by N.B.D. (Glitterbug880012 at aol.com)
Her gaze was set intently on the end of the street -- a wand
shop, Holmes saw. Olivanderís or something. It was as old as
everything else, by what the establishment date was.
The door opened and let them in with a small 'pink'. It was
dark, and after a moment, Holmesí eyes adjusted to the dim light.
The walls were lined with moldy boxes on mahogany bookshelves. There
was a vase in the corner, and a sign that read ĎPlease do not aim
wand in this directioní. Charming.
"Ah, Miss Lestrade, how wonderful to see you again." A old,
graying man, shoulders hunched, came from the back. His outfit looked
French-aristocratic from way before even... Holmesí time.
Lestrade smiled broadly at the man. "Hey, Mr. Olivander. Long
time, no see, huh?"
"Yes, and I also know why youíre here." He turned to go to
the back, then paused. ĎYou didnít introduce your friend."
"Iím Sherlock Holmes." He shook the manís hand.
"Gary Olivander. Owner of Olivanderís Wands. A pleasure to
meet you. You a wizard?" he asked curiously.
"Mr. Olivander, I need a replacement wand, please," Lestrade
cut him off. "And uh, do you still have those Muggle wands?"
"Why yes." He scuttled to the back and returned with two
narrow rectangular boxes.
The Scotland Yarder took the one Olivander handed her and
glanced slyly at Holmes. "Bet you didnít know Ďbout this one." She
muttered something inaudible, and the end of the wand lit up to
bathe the entire room in light. She blew the edge off afterwards.
"Still got it."
She looked at the second wand thoughtfully. "Mr. Olivander,
size him for me, please."
Several measuring tapes started to unfurl around him, then
Olivander waved them off. "Good, good, I know exactly what you need."
He came back with a similar box, then took out a dark wood wand. "13
and 3/4. Mahogany, dragonís heartstrings. Give it a wave."
Holmes took the wand in his hand, and, tongue-in-cheek waved
What happened next was instantaneous. Olivander yelled at
Lestrade to duck, which she did, and the vase behind her shattered.
Holmes stared at the wand in his hand, then placed it gingerly in
Lestrade stood up and shook the glass out of her hair, using
the wand to clean up the mess. "Thatís to go, Mr. Olivander." Her
voice was quiet and contained as she took out some gold coins.
They left the store and crossed to a shop with black dresses
in the window, and Holmes groaned. "No, I refuse to wear one! I saw
those men wearing them, I wonít!"
"Holmes, Iím not in the mood. Youíre going to." Lestrade bent
her head down and walked ahead of him. "I have no wish to fight
right now. Consider it a disguise."
Coming out of the store with bags of many Ďrobesí, as Lestrade
called them, they headed towards the way they came in. Holmes heard
some of the conversationís behind them as they left the pub.
"Thatís Potterís daughter-"
"Can you believe that Lestradeís back?"
"That little no-good double crosser. She should just call
herself a Squib or a Mudblood -- nasty half-and-half -- honestly!"
Lestrade didnít even blink until they were outside.
"I donít want to talk about it. We have to go get train tickets."
"They still have trains?"
She sighed. "Yes. Just calm down. We gotta get to Hogwartís
and weíre taking the train."
She walked through the train station, Holmes following, until
they reached a barrier, at which she stopped. Lestrade turned around
and sighed. "Okay, Iím going to walk through that wall. When a group
of people start to come in front of it, run through the group and
Holmes watched in amazement as she walked through the wall.
Following instructions, he followed as a group came by, and braced
But nothing happened. He kept running. When he stopped and
opened his eyes, he was standing on a train platform. Lestrade waved
for him to follow. She bought two tickets and boarded, again using
the same strange currency.
"So, Lestrade," Holmes started as the train started. "What
are those coins?"
"Oh, Wizarding World money. These are sickles, these are
knutes, and these are galleons."
"What now, Holmes?"
"Youíve known all those people, but you left after something.
What was it?"
"Why donít we get changed before I go on, okay? Iíll go use
the bathroom to change, while you get changed in here."
