Mood Music

Some Ubiquitous Junk Shop
Diagon Alley

Dust rose like tornado from the clearly-neglected pile of magazines. Ellie sifted through them, discarding three vintage covers for every one gem. Oh, and gems there were: a Quidditch Illustrated cover she’d been silly enough to toss some years ago, when she’d fickly betrayed her favorite team for another boasting an all-star line-up. Ellie had learned. There was reward in loyalty, and there were people who would cry solid gold galleons to get their worn Keeper’s mits on these covers.

Perhaps it was an exaggeration.

Perhaps not.

“How much for the stack?” She asked, leaning back into the aisle, staring with raised brows at the bored, scruffy young thing behind the clerk’s counter. She waved one of the magazines at him, and more dust swirled from it like rainwater from a dog’s coat. A real collector would have winced at the treatment, the lack of dust covers, the haphazard organization in which January kissed June, and the 2000’s were a blur.

He stared at her, deadpan, and loudly mumbled a price he’d clearly been trained to give. In 1902.

What was he, a vampire?

In the daylight...

Well, she’d seen stranger things in the daylight. Wolves, for example. Ellie resisted the itch in her palms, the urge to take out a camera and tell him to smile prettily.

She offered a smile of her own, instead, and loomed back over the stack like a greedy cartoon villain from the Sunday Prophet. They were nostalgia printed on glossy (albeit dusty) paper, and they were all hers. Her hand slipped silently into her bag, feeling for the familiar knobs and switches that were her camera.

Junk shops were awesome in Dotty's opinion. At least the proper trash piles, not the "antiquities" bull that got your for damaging and/or dirtying the merchandise. The stuff nobody really wanted anyways so why couldn't she take it?

But she was here to sell today. Dotty wanted to scrounge up some cash before hitting the pubs, there were starting to catch on to drinking and not having the funds up front. Damn, was this cauldron heavy!

Bandy-legged, Anadotti stumbled with her load. A heavy metal cauldron held by both hands and a broomstick up the armpit. Neither had seen good days. The cauldron was tarnished, gaps in the rim with a stirring stick feebly twitching back and forth. That was pulled out from a dumpster she had been frequenting. The broomstick--well that had been a funny story. The guy had never expected a flying squirrel to latch onto his face. He fell one way into the grasses, the broom another way. She'd landed by the broom and ran off with it after managing to turn back into a human. It was an older model so she couldn't fly on it worth schnitzel. And having the tip snap off on the crash landing didn't mar the price, right? So what if have the name was gone.

"Oy, scrimshaw," Dotty said to the guy behind the counter. She lifted the cauldron up. "Jeep, puppies!" she said with a grunt, strain the cauldron up and letting it slam on the counter with a thud. "Pay up. This is one of the self-stirring pot thingies, like new, I'll take 15 Sickles for it. And," the broom was spun about, stuff fell from the twigs, "a broomstick. One of those fast ones, whatever. 5 Galleons take it or leave it."

Dotty caught a glance at the chick with the magazine stack. "Zines! Awesome. There a Quibbler that still has the spector-specky-speckles in them in there?"

The clatter of metal on wood resonated before the jumble of words had a chance to assault the shopkeeper; with caricatural bossiness, the woman at the counter panned for a pay-up. Londoners came in many way, shape, and form, and none more so than the characters who inhabited the cobbled streets surrounding Diagon-- natives or otherwise, and this woman certainly fit into the the transplant category, an American pronunciation peppering her words. While the chaotic clutter wasn’t new, per say, and Ellie wasn’t easily phased, it was little static-inducing for some. A photographer, Ellie didn’t mind the zanier of individuals... to a point. When one encroached or drew attention to her perfectly solitary plan, however...

"Zines! Awesome. There a Quibbler that still has the spector-specky-speckles in them in there?"

