Through Showers of Crystal

Through Showers of Crystal

1962

An eerie, whistling wind whipped down icy Knockturn Alley, shrieking in torture as it was ensnared within the shadowy recesses of the begrimed shops lining the street. Dull lamplight flickered moodily onto the oozing cobbled street, illuminating little yet just showing the vague outlines of swift passers-by. Moving along spectrally, one could hear the retching, rasping coughs of various shoddy witches and wizards as they leaned, reeling drunk to ward away the bone-chilling cold, against sooty brick walls. The warm acrid breath of this tattered rabble froze as soon as it was delivered from their quivering mouths to the foggy street where it was captured and stilled by the vicious gusts of wind.

The cobblestone-paved alley seeped cold brackish water that combined with the sooty grime puffed out of several shop chimneys to form a frosty slush that proved extremely slippery for the hurried shoppers. This bleak winter's evening was not the day to be out and about, shopping for goods. Still, though, a myriad of customers clustered together, their combined warmth easing the cold, over barrels of frog's eyes and troll blood or solitarily haunted the alley, their cloaked figures strangely hazed by the constant winter mist falling softly from above. In this depressing atmosphere, two hooded figures...a tall man and a small child...strode swiftly through the dimly lit streets.

The taller figure, imperiously clicking down the alley in polished boots, clenched the mittened hand of the child in his own as several leering vagrants, who had been clustered around the feeble glow of a cracked and tatty wand, slouched towards the cloaked gentleman and child. The man's strong-jawed face grew sharper as he walked through the ragtag crowd, yet he did not slow his step. The throng, licking their chapped, wind-bitten chops, scrunched together, their shivering blue lips pulling back grotesquely to reveal cracked, yellow-toothed, hideous grins.

One of the younger witches let out a soft, insane giggle, and the tall man froze momentarily, a flash of fear, and then annoyance, creeping into his eyes. He glanced down quickly, barely moving his chiseled face, to assure himself of his daughter's safety. But the child did not seem frightened at all. As the creatures of the dank alley crept towards her, she simply turned her proud little nose up as though she'd smelled something awful. Her primness seemed to delight the crowd who thought such airs were pretentious and pathetic. They chuckled nastily, pressing closer to the wealthy pair before them. The unfortunate witch who'd cackled freakishly moments before appeared to be reaching forward to touch the little girl's ermine-lined cloak; as she approached the pair, she was quickly stopped by a sharp rap to her grasping claw from the man's ebony-tipped cane accompanied by the young girl's heavy-lidded cold stare.

A low murmur sprung from the multitude as the wheezing witch cawed and grasped her smarting hand to her thin chest...This man injured one of our own. Kill. Hurt. Daughter....but the man had taken enough opposition from the rabble. Stopping mid-stride, he released his daughter's hand and placed his cane into her small grasp; she gripped the cane stylishly, pushing it forward to rest in a thirty-degree angle with her body. With a flourish, the man swept his hood off his head and beadily eyed the crowd, his dark features and hawk-like nose examining all assembled. Each and every potential beggar and would-be pickpocket dropped back in cowed submission at the sight of the cloaked man's face: Everyone, poor or wealthy, pureblood or Muggle-born, knew Cygnus Black.

*

Dunno why he keeps comin' back; boy left years ago. Spooky face, that 'un has; makes me nervous, like.

Terry Burke, the shabby, elderly proprietor of Borgin and Burke's, warily raised his milky gaze to meet that of a man in his mid-thirties standing before him. The man's dark eyes smoldered quietly in his paper-white face as he anxiously awaited the shopkeeper's answer.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Riddle,"...Used to call 'im 'Tom'...the shop owner simpered, practically groveling under the pale man's gaze, "no-uns brung in nothin' with an eagle on it. 'Tisn't a very good market these days; ruddy Ministry's clamped down tighter'n ever." Mr. Burke ended his speech with an apologetic grimace, then backed away slightly, gripping his dog-eared account book tighter as the knuckles of his grimy, callused hands whitened.

