A. N: Just had to try this idea out. (Shrugs) If it works, it works.

And damn, just shy of 2000 words? I need to type more descriptively.

As always, I own nothing of the original works I am AU-ing this from. Be aware that I have quite a few beefs to take up with the movies, so prepare for a thorough butchering of canon while trying to stay in canon.

Jade Celandine, out!

Chapter 1: Spread Your Wings

Unlike most, my story after the war was not one filled with righteous suffering and a certain element of petty vengeance. Actually, I was but three years old when the Second Wizarding War ended, and it had been more than fifteen years after that when the exodus began.

I was not from any sort of involved family, nor will I lay claim to be one of those who gave of themselves to rebuild. I was simply one of the few lucky enough to find a way in before they got paranoid in the ending stages of the project.

No doubt others had more profound reasons than I; my reason for leaving was because I wanted to travel somewhere without the caveat of dying in six months to a year. Simple, to the point, with a bonus of leaving the average passerby with the impression that I was more than a little callous. I prefer the term Chaotic Neutral, thank you.

Like all the rest, I wasn't picky. Oh, I hoped for someplace nice, of course, perhaps with a similar level of culture and technology that I was used to, but if I had to settle I would probably go for technological inferiority – hacking for the necessary electronic records can be such a bitch. Besides, overawing someone with knowledge of science can be beneficial especially when you've got magic on your side to bend the rules every now and then.

But, I suppose not everyone gets what they want...

Liv dozed against the window of the police hovercar as it wound around traffic towards the station, fingers working subtly and quietly to short the electronic cuffs long enough for them to let her slip them off. A little fun fact about those cuffs: not only were they supposed to be able to tell when someone was trying to fiddle with them, but they were also programmed to erase all accumulated data when turned off, a way to keep information within the police station to their databases. Those were easy to hack too, though Starfleet had been passing its old security software down; maybe she should take a jaunt around later on and check out the changes. Either way, this was probably the thirteenth arrest that was never recorded. Smart of them to put drones on the streets instead of people with memories lasting longer than a week, ain't it?

"Lights out," she muttered at the useless things as she very casually fiddled with the right circuitry left exposed behind the police bots to wipe recordings of her most recent 'misdemeanor' and dropped herself off on the sidewalk. Hands in her pockets, the auburn teen walked two blocks to her favorite cafe in New Orleans: The Crusty Crab.

Unlike what one would expect of a frequent petty criminal like herself, she considered herself off the beaten path in the local underworld, unwilling to get involved in the politics and even more unwilling to be involved by anyone who was. After all, Liv never picked pockets or snatched trinkets off the stores for the money; she didn't need it, having what amounted to an entire fortune in gold bars and jewelry inside a few trunk compartments on her choker. The purpose for her criminal activities was usually because she wanted to, or as a favor to a mostly unaware benefactor. There wasn't much a girl could do without a good electronic base identity, and the witch didn't want to put her meagre hacking skills to the test just yet. She was still on constructing temporary identities that conveniently vanished like smoke if pursued, and going to something resembling a higher education institution required an established and excellently forged persona.

"Bonsoir, my good men!" she grandly announced herself with a dramatic flourish at the doors. The bartender, a Betazoid with more than enough experience with her particular set of brainwaves merely chuckled at her along with the regulars listening to strains of some old country song. It was after her time, and she thought nothing more of it as the witch fairly bounced to the bar.

"Good evening, Bayezid."

"Bonsoir, Tweety Bird."

Bayezid was like every other business owner in the Katrina District, renamed after the devastating hurricane a couple hundred years ago completely flattened the place (the sense of bitter irony in the given Orleanian citizen was not lost in their subsequent naming conventions): he dabbled on both sides of the law to keep his business afloat, serving gangsters and thugs the same as he did tourists. And if there was a bit of money set aside for when some guy or other comes around asking for protection money? Well, it was just part of business around here. Liv got her news and potential fences in his bar in return for gossip from the rest of the city's underground.

"So how is my favorite petty thief in this neck of the bayou?" he asked with elderly amusement as she sauntered into the bar. Said thief dramatically gasped and placed a hand on her chest for good measure.

"Petty? Just petty, really? I thought my contributions meant so much more to you than that."

