CHILD'S PLAY

They had decided to lay low. It would not do to make their move too soon. Planning was required, and besides, their targets had to be off-guard. Right now, things were far too volatile. Those who were still moderately undercover had to go about business as usual until the time was right. However, even with things as they were, she saw no reason to force herself to hide in the dank house of her odious in-laws with Rodolphus. She would obey orders and go about business as usual, instead of skulking and hiding like a rat. And damned if she was going to be found slinking around Knockturn Alley, either. She would spit in their faces and show them how helpless they were to combat her brazen defiance. In short, she would go to Zonko's. Besides, she was terribly bored.

Of course, Rodolphus made a halfhearted attempt to stop her, blathering on about and . She brushed these protests off as easily as she dismissed his false expressions of concern for her personal safety. No one wanted this mission to succeed as much as she did. No one. It was a simple fact. Rodolphus knew perfectly well that she would take every precaution. Besides, even if she were recognized (highly unlikely; the Ministry Aurors were such fools, they could only catch those who were equally foolish, Rosier, for instance. Not that she hadn't warned the silly boy), Bellatrix Lestrange was perfectly capable of defending herself in whatever manner she deemed necessary. While all of these were merely excuses to fend off her husband's objections, the fact remained that they were all perfectly true. And something else was true, something that Rodolphus knew only too well: if Bellatrix took it into her head to do something, she would see it done.

But as she stood at last in the infamous joke shop, absently admiring the merchandise, it occurred to her that this venture might have been foolish, after all. The store did not seem to be nearly as engaging and mysterious as it had during her time at school, despite the fact that that time had ended only four years earlier. She supposed, randomly taking a glowing spiked ball off the shelf in front of her and smiling as she rolled it across her palm, that it was on account of the far more engaging and mysterious things she had seen since. But this reminded her again of her Master. The smile melted away and her face grew tight and hard.

This was, of course, merely another plot of her Master's, designed solely to test his followers and confound and confuse his enemies. He would see those who remained loyal and those who threw away their vows like a broken quill. He would know who stood by him, and who melted away into the crowds, foolishly celebrating his supposed downfall with the other traitors and Mudbloods. They thought He was defeated. Bellatrix knew better. She knew her Master almost as thoroughly as He knew her. He was not defeated. He would never be defeated. And she would be rewarded beyond the dreams of avarice for standing strong and proud when no one else would dare.

This, she admitted, was the reason she could not stay hidden in the shadows with her foolish colleagues. The thought of her Master seeing her abase herself out of fear for the filth of the Wizarding world. . . . It could not be borne. It would not be borne. And when they proved victorious, it would not be Rodolphus who was given the glory of their victory. Nor would it be the little Crouch boy or even Rabastan, though he was far smarter than either of the other two. He did not have what was necessary to serve the Dark Lord to the fullest. She did, and here she was, proving it by risking her very life and. . . .

Bellatrix's triumphant musings were broken, no, shattered by a small hand tugging at her robes. She spun to face her attacker and snatched for her wand. Luckily, before she could draw it, she looked at the intruder. Or rather, she looked down. It was a little boy, no more than a toddler, really, staring up at her with wide eyes. His violently red hair stuck to his head as though plastered there with a wet comb, but she could see that it was already starting to dry and curl again, sticking out messily. She stared at this small nuisance, her hand still in her robes, with disbelief. She had not seen a child since the war began. Those among the ranks who had them sent them elsewhere or just left them at home. It was one of the great advantages to a place in the Inner Circle, as far as Bellatrix was concerned. Children, in her opinion, should be neither seen, nor heard, nor had at all. And yet here was this little boy, daring to stare openly at her, almost as though he expected her to move. As though she was inconveniencing him. Unbelievable!

Scarper, lady! he demanded and Bellatrix kept staring. Would it be considered a breach of security to kill a child in the middle of Hogsmeade? She suspected that Rabastan, at least, might say so.

I do beg your pardon, ma'am! came a worried voice from above the insolent little monster's head. With painful slowness, Bellatrix raised her hooded face and fixed her invisible stare on the pudgy, shabby looking woman who had addressed her. There was that same untidy red hair. Obviously the rude little brat's mother. It's just appalling, I know, but I've had no luck at all with their manners! None of my other boys were like this, she continued distractedly, trying to stuff her knitting back into the shabby bag over her shoulder while simultaneously pulling the little boy away from the shelves and squatting down to try and straighten his hair. Not Billy, not Charlie, and certainly not little Percy. Ron is usually quite well-behaved for his age, and of course Ginevra is just a little angel, bless her tiny heart, but these two seem determined to have their own way with things, no matter what the-Was there something in particular he wanted? inquired Bellatrix coldly from the depths of her hood, effectively silencing the woman's blaring chatter, or was he just being ill mannered?

