1 April, 1892 — London

"If one more person tries to do my bloody hair, I'll eat them," Alfred said venomously to the latest servant to arrive with wand in hand. He had pieced together by now that this was the sort of threat others might be inclined to take seriously.

The clock in the room read one in the afternoon, and he was becoming increasingly agitated about Zelda. The fact that she was not in the bed with him that morning was the second thing he'd realized. The first: that he must have woken up in the middle of the night, because there was no sun coming through the windows (he had discovered later that he'd actually slept quite late, because the windows were shuttered tight against any light). The second: that the person lying next to him in bed was not his wife. The third: that he wasn't himself. He was, at least for the moment, more concerned about the second, because if he had woken up here surrounded by people who recognized him and called him by a name he'd never heard before, then it seemed likely the same had happened to someone else. The idea of a stranger waking up next to his wife, wearing his face, was alarming — especially if the fangs Alfred kept accidentally biting his own tongue with usually belonged to that particular stranger.

He had no idea what had happened, or what the extent of this sudden transformation was. He had not been offered any food, and there were no mirrors in the house he could use to check his reflection. He didn't know if he could withstand sunlight or not, but he didn't intend to hang around this massive house with these pesky servants out of an abundance of caution. He was going to find Zelda, who could hopefully start to fix things — or, if not that, who would at least know not to let anyone who looked like him back into the house.

He raided the wardrobe to find a suit and picked up a wide brimmed tophat, which in combination with an upturned collar on his jacket might hide his face from the sun (and it was London; with any luck it would be a cloudy day, anyway). Luckily he knew London well enough to get his bearings quickly once he headed out, and started towards the nearest magical neighborhood he knew of where he might be able to use a floo — only to realize as he walked that he didn't have a wand on him, which would make it impossible to get into any of the magical neighborhoods in London. Bloody hell — he ought to have ordered one of those servants with the hair spells to accompany him and pave the way, but in the moment he'd been too frustrated by their insistence on following their usual routine to see their utility. Now he was out in Muggle London without a wand, and while he could possibly manage if he went back to the house, he wasn't sure he'd remember which of the grand houses it had been — the wealthier parts of London were very far from his comfort zone.

Alfred kept up towards the entrance to the neighborhood, hoping he could figure it out as he went along. He spotted something — a tell-tale sign of a witch or wizard, though a Muggle wouldn't know what to look for — and seized upon it. "Oi," he called as he hurried over towards them and fell into step with their walk. He lowered his voice, in part to avoid being overheard by Muggles and in part to make full use of his newly threatening persona. "I need your wand for five minutes."

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