Upon hearing the shopkeeper's negative verdict, 'Mr. Riddle's' white face paled still further, and he clenched his patched and faded robes tightly with smooth, bleached hands. In his dark eyes sparked a red light, its glimmer throwing the dusty relics of the shop into still deeper solemnity. Quick as a flash, Tom thrust his shaking hand into his pocket and grasped his wand; lifting the instrument high above his head, Tom stared menacingly down at the terrified figure of Mr. Burke, though no words escaped his thin lips.

The shopkeeper's murky, pale blue eyes flew open in shock; mumbling incoherently, he inched along the rough-hewn wall behind the front desk, his canvas shirt snagging and ripping on a protruding nail. The wand brandished over his head exuded a sickly green glow, illuminating the quivering shop owner's pale, sweat-dotted brow.

Tom's entire body trembled, his still-silent fury contained completely in his blank face. Poor Burke knew instinctively as if he were a cat cornered by dogs that he would die in minutes. Trembling, he tried desperately to remember the words of the Catechism, hoping against hope that God would not desert him now. When not one line, not one truth or verse would enter his brain, Mr. Burke actually squeaked in terror. Tom continued to stare mutely down at the man, but suddenly, as if an entire wave of calm passed through Tom, he lowered his wand and, without a word, spun on his heel, crossing the dingy room in five lanky steps. The petrified proprietor crouched behind the front desk melted instantly, his bandy legs giving way as he slid to the floor, the expression on his face one of utmost horror and utter terror.

*

In the smoky fog of Knockturn Alley, the little girl gazed contemptuously around at the bizarre displays peeking through the filthy windows of the antiquity shops. In one particularly peculiar shop, a patched and bloody jack-in-the-box sprang erratically up and down, back and forth, desperately waving its little arms about. The expression on its faded, painted face was frightening to see ... the 'toy' seemed to be tortured by its constant movement, and yet it could not stop. A single black tear trickled eternally from its plus-sign eye. The clown jack-in-the-box was a pitiful sight, indeed, yet it was at this window display that the little girl stopped, her wide exotic eyes filled with an insatiable fascination, the deep light in them glittering, burning, scorching, as she stared at the tormented toy.

As the little girl pulled petulantly away from her father (who indulgently released her and watched her proudly from a distance) and scampered towards the gruesome display, a strong burst of Arctic, biting cold whipped down the alley. Just as the blast reached the girl and her father, throwing back the hoods of both, the water gutter on the roof above the window cracked, loosening the clogging silt within. Seconds later, as the girl knelt to the ground, crouching to protect her slight body from the freezing wind, the drainpipe broke, drenching the little girl in icy water. As she gave an aggrieved cry and clutched wildly at her dripping hood, desperately trying to force the soggy mass back onto her head to protect herself, the child was wrenched from the crackling, crystalline stream by the tall spidery figure of a lanky man.

The man, though he was showered in stabbing icicles, sprinted towards the stunned Cygnus Black with the quivering form of the child clasped in his arms. Once he'd reached the incredulous gentleman, Tom Riddle...for the lanky man was he...dropped the little girl unceremoniously to the ground, tipping her feet downward so she could stand. He then straightened and, with a quick nod to Black, pivoted quickly on his shabby heel and strode away leaving the proud pair staring open-mouthed after him. The little girl, shivering violently as gusty zephyrs rattled happily and maliciously through her wet clothing, gave a little squeak and turned to bury her face in the warmth of her father's cloak. Without one word, the man scooped his small daughter from the ground and, pressing her to his chest, wrapped his robe around her. Whimpering, the girl gazed after the retreating figure of the shabby but elegant man. He's beautiful, she thought, adoring her silent rescuer even as her father turned on his heel and clicked rapidly down the alley, heading for the Knockturn Alley entrance to Muggle London.

"It's all right, Bella," he whispered comfortingly to the little girl, "I've no idea who that was, but at least he had enough sense to leave right away. I don't know if he was a Mudblood or not, but there'll be no need of him ... especially around my favorite little girl."

Though Bellatrix nodded silently, acquiescing dutifully to her father's comment, inside she burned red-hot: Her father never ought to have said those horrid things against that wonderful, beautiful man. He didn't save her, the horrid old man. Yes, she was eleven, but she wasn't a child. There was nothing wrong with that man; in fact ... he was perfect.