Ellie drew her hand from her bag quick as a cat withdrawing its paw. Her lips parted and she shot a meaningful look at the man behind the counter. If this bag lady got in her trouble for looking suspicious-- she’d only meant to take a photo to entice George. Perhaps it wasn’t such an independent venture after all. But why not be a good friend after they’d made a treaty of sorts? (And, perhaps, spend less.)

She only really gave a proper look to the woman now. Her voice had been stirring, but Ellie had been on her own mission. Now, however, she’d been drawn in. A barely quirked brow regarded the question. “Sure,” she said after a moment’s consideration, grabbing her stack of newly-claimed, nicely-aged Quidditch Illustrateds with one hand, a Chaser’s old reflexes, and certainly with the fingers of someone who loved to snap moments in time. “But you might want to finish your deal first, no?”

Her eyes landed on the cauldron and broom, and swept back to the man. She was on the verge of grinning at him, letting him know everything was just peachy back there between the stacks and cartons of magazines and old wizarding mystery novels. Smiling an innocent little Eleanor smile at the man who, shockingly, decided to say something more than a little humorous.


Except not.

“No photos.” He looked at Eleanor’s bag, his stupid deadpan face expectant.

Ellie’s smile was erased. Whatever her run in with the law (she hadn’t done anything illegal! A hand in a bag wasn’t a crime), she hadn’t expected anything beyond diving for more magazines and maybe shoving a few old Quibblers at the other woman.

“What? I didn’t--”

It was then she realized the glasses hanging from his shirt had the sheen of an X-Ray charm. A clever means of security. And an utter invasion of privacy. “I’m a photographer. I own a camera. Shock of the century, or what? I was only looking for my wand.” She tried not to sound heated. She thought she sounded quite reasonable. She was telling the truth. Which only made this more frustrating.

The man was not phased.

Ellie looked again to the woman, whose fault this was invariably. She’d only wanted a little photo of the set, something to show Ian or George or anyone else interested in old sports articles and photos of bludger-dodging toned abs. (Wouldn’t George be pleased to hear her defend his taste?) She wasn’t even a thief. If she was going to get arrested for taking photos, she at least wanted it to be something more notable... not dusty magazines in a vintage shop. Way to make a career. “I’m going to buy them, so I don’t see the problem. Did you see me take any photos?” She asked the woman. Help a girl out.

“Sure,” said the other woman as the magazines retreated in her grip. “But you might want to finish your deal first, no?”

"Right, hey bucko!" Dotty waved at the guy. "Quality merchandise for trade here. Need money." Gosh, he was being unbearably slow. It was like he wasn't paying attention to her!

However, other things were being argued about. “No photos.” “What? I didn’t--I’m a photographer. I own a camera. Shock of the century, or what? I was only looking for my wand. I’m going to buy them, so I don’t see the problem. Did you see me take any photos?”

"You have a camera?" Dotty said, and a fleeting notion of how much extra she could get hawking a camera if was expensive enough. But common sense, even the abysmal common sense owned by one Anadotti Squiggs, shot that idea down on the basis of robbing one person and trying to sell of the goods right in front of a shop clerk as the victim was still there. Her hand did twitch in temptation, regardless.

"She cold have been trying to take my picture, jerk!" Dotty said, and now she did want her picture taken. That flashed her back to summers before going to Salem's where she hid from mall security in the photo booth. "And if she's going to buy them, why not cut out the middle-time and take pictures now?"

Although she had to admit, that sounded like a killer way to get copies of your favorite news-prints without having to resort to the "LOOK! THAT CAB'S ON FIRE!!" method of distracting and snatching.

The woman didn’t seem to stand still, all waving arms, quick-fire pronouncements, and morphing expressions.

"You have a camera?"

Ellie quirked a brow. Was she looking for a photographer? Or... glancing her up in down... looking for a sweet deal? Despite her new conflict of loyalties, the lionish alum squeezed her bag-- and its contents-- a little closer.

"She cold have been trying to take my picture, jerk!"

