A lean eyebrow peaked into a sharp arch over a pair of steel gray eyes.  Gray eyes that stared with perplex disdain at the vast stock of Next Generation pop culture. 

The small shop in Diagon Alley was not a frequented location for the petite, five foot witch. In fact, she could not recall ever having felt the need to enter the store that quite clearly catered to a more… adolescent clientele.  The walls were perfectly and quite acceptably eccentric, and the crooked shelves composing the walls were not uncharacteristic of the winding and haphazard streets of misshaped shops. Perhaps the most eerie component of the Muggle world was its unrealistic… sterility.  But the name of the bands might as well have been written in Greek. And the posters; she was not certain who the four twenty-something boys were in that poster, but she was quite sure it had to be illegal to allow them to grin down at her like that.

Without fidgeting her discomfort, the woman continued to scan Reducto Records merchandise with feigned interest. Dead Sirius. Mandrake Siren. Saint Hedwig. Sure, she knew what those were. The Weird Sisters could not be that outdated – that had another century left in them at least. They were not that old. She was not that old. With a self convincing nod of her head, Tamis Raynor flipped over an The Unforgivables album, not quite finding the humor in the flash of green light repetitiously illuminating the song list on the back.

It was the middle of the day, one of those rarely taken Lunch Breaks on the part of the Head Auror. Forsaking her characteristic crimson robes, the minute woman was very typically dressed for a witch that had accessed the wizarding retail hub from Muggle London. A well tailored leather jacket might have had a slight militaristic appeal and the boots a bit more biker-like than a muggle woman of similar character might adorn, but it was the effort that counted. If anything were to give her away to someone unfamiliar with the Head Auror’s physical appearance, it would have been her posture. But that could belong to a number of bigoted purebloods that worked for the Ministry.

There had been several distractions that had delayed a response to Jacoba Schlagenweit’s rather curious letter. Several… more pressing… matters to attend to. But she was here now, politely browsing through the various offered titles in a sea of ineptitude, waiting to be acknowledged. Except she had forgotten the little detail of informing the other woman she would be stopping in today.  A minor miscommunication.

The bell over Reducto's front door clinked as it swung open.  With Baldur now back with his rightful owner, Jacoba had hung the bell as a meager substitute for the dog's ability to prevent someone from entering the shop without her knowledge.  It paled in comparison but it was, for the most part, effective.  Certainly more effective than nothing.

Of course, it didn't do all that much good when the shop's visitor couldn't be seen over the maze of shelves bearing sheet music, music books and song anthologies.

Jacoba turned her attention back to the young witch across the counter and finished counting out the woman's change.  The witch gathered her things from the counter (briefly forgetting the album she'd just spent the better part of half an hour dithering over whether to buy) and left the shop, the bell tinkling again in her wake. 

The register closed and secure, Jacoba left her station behind the counter and weaved through the racks until she found the woman. 

"Afternoon," Jacoba offered, trying to not to make it so obvious she had to ... well, look down at the other woman.  Despite being almost a full foot shorter than Jacoba, the woman carried herself with an obviously confident and formidable air.  At first glance, it didn't really appear that the shorter woman was browsing with the usual curiosity or eagerness that most customers did.  "Is there something I can help you find?  Fine Young Cerberus' newest release just came out this past weekend but, I'm guessing that's not your usual style."  Actually, given the woman's attire, she ...

Actually, the woman's attire was just slightly confusing. 

In which case, if Jacoba got the impression the woman wouldn't be offended by a muggle recommendation, Jacoba might try to point her in the direction of Melissa Etheridge. 

Assistance came swifter than Tamis would have suspected. The bell above the door jingled again, announcing the departure of the customer the dark haired young woman behind the counter had been checking out. The Head Auror kept her head bent, inspecting the various titles, watching the young muggle approach out of her peripheral vision. She matched the description in Zora Roh’s case files quite well – right down to the height. Raynor was accustomed to others towering over her, but usually they were men. It must have been a Schlagenweit trait.

“Afternoon,” she returned casually, pretending not to notice the young lady figure out how best to look down at her and still remain polite.

‘Young’ summarized the Muggle quite well. While she knew from the files that she was roughly twenty years of age, the fact had not entirely registered until she had come face to face with her. She looked young. Tamis could remember being that age; confident, self assured, convinced that she had the world figured out and rebelling against The Man.  It had taken a catastrophe for reality to slap her in the face. She hoped this woman would not have to face a similar tragic lesson.

