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 ingénues. 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?