She had to smile. “Exactly! I’m doing a new editorial on... street style...” Her eyes flitted over the woman again. Why not? Something about early 90s Americana meets... chaos seemed about right. It was marketable, to be sure. Her apparent inability to remain quiet and in one pose might be many a photographer’s worst nightmares (even a wizarding photographer, for whom the final productive was generally animated), but there was also be something... quirky and experimental about it. Not to mention, Ellie loved to capture action; that was what sports photography was all about it.

She fished her camera back out of her bag, a tight-lipped shrug of a smile on her face as her eyes found the clerk again. She waved it at him; she had nothing to hide. She would buy her magazines and take a few photos of this woman and be on her way, where, in the near future, a certain windswept Quidditch star promised to round out the roll with an oh-so-photogenic everything face.

"And if she's going to buy them, why not cut out the middle-time and take pictures now?"

Ellie managed to ignore that bit. She was a wild child at heart, but she wasn’t going to get arrested for aiding and abetting. Moving toward the front of the store, she shoved the magazines across the counter, innocence etched in her (perhaps too confident) face. “After her,” she added, not forgetting her potential subject’s treasures. And who could? The clerk made a sour face, grappling with woman’s offerings and customers’ tag-teaming.

“Exactly! I’m doing a new editorial on... street style...”

Seriously? Dotty felt up her clothes, suddenly aware that "street style" was referring to her. It was an usual outfit for her: black, coarse jacket; grey miniskirt over bicycle shorts; fishnets; shoes that had nicer looking cousins in your standard bowling alley. All covered with reddish-orange stuff like rust stains.[1] She couldn't remember where those had come from.

Prospects of getting photos was delayed by guy behind the counter getting to the ringing up of purchases. Feeble coins were tossed over for Dotty and she scooped them up greedily, negligent to note that it wasn't the 5 G 15 S asked for.

"You for real? Photojournalist stuff? I've got heaps of style." That is, styles of clothes picked out of heaps.

1.	network pic

When in Rome.

The woman wasn’t an angelic quidditch star with shaggy baby curls, lean abs, and a million galleon smile, but Ellie could find her angles. What kind of photographer would she be, otherwise? And, more importantly, how else were they going to get out of this pinch? If the clerk was a sour grump over the exchange, he practically a troll about Eleanor bringing (her own!) camera into the store in (her own!) bag. Didn’t know advertising came in the form of glossy photocharmed snapshots?

The woman took her change with little protest and seemed to suddenly care more about Ellie’s impulsive photo project than the pay day. Eleanor’s lips parted and she looked the girl up in down before grinning in a casual why-not way. “Yeah, why not?” Her glance shot again to the clerk and she added, “I mean, we’ve already scheduled it and everything...”

Smooth as Honeydukes hot chocolate.

She quickly slid her own stack of magazines across the counter (along with the requested price-tag... Eleanor could haggle till sundown, but she was intent on getting out of the shop... and keeping her camera.) She forewent the shopping bag and instead slipped the collection into a inner pocket of her bag. Crossing it over her shoulder, she strode to the door and stepped into the oh-so-welcoming sun.

“Thanks...” Now it was only the woman's flitting gaze she needed to worry about, but Ellie thought they'd struck a little deal. She didn't seem all that bad, just energetic. It wasn't a crime... And she had helped her out. "So, have you ever modeled?” She thought she knew the answer... but then, an American raggamuffin in Diagon Alley was bound to be full of surprises.

This was awesome! Dotty was in some kind of photo gig that was already scheduled, although she didn't remember anything about it. Had she been drunk dialing again? They didn't have phones here.

She followed the other woman out of the shop, pausing to turn back to the nerdnick behind the counter with a triumphant/childish raspberry, wiggling her tongue and fingers at him. She found the sun too much brighter than she remembered minutes ago, squinting.

"So, have you ever modeled?”

"What, like twiggy bimbos prancing around on the catwalk, modeling? No." Hands free with nothing to do she began to play with her hair. Dotty's gift of long, black trusses needed to be played with. "I had a boyfriend once who wanted some candid shots, though when he crossed the line to nudes and beyond I had to kick him in the groin."

