Knockturn Alley Attic Flower

A thin, cold drizzle had begun to slick the stairs leading out of the Underground. Isabelle stood frozen at the bottom, one hand clutching the collar of her damp travelling cloak, the other gripping the handle of her battered trunk. She stared up at the wet steps and the grey London sky as if they might swallow her alive.

For nineteen years the thick stone walls of the old chateau in Provence had been her entire world. Now those walls were gone, and the letter in her pocket felt heavier than the trunk she dragged behind her.

The crowd of morning commuters pushed her forward. She stumbled up the stairs, small and slight among them, the modest curves of her body hidden beneath the heavy cloak. Every accidental brush of a stranger’s coat made her flinch. During the long journey from France, men had offered help more than once. At first she had thought them kind. Only later did she notice how their hands lingered, how their eyes returned to her face — to the soft full lips, the amber eyes, the open, almost trusting expression that had always made her mother sigh with quiet disappointment.

Your mother would not have flinched, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.Your mother would have looked them in the eye and made them step aside.

By the time she reached the Leaky Cauldron she was exhausted and tightly wound. Several heads turned as she stepped inside. She felt their stares settle on her face, then drift lower, lingering on the suggestion of her figure beneath the cloak. She kept her eyes down and hurried to the bar.

The bartender’s smile was wide and gap-toothed.

“Hullo there, lass. First time in London, are yeh?”

Before she could answer he leaned far over the counter, his gaze dropping openly to the soft swell of her breasts. The smell of stale beer and sweat washed over her. Isabelle took a small step back, but he came around the bar anyway.

“Don’ be shy now,” he muttered, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Headin’ to Diagon Alley, I reckon?”

She nodded timidly. He grinned and guided her toward the back courtyard, his hand sliding down to the small of her back. When they reached the brick wall he stepped behind her, pressing his body flush against the firm, round curve of her backside.

“Easy now,” he murmured, lips far too close to her ear. One arm reached around her, his large hand covering hers on the wand. “Three up… two across…”

Isabelle stood rigid. She could feel the solid heat of him, the unmistakable pressure. Back home no man had ever been allowed this close. Not once. Her breathing turned shallow and quick. The bricks finally parted. The moment the archway opened she pulled away sharply and managed a small, trembling curtsy.

“Thank you for your help, monsieur.”

The bartender stared after her with new interest, especially after hearing the soft French accent. His eyes drifted slowly down her body.

“Yeh come back anytime, m’dear,” he called, voice thicker than before. “Anytime at all.”

Isabelle fled into Diagon Alley, heart still racing. She tried to shake off the lingering imprint of his body, but the memory clung like the damp wool of her cloak.

The bright, noisy length of Diagon Alley continued ahead of her, full of shoppers and brightly painted signs. To her left, a narrower opening between two buildings led into a much darker, quieter street. The cobblestones looked damp even though it wasn’t raining, and the shop signs were faded or written in heavy black lettering.

She checked her mother’s letter again. This was the turning.

Belle drew a steadying breath and stepped into Knockturn Alley. She kept her head down, following the careful directions. She was almost at the end when two men stepped out of a shadowed doorway and blocked her path.

“And where’s a pretty little thing like you going in a place like this?” the taller one asked, smiling without warmth.

The shorter man moved behind her before she could react.

“I… I am looking for a shop,” Isabelle said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “It eez called Glouton Empornium.”

Both men laughed, quiet and knowing.

“Glouton Empornium?” the taller one repeated, stepping closer. “And what’s a sweet girl like you wanting in a place like that?”

He reached out and tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, fingers deliberately brushing the side of her neck. Isabelle jerked her head away, but the man behind her had already settled his hands on her hips, pulling her back against him. She felt the hard line of his body press against the soft curve of her backside.

“Please—” she gasped, the French accent thickening with panic. “Do not—”

“Easy now,” the one behind her murmured, his voice almost gentle. “We’re only being friendly. French, aren’t you? Proper little lady…”

His hand slid upward, grazing the underside of her breast through the cloak. Isabelle whimpered, tears pricking her amber eyes. This was nothing like the careful, distant world of her romance novels. This was raw and frightening and far too close.

“It eez my step-uncle’s shop,” she choked out. “Damien Glouton. Please… let me go.”

The moment the name left her lips both men released her and stepped back, though their smiles remained.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the taller one chuckled. “Old Damien’s your uncle, is he? Give him our regards.”

Isabelle grabbed her trunk with shaking hands and hurried past them, the damp air cold against her flushed cheeks. She could still feel the places where their hands had rested. Ahead, at the far end of the alley, a narrow shop front waited in the fog — the painted sign of a serpent coiled around a goblet just visible through the rain.

She did not look back.