Knockturn Alley Attic Flower

A light drizzle had just started to coat the stairs on the exit of the Underground as Isabelle pulled up the collar of her travel cloak and looked up worriedly. She’d traveled nine hundred miles from the rural home in Provence by bus, train and boat, to finally find herself in the morning rush of London centre. At the bottom of the stairs she froze as the clamor of the busy street above washed over her. But there was no time for hesitation as the unmoving throng of commuters swept her up the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

Strangers bumped into her as she desperately tried to hold on to her trunk with one hand while clutching a worn letter to her chest. Continuously mumbling her apologies, Isabelle slipped out of the moving throng and pressed her back to a shop window as she looked up at the street sign. Recognizing the name she briefly scanned the parchment for Charing Cross Road  and reread the elegant but sharp handwriting for the hundredth time. Following the instructions, Isabelle walked further down the road, nervously looked from left to right until she spotted her destination.

A few heads turned as she stepped into the Leaky Cauldron and made her way to the bar. The inn was mostly empty, except for a group of happily chatting witches at a table and a couple of wizards at the bar. Isabelle gathered some courage from the fact that she was at least among her own kind now and timidly looked up as the bartender approached.

“Hullo ter”  he said smiling. “Wha' can I be doin' fer ya, lass?”

Isabelle blushed and cast her eyes down as the man ogled her with an appreciative smile. When she didn’t answer he leaned forward, enveloping her in his odor of stale beer and sweat.

“C'mon now, don' be shy, eh?” He muttered as his eyes drifted over her chest. ”First time in London, is it? Headin' to Diagon Alley, are yeh?”

This time she looked up shyly, hesitated and nodded. The man smiled gleefully and stepped around the bar, waving at an exit on the far end of the room. 

“Don' yeh fret, lass.” He grinned with a gap tooth smile as he put one hand on her shoulder. “I'll show yeh tha way, I will.”

Isabelle meekly let him guide her through the bar, and as he walked her into the little courtyard his other hand drifted over her lower back. Back home, her mother had never let a man come within two feet of her, and during her trip she’d finally begun to understand why. From bus to train to ferry, Isabelle was offered help at every possible occasion. At first she’d found it galant, like in the books she’d loved to read. But she quickly suspected other motives at the occasional brush of hand against her thighs or back. And even though every caress or graze seemed accidental, Isabelle wasn’t truly sure what to think of it.

“'Right then, get yer wand out.” He said from behind her as she stood in front of a brick wall. Her pulse racing, Isabelle briefly glanced over her shoulder at the hulking man and blushed. The bartender merely nodded encouragingly as his hand lingered on her hip. "Go on, then.”

Isabelle bit her lip as the bricks began to spin and whirl. A hole suddenly appeared in the middle of them, growing wider and wider, until it formed an archway to the cobbled narrow street of Diagon Alley. With a nervous smile she turned around and curtsied. 

“I thank you for your 'elp, monsieur.” 

Hearing her accent the barman looked stunned for a moment. With a light flutter in her tummy she turned away from him and dragged her trunk onto Diagon Alley.

“Yeh come back anytime now, m'dear.” He called after her hopefully. 

Isabelle looked back with a shy smile but blushed furiously as she noticed him staring brazenly at her backside. Feeling more than a little flushed she focussed her attention on the shops around her and quickly found her head spinning from all the dazzling displays and shops. 

Her late mother had always kept her away from people, magical and muggles alike. But there was no denying the sense of belonging Isabelle felt as watched the crowd of witches and wizards walking up and down the busy street. But when she stood in front of Madam Malkin’s shop window, Isabelle felt a surge of bitterness at seeing the Hogwarts school uniform on display. 

Obsessed with being pure-blood, her mother had denied Isabelle an education at Beauxbatons, opting to homeschool her instead. Knowing better than to speak out, she’d secretly dreamed of being surrounded by girls her own age, living in a lavish, magical castle instead of spending all her days in her ancestral, derelict chateau. 

For a moment Isabelle lost herself in those old dreams, but flapping wings in the window of Eeylops Owl Emporium instinctively made her look up to see if Boden was here to welcome her. She’d asked her Scops-owl to fly ahead with a reply and wait for her arrival, but Isabelle guessed her friend had been caged up.

This reminded Isabelle of her destination and she glanced once more at the letter in her hand. The slanted handwriting was direct and concise, just like the words they conveyed. She’d never met the man, and had only sparingly heard her stepfather talk about him with little respect. Tyranus Glouton had been a bitter old man who thought of Isabelle as nothing but a nuisance and only coveted her mother for her striking looks. So Isabelle had never put too much value to his words. But reading the letter, she’d concluded that Damien Glouton seemed only scarcely more likeable than his brother. 

Pulling her trunk she steeled herself and followed the directions to the side street named Knockturn Alley. She immediately felt the change in her surroundings as the alley was narrower and darker than the bright street behind her. The few people seemed more dour and as she glanced sideways the doors to most shops reminding her of the Latrodecta ancestral chateau. This was a place of dark wizards.

Knowing her destination was near the end of this dismal alley she kept her eyes down and tried to avoid any eye contact with passers by. But Knockturn Alley wasn’t a hospitable place, and before long her way was blocked by two long shadows. 

“And wots a fine lil’thing like you doin’ in a place like this?” A lanky man with a cap leaned over her.

“Yeah, where you leggin' it to, me love?” The shorter sturdy man added as he stepped behind her.

“Zat way. I am going zat way." Isabelle muttered softly as the men closed in on her. 

“You French, innit?” The sturdy man behind her said as his hands slid over her hips, causing her to startle and nod her head nervously.

“An' wotcha after, down that way, eh” The longer man asked as he gently held her by the shoulders, idly stroking his thumbs down over the swell of her breasts.

“Ze store of my oncle, messieur.” She said, barely audible while attempting to brush off the tall man’s groping hands. “Pleez, let me pass.”

“Your uncle’s shop? Go on then.” The sturdy man pressed himself against her as his hands roamed over her thighs. Isabelle froze as t something hard pressed against her tush.

“Wot's yer unks called then?” The other one pressed on as his hands slipped past hers and blatantly cupped the outlines of her breasts. 

“Glouton, monsieur.” She bit her lip as the sensation of four fondling hands overwhelmed her. “Damien, Glouton. Pleeze stop?” She stammered and tried to step out of their pawing hands. Much to her surprise both men let go and stepped back. 

“Old Damien’s your uncle, is he? Why didn’t ya bleedin’ say so?” The tall one said as he reached out and pushed a loose auburn lock of her hair behind her ear. “Me name’s John.”

“William.” The sturdy one introduced himself as he looked her up and down with a big grin .”We ain't meanin' no harm. love. Honest”

Breathing heavily, Isabelle looked from one to the other, half expecting them to accost her once more. But when they only continued to stare at her with sardonic smiles she stammered. "Isabelle. My name eez Isabelle.”

"Lovely." John grinned as he stepped aside. “Mister Gloutons shop's 'round a hundred feet that way, on yer right. Well be seein’ ya soon."