Just because she liked to run from the bathroom to the bedroom after a shower without a towel didn't mean that Hank should follow suit with nothing but his camera, which would get in the way of the bedsheet tango he was after but Dotty had not been in the mood. For Anadotti Squiggs, in most cases 8 o'clock in the morning was too early to get fresh. Especially if they had been doing the same thing up to 3 AM.

"I am pretty flexible, though. Mom said I had to be in either stupid ballet or gymnastics as a kid."

Ellie’s face was hard to read; whether it was shrug of an expression, mild surprise at the woman’s choice of words (but really, she shouldn’t be surprised by anything this woman said), or a sort of afterthought wince, no one was the wiser.

“Well, I’ m not going to ask you to get on a catwalk,” she promised, shoving everything but her camera into her bag, and readjusting the thing over her shoulder so that she had more freedom to test the light. She took a quick snap of the cobbled streets, in some parts shadowy, with bits of dusty sunlight, and this morning’s haphazard scrub by way of a hydrant charm leaving it still damp in some places.

“Sounds like he got what he was owed,” she said with approval. The woman might have been a street urchin, and Ellie might have come from a slightly different background, but the Gryffindor alum could appreciate as well as any woman with half an ounce of pride the satisfaction of a giving what he was owed. A wizard’s world or a muggle’s mans, there was more in common among the two societies than some would like to admit.

Her third snap was a slightly off-focus one of the woman, and then a more careful one. She squinted one eye shut, the dominant one open wide in the viewfinder.

“Stand still for a moment,” she said mildly, not looking up from the viewfinder. Really, though, she already supposed that was a vain request, and was prepared to capture the tangled American in her natural (well, apparently adopted) habitat. “Could you put your hair in face a little bit? More,” she clarified. The not-so-convenient encounter had actually taken a turn toward luck. She wanted it to look as natural as possible, but there was still the photographer's instinct for direction, adjustments.

Truly Dotty could not stand still for long. As she talked there were animated gestures and shuffling feet, eyes darting up and down the street to the features that interested her. Most telling was impatience to get the show on the road whatever it was. As the photographer took shots along the street Dotty pivoted on one foot, bored, her hand about to go from hair fondling to picking this booger out of her nose that was driving her crazy until she was caught off guard with an order.

Trying to stay still nearly had her toppling over from anti-exertion. The other part didn't make any sense to her either. "Like, scarf-like or veil-like?" Apparently she had to do something before these pictures were taken. She pulled more hair into her face, enough to taste cotton and smell hair chemicals. Just about made her sneeze.

Also since her hair hadn't been fully washed in a while the strands were scratching her face so she itched at it with her fingers, the fingernail of a pinky catching on her bottom row of teeth.

The girl looked like a toy on a metal spring. Even with her feet on the ground, there was a vertigo about her. Ellie looked up from the viewfinder, marking her bearings with a wider scope, and returned  to her winking, telescopic gaze a moment later, determined and biting back any initial photographer's annoyance at her directions being (almost unconsciously) ignored. She did suppose she wanted this girl in her natural state; if it sounded as if she were creeping around after burrowing, climbing, fidgety things in the wild, it was not an entirely inaccurate comparison.

"Er... veil," she answered, redoubling her hold on the camera. It was actually not a terrible descriptor. Who knew? "Like the wind's got, and you're a bit annoyed, but you don't really care..." In other words, a jaded London youth whose vanity co-existed with nature, put up with it, but neither submitted to nor trumped it. If that was the monologue going through Ellie's head... she really needed a day of recuperation and immature gallivanting with Ian.

"Don't scratch," she added, a little more directive, more assured. Even so, she snapped half a dozen of the girl touching her face as she moved her hair into position.

