Untitled

Part 4

by N.B.D. (Glitterbug880012 at aol.com)
2/3/02

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.

ĎWell, no-"

"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 it around.

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 the case.

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.

"Lestrade-"

"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 straight forward."

Holmes watched in amazement as she walked through the wall. Following instructions, he followed as a group came by, and braced for impact....

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."

"Lestrade?"

"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-"

"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, mind you.

"I became friends with Dumbledore-"

"Who is?"

"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.

"Seventeen, perhaps."

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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