mirrorball

chapter twenty two

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Harry turned on the spot, with Griphook on his shoulders and Clara gripping his hand tightly. Clara felt her insides twist and untwist uncomfortably as they always did in apparition. The goblin clung even tighter as they moved into the compressing darkness, and seconds later Harry's feet found pavement and he opened his eyes on Charing Cross Road. Muggles bustled past wearing the hangdog expressions of early morning, quite unconscious of the little inn's existence. The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted. Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, was polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far corner glanced at Hermione and drew back into the shadows. 

"Madam Lestrange," murmured Tom, and as Hermione paused he inclined his head subserviently. 

"Good morning," said Hermione, and as Clara crept past, still holding Harry's hand without realizing it, she saw Tom look surprised. She cringed slightly, there was no world in which Bellatrix Lestrange politely greeted others.

Harry seemed to have caught on too, because as they moved out of the Inn he whispered to Hermione: "Too polite, you need to treat people like they're scum!"

"Okay, okay!" Hermione drew out Bellatrix's wand and rapped a brick in the nondescript wall in front of them. At once the bricks began to whirl and spin: A hole appeared in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider, finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled street that was Diagon Alley. It was quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and there were hardly any shoppers abroad. The crooked, cobbled street was much altered now from the bustling place Clara had visited before her first term at Hogwarts so many years before. It seemed like an entirely different street now; More shops than ever were boarded up, though several new establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts had been created since her last visit. Harry's own face glared down at them from posters plastered over many windows, always captioned with the words undesirable number one.A number of ragged people sat huddled in doorways. Clara heard them moaning to the few passersby, pleading for gold, insisting that they were really wizards. One man had a bloody bandage over his eye. As they set off along the street, the beggars glimpsed Hermione. They seemed to melt away before her, drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as they could. Hermione looked after them curiously, until the man with the bloodied bandage came staggering right across her path. 

"My children," he bellowed, pointing at her. His voice was cracked, high-pitched, he sounded distraught. "Where are my children? What has he done with them? You know, you know!" 

"I–I really— " stammered Hermione.

The man lunged at her, reaching for her throat. Then, with a bang and a burst of red light he was thrown backward onto the ground, unconscious. 

Ron stood there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock visible behind his beard. Faces appeared at the windows on either side of the street, while a little knot of prosperous-looking passerby gathered their robes about them and broke into gentle trots, keen to vacate the scene. Their entrance into Diagon Alley could hardly have been more conspicuous but before they could move or consult one another they heard a cry from behind them.

"Why, Madame Lestrange!"

"And what do you want?" replied Hermione, coolly. Travers stopped in his tracks, clearly affronted. 

"He's another Death Eater!" breathed Griphook, and Harry sidled sideways to repeat the information into Hermione's ear, forcing Clara to move as well. 

"I merely sought to greet you," said Travers coolly, "but if my presence is not welcome . . . "

"No, no, not at all, Travers," said Hermione quickly, trying to cover up her mistake. "How are you?"