“I am not looking for myself actually,” she admitted with a small, closed lip smile. “My boyfriend has a birthday in a few weeks; I was just trying to get gift ideas.” The best lies were specific ones that carried fragments of the truth. They sounded more convincing.

Shuffling through the stack, she pulled out the Three Owl Standard album she had purposely saved beneath a few of the others. “I believe they are quite popular,” she mused as a half question, half statement. And, if her limited tabloid knowledge was correct, the shop keeper was engaged  to one of the band members. “Very interesting history, are you familiar with it?”

"Ah."  Jacoba offered a smile and a nod; that explanation made sense.  It explained the slightly out of place appearance and what Jacoba would assume are rather mismatched choices.  Unless, of course, the woman was using that all too common tactic of pretending to buy something for someone else if they thought it might be embarrassing to get caught buying it for themselves.  Despite the strange attire, the woman didn't seem the type.  But, Jacoba had been wrong before. 

"Well, music can be a good if a potentially loaded gift," Jacoba explained as she flipped through a stack closest to her.  She was getting more familiar with wizarding music but she still wasn't quite able to grab a record from the stacks at random and use them as an example.  "In my experience, when someone gives me music as a gift, I assume there's a reason for the selection they chose.  That they're trying to tell me something and they're using the music to do so.  You know, like - accidentally giving your boyfriend a kid's album could be ... misleading."  And, potentially amusing.  Two years ago, an unemployed Jacoba might have actually tried that. 

"So I understand, yes," Jacoba confirmed, nodding her head at the copy of Owls at the Barn Dance in the woman's hand.  "They tend to lend themselves a little to the somewhat disenfranchised teen or twenty-something crowd but they're recent stuff is mainstream enough to avoid you giving the impression you think your boyfriend is a bit stiff - and not in a good way - if you give him one of the recent releases." 

Jacoba had, much to Adon's chagrin, become a bit of a fan.  Of course, being around many members of the band here at the shop helped.  There were also quite a few recognizable muggle influences in the music. Especially in the older albums, there'd been an unmistakable Bob Dylan-ish, Bruce Springsteen-ish feel to the music - which, at one point, Corby had confirmed for her.  The band had even snuck in a cover of 'Waitin' On A Sunny Day' on Owls at the Barn Dance.  It hadn't been the first. 

As to the band's history.  "Only bits and pieces," she admitted.  "Creevey hangs around here a fair bit.  You probably heard the gossip that he's dating the store's owner.  He's helped out a few times since she's been out."  That was a scary mess in itself.  Luckily, by all accounts, both Tilly and Colin Jr. were fine.  "I've asked a couple times but Creevey doesn't seem to into talking about it.  I've managed to get a general sense from what's laid out in the music, though.  But, no.  I don't know the details." 

Muggles were bizarre creatures. There was little doubting that they were Different from wizards and much of their technologies were admirable but absurd. The petite woman had lived among them for a good many years and still she did not fully understand their culture. However, humor at least, appeared to be universal.

“No. We will definitely not be instigating that misfortune,” she replied, humoring the good-intended exchange about boyfriends and children. A many great people seemed to be bringing that up. Being in one’s mid-thirties did not mean one had a natural inclination for children.

Despite herself, the Head Auror found herself liking her brief, informal introduction to the infamous Diagon Alley Muggle. There was a softness to the woman, a deceiving innocence, but her greeting was spunky, even bold. Dealing with the criticism the younger woman was facing, she would have to be to have stubbornly stood her ground, she allowed.

“Disenfranchised,” she played with the word on her tongue and gave a small knowing smile. “An accurate description, past and present.”

“The bands origins are rather infamous,” she said, flipping the album back over. “The Creevy Brothers played on Potterwatch – a wireless station sympathetic to refugees and vigilantes opposing You Know Who’s reign of terror.” She lifted her eyes, paused, and then clarified without asking if it was necessary, “the Second War.”

“The older Creevy died during the Battle of Hogwarts defending the rights of muggleborns and rebelling against the notion of Blood Purity.  Witches and wizards of all ages gave their lives during that War. Adults. Students. The Creevys were mere teenagers,”a pause. “ Without their sacrifice the Wizarding World would be a much different place today.”