The little boy muttered something angrily, with his chin pressed against the obviously hard-worn cloth of his shirt.

What was that, Fred dear? asked the woman anxiously, still entirely concentrated on taming his wayward hair. Bellatrix could see the impending storm from the way that the boy's face crumpled and his little fists clenched ineffectually at his sides. She was not so old that the memory of her own little sister's constant tantrums had left her completely.

NOT FRED! GEORGE! he screamed with all the strength of his tiny lungs. On the other hand, surely if she spoke very, very calmly to Rabastan and explained the situation to him, perhaps he would. . . .

Oh, I'm sorry, George darling. The woman was now trying desperately to straighten the boy's clothing, brushing helplessly at what appeared to be some sort of scorch mark on the sleeve of his shirt. Just tell the nice lady what you were looking for, dear, and we'll be on our way. This last part was directed in Bellatrix's general direction, as if the woman was trying to apologize. It was obviously much too late for that.

The boy's fury appeared to have abated swiftly, replaced with irritation at his mother's unceasing ministrations.

he muttered, scowling as he tried to wrench his head out from under the dumpy woman's grasping hands. Then he pointed to the shelf, just past Bellatrix's robes. Want dungs.Now, George, you boys know perfectly well that we can't spare any money for things like dungbombs at the moment. The woman said this quite kindly, but Bellatrix could see her cheeks heat up slightly from having to say such a thing in front of a stranger. It made her smile, this pathetic embarrassment. There was no need for the woman to say it out loud; her clothing and attitude showed her disgrace for the entire world to see. Such a silly, foolish witch.

Rising from her crouch near Bellatrix's feet, the woman brushed off her own tattered robes and smiled awkwardly at the cloaked figure in front of her.

I am terribly sorry about this. You know how it is, of course. She laughed quite fondly, resting her hand on the shoulder of her sulky son. Boys will be boys, they say.Do they.

The woman was swiftly becoming uneasy now that her whole attention was centered on the mysterious victim of her son's harassment. She murmured something appropriate and polite, then hurried the boy away from the dark corner. But she did not leave without a last frightened glance over her shoulder at the slim, black figure standing against the shelves, whose face was in shadow and whose voice was too low for comfort.

Bellatrix watched them go calmly. George, that was the little brat's name. That, and his rudeness, would not be forgotten. As she turned away from their swiftly departing shapes, a third flash of bright red caught her eye. Only a few yards away stood another small boy who was identical to George in every way, right down to the scorch on his sleeve. Fred, obviously. He stared into her darkened hood, every bit as cheeky as his little twin. Then he stuck out his tongue and ran after his mother.

George and Fred. She would not forget. Such rudeness could not be allowed in the youth of today. After all, children were the future, were they not? More than one nervous glance followed her as she left the shop, laughing long and low.

ooooooooooo

Dust whipped madly through the air, driven by the same harsh wind that took the hair of the boy facing her and turned it into a mess of flame and blood. His wand was drawn and his face was twisted into a wild grimace, not of pain or horror, but of life. He was living, burning with the fire of battle and youth, and he wanted nothing more than to strike her down. What a silly little monster.

And it all came back.

A small red-haired boy, standing in defiance of her, just as this young man now stood between her army and victory. She smiled. Oh, sweet, sweet was the day of resolution, when the world stood righted by the hand of the Dark Lord.

She raised her wand, as she had so longed to do that day in the joke shop, and her aim was true. Once, years ago, she had told the Potter boy that for an Unforgivable Curse to work, you had to mean it. She had not lied. And she did mean it, oh how she meant for this brat to suffer. Two small words and another wrong in the world was righted.

But, just as on that long ago day spent hidden in the corner of a joke shop, she turned too late to see another flash of red behind her. Yet she heard clearly a scream of fury and hate coming from that mouth which had once stuck its childish tongue out to defy her power. She did not need to see his face to know that he too meant it.

Really, she thought, as green death swooped down to hold her in its warm embrace at long last. Children these days.

ooooooooooo

A/N
This one-shot was inspired by the following sentence, which was supplied by a random situation generator: Bellatrix Black (Lestrange) and George Weasley start a relationship in Zonko's. After looking past the obvious implication, I thought, well, it doesn't have to be a romantic relationship, does it? I mean, Neville and Bellatrix have a relationship, just not the huggy, smoochy kind (apologies to any Neville/Bellatrix shippers out there). Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Oh, and the ages of the twins (about three years old) and Bellatrix's estimated time out of school are based on the Harry Potter Lexicon timelines and the assumption that Bellatrix is part of the MWPP generation, since Sirius named her as part of the group that Snape hung out with at school. Thanks again! Love from,
Scarlett

PS It takes a mere moment to review, but it makes an author's day.