#fastice

In one moment, suspended forever as one evening in the August 1873, here is what an idle observer in Diagon Alley might have noticed:

A baby was crying, a malnourished, pitiful yowl coming from a tiny window with a whitewashed pane. It hung open, a desperate attempt to keep still, scorched air circulating. From the same tiny room, our unnamed observer could have just made out a lullaby, a mournful song about a hopping ghost, sung entirely in Cantonese. On the grubby cobbles below stood a Veela, in an outfit which would have made many of the pureblood women purse their lips and cover their daughters’ eyes. Grime from the smog stuck to her skin as she slowly rocked her bare hips from side to side, beckoning silently, with long fingers and hooded lids to passers by, striking bargains in a language she barely understood.

In the next building, a Vampire leaned out the third floor window, his greasy hair unkempt and his shirt too large. Vampires could never look bad, their closest approximation was the extreme side of what is best described as déshabillé, but there was no mistaking the hollows in his cheeks or the quiet, desperate hunger in his eyes for fashionably deliberate. He was staring contemplatively at a dark skinned man sleeping in the gutter, a pool of whiskey for a pillow. The man’s beard was matted, and his left leg was missing from below the knee. His wand, warped and bleached, stuck out from a pocket of a faded green coat. Closer inspection would have revealed a sloppy silencing charm ensuring peaceful slumber.

All kinds of smells - some pleasant, some rancid - mixed in the air. Perfume, spices, sewer. Opium, if you knew what you were looking for. But on this particular evening, a very different kind of smoke dominated.

The fire allegedly started by accident, although several historians focusing on magical race relations would later dispute this, noting the evidence suggesting fiendfyre and foul play on the part of the Ministry. It didn’t take long to catch in the warm, grimy street and some - like a weak, hungry vampire or a one legged man sleeping under a silencing charm - didn’t stand a chance.

Some ran only around the corner, their most prized possessions in their arms. One woman, an immigrant from Hong Kong who arrived in Knockturn Alley with nothing but her baby in her arms, went on to orchestrate some of the most vigorous social reform the wizarding world had ever seen. And some saw their chance and took it, running far, far away from the ashes in Diagon Alley, anxious to return home and with no wish to see London ever again.

Until, some twenty years later, a Veela found herself walking down the rebuilt street that was forever burned into her memory, although she had to admit it looked altogether more pleasant in the sunlight, with its new buildings and legitimate tradesmen. She stopped in front of a stone memorial, ten years old and beginning to weather. Two marble men carrying buckets of water, with an inscription that read:

‘For Those Noble Witches And Wizards Who Died Here August 21st 1873 - May Their Souls Rest Peacefully In Eternal Slumber.’

The Veela looked at the stone for a while, her eyes narrowed. She looked at the two stone wizards, strong and able with pale, blank faces. She spat at their feet, and walked on.

(Image from hairextensionsofla.com)