some Muggle who’d gotten turned around; she’d have to lead him past the gate like a right babe.

Drawing near, she was caught short by the outlines of a cape clasped tightly at the interloper’s throat. He was tall and muscular in a compact way that she found oddly appealing.

He looked towards the castle to get his bearings, not noticing that Bella was silently drawing upon him from the side. Best that she put on a show, Bella decided. If the Muggle was startled, he’d just laugh it off then.

“Stupefy!” Bella cried with all her might as she cast a spell with a fisted wand above her head.

Falling into an instant crouch, the stranger intoned, “Protego!” sweeping his wand before him.

Nothing happened, of course. Bella’s wand could have been a pitchfork for all the good it did her.

Reacting by sheer instinct, the stranger’s wand flashed in her direction once more. His voice held an edge of desperation as he returned, “Expelliarmus!”

Well, the joker certainly had his motions down. Amazing how many Muggles insisted on acting like they were trained wizards. Playing along, Bella threw back her torso as if she were dodging the spell. With fire dancing in her eyes, she aimed at a spot above his head and rallied, “Serpensortia!”

The stranger cringed as he took a quick glance over his shoulder, the horror clearly painted on his face. He pulled his limbs deeper behind the protective shadow of the dustbin. Only a skeletal hand issued forth as he cast, “Petrificus Totalus!”

As much as Bella’s body welcomed the familiar routine of dueling, there was no point in prolonging a game that could easily focus unwanted attention on both of them. Recalling the pratfalls that several Insiders used on a regular basis, she allowed her rigid body to sway backwards against the building and then slide slowly to the ground.

Through her eyelashes, Bella watched her ‘assailant’ look quizzically at his wand and then glance nervously towards her unmoving form. The skittering sound of him rising to his feet was followed by the sound of cautious footsteps. She could hear him breathing with effort as she slowly opened her eyes.

He looked down upon her with a wide-eyed expression. “Bella, is that you? I thought you were
” Even in the dim light, his gulp was noticeable.

His outstretched hand hauled her brusquely to her feet even as Bella recognized the stark features in the moonlight. “Rodolphus, I must say I never expected to find you here.”

“Where exactly is ‘here’?” he hissed as he impatiently unclasped his heavy robes. “It’s as steamy as a dragon’s backdraft!”

Bella gave a small shrug of indifference. “No consistent seasons to remind us of home.”

“Then how in everything that we hold sacred can the snow be collecting among the rooftops?” her husband demanded.

“Muggle-made magic.”

“Such a thing is patently impossible!”

“Perhaps not,” she countered. “Welcome to Purgatory!”