As she went about giving her more direction, asking her to pose against the wall, to sit on a crate with a nonchalant slouch and careless knees, to stand in the middle of the cobbles as if foot traffic weren't an issue, Ellie considered the American witch whom she was sure had wanted to cause a scene (or, more accurately, distract from one) in the store. "How did you end up in London?" She asked conversationally as she snapped away. She paused now and then to pull the camera from her face and consider the other young woman with curious blue eyes, a childish gaze that was nevertheless intent on discerning.

Wind bothered you but not really caring about it? Smart people and their paradoxical riddles! Dotty managed to toss her hair about her face strands crossing her unnerved face.

Who knew that standing around getting your picture taking required so many finicky little details? To tell Dotty not to scratch, if she had been a squirrel in the last two hours she'd be attacking her face convinced it had the consistency of sandpaper, that fuzzy outgrowth feeling from not shaving. And that was a guy thing! Then it was flop against the wall, flop down to sit on a box, massage kneecaps, stand over there, move move move.

The question caught Dotty off guard. "Boat cruise," the displaced American said, as much of an upgrade that could be giving to 'vermin stowaway in a shipping container of breakfast cereal.' "America was starting to suck, had to get off the eastern sea-broad."

Barring mispronunciation, more coded language that said 'American wizard cops were about to get me.'

Backing up on her feet she bumped into someone in the foot traffic. "Hey jerkface! I'm standing here, walk around!"

It was a quite literal answer. But what was Ellie expecting? She had asked. She supposed if she’d skipped out of England and ended up across the Atlantic, on the other side, she’d have a similar way of explaining things. But by ‘how,’ she might have actually meant ‘why.’ Not that there needed to be on beyond wanting a change of scenery. She felt suddenly like she understood what the woman meant. (Though the cruise bit was probably the most surprising. She couldn’t imagine this woman on a cruise.) Ellie’s year abroad, during which time she had met Ian, had been much-needed at the time. Now she was enjoying life in bustling London, and adulthood brought plenty of scenery with it. “A cruise, huh?” It seemed a decidedly muggle phenomenon. “I hear they have enough food to put the Great Hall to shame-- er, Hogwarts. So you get to sunbathe and eat sundaes while it glides over the ocean?” She could get into that. “I think I’ll have to bug someone into joining me for one of those...” She grinned at the thought.

A man hurried past-- it seemed a suddenly busy time of day-- and Ellie lowered her camera, eyes trailing after him before returning to the other young woman. She smiled a little, somehow satisfied that someone was paying attention to her camera (though she often tried to get candid shots, it was not the same when people barreled past with no mind and nearly ran her over. Eleanor was a shy, squeaky mouse, either, but she tried to remain professional.) The roll was nearly full, and Ellie, though she was always up for an adventure, didn’t fancy stalking after the woman while she sought bouncy revenge on foot traffic. “I think I got what I wanted.”

And then, “Thanks. What did you say your name was?”

"What?" Dotty was befuddled that the cruise story had stuck, before realizing. "Oh yeah, the whole swill." She tried to remember what she knew of boat cruises from many days of seeing pamphlets. To those members of the land locked Nevada desert a cruise ship was a casino resort on the ocean. One of many unfulfilled vacation destinations they whined about as kids, when dad's idea of a trip was hitting the strip and All-You-Can-Eat-Brunch. "Yeah, shuffleboard and pool deck and dolphins and the guy in the giant mouse suit. Whole shebang." No pigs though, that was petting zoo riffraff.

"But bug somebody, yeah, totally do it." Dotty really wanted to go on an actual cruise now, the real thing and not days of gnawing cardboard, plastic, and stale crunchy kernels.

Then the woman with the camera was done. That was it? Just when she was getting into it, like picking up the taste of harvest dragon jerky. Green and the toughest leather of smoked meat ever consumed but Anadotti liked the rip of meat in her teeth.

"Dotty. Squiggs." She almost smacked herself for not using some other name but this woman didn't smell of cop. But then Anadotti's real name sounded fake enough. Supposedly dad had gotten that faux Italian name from a pole-dancer with even bigger 'fakes' than her accent. Mom always did punch him when the story came up.

"So when are those developed?" She pointed to the camera.