"It does when you give me unusual news. The kind that goes away once you get to just the good news." Rolling her eyes at the playful banter, Liv took out a credit chip and tapped it against the counter. "Your usual," he handed the Bloody Mary to her, whereupon she began to whisper at high pitch and speed while sipping at her cocktail.

While she could read the common alley-signs as well as every local in the neighborhood, only the former witch admitted to possessing mastery over the high-pitched vocal exercise known in street cant as 'twittering'. Developed in New York as a Broadway actor's way to communicate with his writers while ad-libbing, it was a skill she and a couple of other classmates had developed as a curiosity before she got out of school and realized just how useful it could be. It earned her the name 'Tweety Bird', after all.

But while the talent served her well, it was still better kept to herself, especially given the alien populations with enhanced senses around these days. Where a human had to be trained to perceive and translate high-pitched syllable-chains, most other touristing races had evolved to naturally detect and understand them, making her talent useless in protecting special information were she forced to work with undesirables in the business.

Luckily, her bartender/informant, called a 'birdie' in her own personal slang, was in the habit of catering to a mostly human clientele.

So he was able to nod and hum at the appropriate parts, for all the world looking like he was listening to the jukebox while Liv whistled to it. "Twenty bucks busted by the Docks; Fives'. Blood clot in Abby Ay-O, needed tourney. Star-shee wants new dust..."

And on it went, a summation of the lives of underworld denizens as they saw and spoke of it, with the kind of slang that no one else would ever admit persisted to the 23rd century. She mixed in some thieves' cant in her speech and recitations, a verbal badge of affiliation made common because of the increased efficacy and range of surveillance technology. Unlike a majority of residents in the underworld, the witch was one of the few who managed to break into the wider world of municipal crime and had to learn the proper cant, making her capable of suppressing the accent in respectable company to prevent detection. Of course, a great deal of other people she knew could do it too, so it wasn't as though she held another unique talent in that regard.

Having a British accent in normal speech, however, brought teasing about her 'poshness'.

She had finished her report by the time the second song was halfway done, taking the next cocktail with a friendly nod and began to nurse it. Completely ignoring that it was noon and she hadn't had lunch yet.

Maybe she'll get something out of that coffeeshop she used to work in a few months ago, though she'd likely have to check if that damned bint who got her fired was still around…

When she ambled along to the apartment complex she was crashing in that week and saw unfamiliar cars around the building, the thief immediately ducked behind a corner and scanned the windows. Thank God that she scored a unit with windows out the front; made things easier if she could track which of her neighbors was being busted.

Damn.

Looks like it was her, today.

Knowing that she had no choice, Liv effortlessly coasted back around the corner like she had just gotten out the building, flipping out a PADD and tilting her face so that she looked engrossed in the screen while keeping her face hidden from people and the cameras on the sidewalk. Now, as soon as she got out of range, she could climb onto the rooftops from any of the alleyways and fire escape staircases, and if she passed through the Flit to get to one of her storage lockers, she could dig out some essentials to get outta New Orleans until things cooled off or she found out what got her on the radar.

Keeping a strictly civilian pace, the thief made a grueling trek to the other side of the city, taking the most circuitous route on foot that she could find. Thirty-five blocks total away from the police, she swung up the roof of a motel and doubled back through the cables and disguised upper pathways of the Flit, where almost none of the criminal element dealt with anyone on 'the ground'.

Baring her teeth at those who looked at her – that was the polite way of doing things – Liv stalked almost halfway back the way she came to the nearest platform next to the spaceport. A townhouse garage opened with a whispered "Alohomora," because she had no need for keys, whereupon the thief promptly picked up a duffel bag full of credits, clothes, and ID from a forger who used to owe her favors before he mass-produced a grab-bag of identities for when she had to lie low in a hurry.

Or, in this case, when she had to officially exist.

Casually, Liv picked the pockets of five different passengers and employees, then checked the cities of residence.

The witch took off her cap and lined up. Like every other passenger, she handed over her PADD and smiled at the attendants. Demurely, politely, she made excuses and extended thanks with a soft, timid Oxford accent, hunched over ever so slightly and eyes cast down at all times except to look out the window or at her bag.

Ten minutes later, the shuttle zoomed off to San Francisco.