The war is over. The war has been over for many years. Perhaps someday it will become a joke, a late-night comedy sketch, a meme, but until then they live in Moscow.
Here as well as the Wizarding communities of England, crime has barely changed since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fell. People steal and try to sell cheap anti-werewolf charms and sometimes get a little too feisty with their curses. But they call it safe now: Safe to walk down Diagon Alley, or even Knockturn. Safe to party late at a questionable pub in Hogsmeade. Safe to go camping without a thousand shields around a tent.
It is a brave new world with Harry Potter as its hero and every Death Eater in Azkaban, where there are no dementors, and in some ways that makes it worse.
His second cousin explained it to him once, at the trial, as he waited for the Wizengamot to assemble.
"For so long we knew what we were going to get, we knew that everything we'd done would happen again—we knew that time could be manipulated. But we also knew that we had a greater weapon than they realized: we weren't afraid."
"What d'you mean?"
"Afraid of consequences, of guilt, all that. You have to think something is wrong to feel guilty, don't you?"
His blood felt cold and iron-flavored at the thought of such psychopathic behavior.
"Thing is, that's not how they run Azkaban anymore. Oh, it's not comfortable; it never was."
"Now what do they do?"
"You know what?" said Rabastan. "I reckon they pity us, and that makes you wonder why they pity you, and that's when you start to think you might be blind."
He didn't give much thought to it at the time, but within a few years, when he realized he would have to start building a life for himself, he looked around and noticed that most of the old pureblood families were dead, or dying, or putting on a show of donations to Muggle Appreciation rubbish and saying of course they weren't any different from everyone else, of course they never had late-night conversations about how the Dark Lord certainly wasn't going about it properly and he wasn't a pureblood anyway, but didn't he have a point? Couldn't it be said that there were different ways of being human, and was that really so bad?
The Black girl had moved to Russia at the end of the war, and eventually others followed her: first a Slytherin here or there, then a few Ravenclaws, then more. They built up a nice little community in the larger cities, intermingling with the Durmstrang graduates some of them had met during the Triwizard Tournament, and they were mostly happy.
He lived next door to a family called Vassikin, and their children went to school together. Did his children even speak English? He doubted it sometimes. They had not gone back in many years, although they kept the old family house in Cornwall.
And that was the state of the new world, after the second Wizarding War, for the purebloods.
At that time the Black girl had not yet been called to stand trial.