Gray eyes settled more intently on the young adult, expression betraying little.  She was not sure how familiar the records seller was with their history. That might, inherently, be the problem. Tamis Raynor was not a history of magic professor, but she offered enough that an intelligent individual would be able to fabricate at least a basic understanding. And Jacoba Schlagenweit struck her as a mostly intelligent individual.

“Disenfranchised,” she repeated with a grim-humored smirk, tapping the album lightly against her palm. “The band has changed greatly since then, but those old enough remember.”   This woman believed there was typically a reason behind a musical selection – some message the individual was trying to convey.  She lifted her eyes back up the Jacoba’s; analyzing, evaluating.

Jacoba chuckled, grinning amicably.  "Then, I'd definitely steer clear of anything that involves Mrs. Puddifoot and her singing, dancing Puffskeins."  One day, the wizarding world would discover cartoons.  Then, they too would understand the great pain of cheesy child-oriented entertainment. 

But, the conversation flittered over the relatively casual talk of kid's music and took a sudden and unmistakable turn for the darker.  At first, the nature of the conversation took Jacoba enough by surprise that it's tone proved to distract her from the actual explanation.  Perhaps, random history lessons were a normal part of this individual's day-to-day interactions.  But, the distraction was momentary and Jacoba quickly refocused on the content of the story rather than the story itself. 

She'd heard bits and pieces of the story - random vignettes she'd collected along the way and tried to piece together in a cohesive work: the mention of an older brother her, words like Second War dropped into conversations, brief mentions of intolerant conflict in the context of other situations.  Usually, all directed at her as an explanation or reasoning for the trouble she was facing.  But, she'd never heard all the tidbits strung together in a comprehensive story. 

Listening to the story in its entirety, it was remarkable just how ... familiar it sounded.  Familiar enough that, without too much effort, she could fill in the gaps and provide the what-ifs herself.  "The disenfranchised are, I think, one thing our worlds have in common," she offered quietly.  The woman's motives for this history lesson were, as of yet, murky but Jacoba had gathered the woman was well aware she was The Muggle.  "I'd even venture to say they're the most universal element of both of our worlds."  And, perhaps, why Jacoba had managed to fit as seamlessly into the Reducto crowd as she had. 

"Though I understand why Creevey is reluctant to talk about it, I hope he tells his son.  I suspect little Colin would be proud to tell everyone about his father.  Or, given his environment, sing about it."  Jacoba offered a slight, sad grin as she shrugged, looking down at her own hands.  If the young man knew the story, he'd have nothing but reasons to be proud of his family.  That little tyke didn't know how fortunate he was in that respect.  Except for the obvious detail.  "It would have been horrible if they'd lost him, too, to that same conflict.  Seems the struggle for the rights of muggleborns isn't as finished as one might hope."

Jacoba grew quiet a moment as she considered her next words.  She was, as she was quite aware of, the outsider.  Despite what everyone seemed to think, her being here wasn't part of some revolution or self-defined noble cause.  What was left of her world happened to be in this world.  That's all it came down to.  But, she was still the interloper.  So, she knew her speaking up on some things may not, exactly, be welcome.  But, she also didn't need to accept being simply dismissed, either.  Sometimes, it took an outside perspective. 

"I'm pretty aware of what that different place could have been.  I'm not naive - I know where my family comes from and I don't really have many relatives to be proud of.  My history very well knows that place your world managed to avoid.  But - sometimes we mistake avoiding Hell with having found Heaven.  Matilda Quinn almost lost her son because who that boy's parents were.  Being complacent about intolerance because it isn't on the scale of previous horrors isn't a safe place to be."  She shrugged apologetically and glanced around the shop, taking stock of where her other coworkers were just in case her words weren't appreciated.

Clever. This muggle certainly was that. She could see the elements of her personality that would draw Adon Eleor to her. If the woman did have to disapprove of the rumored relationship by default of her professional standing, she might feel the contrary. As it were, her profession was what had promoted this encounter. Nonetheless a small smirk touched the edges of her lips again, hoping dearly that it was not the same Mrs. Puddifoot’s that owned the teashop in Hogsmeade. Unless frightening small children was the actual objective.

“Quite,” was her singular response, her facial features altering only as much was necessary to say the word. She knew very little about muggle History. Ignorance was not something Tamis Raynor strove for, but nor was trivia. She knew enough to understand the coexistence of the muggle world and wizarding and knew that tragedy highlighted the history of both. She was aware of the turmoil in the Middle East. There was magical turmoil there as well. The Disenfranchised was a common element between the two cultures. If that was true, if muggles and wizards still had trouble accepting – for lack of a better phrase – members of their “own kind”, then they were not ready to accept each other.