Holmes stared at the clothing in the bag. It was a long gown
of sorts, dark blue material, that went over the head. Nothing much,
really, but he was supposed to look like a -- wizard, was it? -- so
he had to just go with the flow.
Lestrade came in, tossing him a box of sweets before
collapsing onto the opposite seat. "Theyíre Bertie Botts' Every
Flavor Beans. They mean it, too."
She fell silent again, allowing Holmes to glance at her outfit.
Black robes, much like his, fell over her frame. But now it was
different; it wasnít as muscular or toned as it usually was. Holmes
realized she had had on some sort of molding underneath her uniform
all the time. The ebony material hung off of weak, hunched, knobby
shoulders, and her knees were sticks with some slight shaping. This
wasnít the Lestrade he knew. On her lap was the photo album, and she
was perusing it, biting the side of her lip.
"My mother was a witch, a Potter. The Potter family is high
up there in wizarding society. It goes back to Harry Potter and
Hermione Granger. They defeated Voldemort-"
"Yeah, a Moriarty of a more evil caliber -- but stick him in
a dress like ours, and put a stick in his hand. Killed a lot of people.
"Since then, it seems there was always a Voldemort looking
for a Potter to kill. He came to my mother. who did the same. Funny
how they never seem to die. She retired to America, and met a Muggle
-- a non-magic person -- my father. His name was John Lestrade. She
never told him that she was a witch, even after they married. Time
went by, and they had a daughter... me.
"Nothing much happened. I lived a normal life up to my eighth
birthday. Actually, Iím wrong. It wasnít normal. Every now and then
something strange would happen if I was angry of mad or sad -- never
explainable. I can remember her smiling proudly when it happened while...
while my father would start to yell at me.
"I was at school the day it happened. I came home and...poof,
no more house. Cinders. A very tall, large woman called Hagrid came
and told me that I should go with her. Donít know why, but I did. A
few hours later, I found myself in England. They took me to the
Ministry -- Ministry of Magic, that is -- and they told me that my
parents were dead.
They also told me I was a witch -- lovely shock -- then
hauled me off to Hogwarts. I was three, four years younger than my
classmates, but I was the top student in every class. Lots of work,
"I became friends with Dumbledore-"
"The headmaster. Alice Dumbledore and I were a bit of friends.
She was a young woman when she came to take her position, only a few
years out of school. Hogwarts only goes up until sixteen or seventeen.
Itís seven years.
"I was a prefect, then, and I was always trying to help out.
My classmates and I knew that there was a war about to begin, but we
were safe at the school. Alice came to me with an offer."
Holmes listened in silence.
"She trained me to be a fighter, to be able to kill." She
held up her hands, shaking, "These hands are stained with blood,
Holmes. Blood of people who probably had no idea that they were
killing. They swore that they were being controlled, that Voldermort
had done it to them. I was in a war. It didnít matter; they were
enemies. I was trained to kill all enemies." She stopped and handed
him the album. "Tell me how old I was in that picture."
Looking down, Holmes was confronted by the picture of a small,
young girl. She was standing among a group of others. It was a
younger Lestrade, with no light streak in her hair, which was bushy
brown and held in place with a thick headband. She was wearing a
schoolgirlís outfit and held a book in her hand.
"Probably about thirteen."
She nodded and flipped the page. "And in this?"
This was a picture of the same people, all of which were
smiling and waving. All except for Lestrade. She looked pale and
forlorn, a thick lock of her hair gray. There wasnít the same
sparkle of challenge in her eyes.
She shook her head sadly. "No. Try the next year."
Holmes stared at her. "H-- how old *are* you. Lestrade? You
look like youíre as old as me."
"You are forgetting that you are older than you seem. You
look like you are twenty-eight. Itís starting to show. Iím
twenty-four. I nearly died seven months after that photograph was
taken. I met Voldemort. He tried to kill me; I had my protection. He
sort of died, and I got away with just a scar." She shoved her
tee-shirt sleeve down, revealing her right shoulder. Slowly pulling
it slightly further down on her shoulder blade in the back, she
revealed a scar.
A lightning bolt-shaped scar.
TO BE CONTINUED
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