Still holding the album, it began to feel awkward and heavy in her hands. She was, distantly, aware of the Creevy trouble with the purist sympathetic members of society recently. She knew it was being investigated and that no one had been permanently injured but had been distracted by… more worldly issues seemed a cold way of putting it. She had used the comparison to give Jacoba Schlagenweit to make her eventual point more relatable. Verbalizing compassion had never been her strong point and she did not attempt it now, instead she nodded, still analyzing the taller and younger woman as a hawk might a slightly larger bird of prey. Determining if it was a threat.

“Ten years is time enough for reform to begin,” she said. “But not long enough for a complete transformation.” Especially not when a certain demographic, who with the ignorance of children of ten years ago as their ammunition, were now trying to invoke old sentiments.

The mood had quickly changed from the lighthearted conversation over a seemingly random album title. The muggle had grown more guarded, more seriously; as closely criticizing the Auror’s motives as the Auror was of hers. She also grew more defensive and… strangely passionate. The backbone she had sensed earlier was making its presence known.

Comparison. Her history knew the same the Wizarding World had. That similar tragedy. Sentimental understanding. It was a child’s understanding, and in that way she realized Zora Roh’s argument with Miss Schlagenweit. She did not fully understand what she was getting into – but she thought she did.

Instead of becoming defensive in return, the shorter woman’s mood actually lightened. She offered a more genuine smile, “I concur entirely. But there is a difference to being proactive in the face of intolerance and reckless endangerment to prove a point.” The smile twisted into an ironic smirk, “the latter have a tendency to die faster.”

Slipping the album back into the stack, she turned back to the woman. Giving her another critical once over, she seemed to come to some important decision. What it was, she did not but instead said, “Tamis Raynor,” by way of greeting. She did not extend a hand to shake. She rarely did. She was, however, interested in the woman’s reaction as a whole. And quite uncertain as to what it would be.

The longer Jacoba watched the woman, the less convinced she became that the woman was here to purchase a record for this boyfriend of hers.  Even though the customer's line of sight was still directed to the album cover, Jacoba was getting the sense it was her and not the track list the woman was studying.  Was this another muggle-gawker?  One of those wizard-raised witches who was fascinated by The Resident Muggle.  Jacoba took a deep breath and curled her toes within the confines of her shoes in a conscious effort to avoid shifting her weight nervously. 

Of course, the conversation had strayed, perhaps terminally, from the topic of music.  "Suppose it also depends on what the ultimate goal is of the reformation."  Jacoba assumed there were just as many visions of this reformation as there were witches and wizards in the wizarding world.  However, this woman's perspective would offer Jacoba immeasurable insight into her frame of mind.  And what, if any, common ground they might find.  "And, the collective level of motivation to achieve the reform.  We'd had quite a bit - both internally and externally.  And, a lot to apologize for."  And, in some ways, they were still apologizing - even generations after the fact. 

It took only a moment for the woman's motivations to become clear: she was here for another stop-being-a-martyr-rebel-rouser lecture.  With the weight of one who presumed they'd heard all the arguments a thousand times before and could recite them in their sleep, Jacoba's shoulders drooped as she sighed in resignation.  Why did everyone assume her being here had some larger, grander agenda?  Everyone seemed bent on the notion that Jacoba had come here to prove a point.  Which ... it wasn't that simple.  Or, perhaps, it was simpler than that. 

Before she could comment, though, the woman offered a name.  Had the name come before the woman's assumptions, Jacoba would likely have found herself stifling a laugh, fueled by an Adon-inspired mental comparative image of a cupcake.  But, with the name trodding on the heels of now-overly-familiar assumptions, Jacoba's amusement was measurably muted.  Not absent.  Just, muted.  A grin twitched its way onto Jacoba's features but she pressed her lips together with her teeth to try to physical force the smile off of her face. 

"Ganz toll![1] Jacoba muttered slightly before nodding her head.  "I'm sorry, ma'am.  I wasn't really expecting you to respond.  Would you prefer we talked in back?  I could take a break."  She gestured over her shoulder in the direction of the back of the shop, assuming they'd reached the point of the conversation where the other woman preferred more privacy than the center of the shop offered.  That, at least, was what detectives did on TV.

1.	• Super great!  Just fabulous!