Les Violons de l'Automne

Chanson d'Automne - Paul Verlaine

Les sanglots longs

Des violons

De l'automne

Blessent mon coeur

D'une langueur

Monotone.

Tout suffocant

Et blême, quand

Sonne l'heure,

Je me souviens

Des jours anciens

Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais

Au vent mauvais

Qui m'emporte

Deçà, delà,

Pareil à la

Feuille morte.

*

The long sobs

Of the violins

Of autumn

Wound my heart

With a monotonous

Languor.

Everything astonishing

And pale, when

The hour strikes,

I remember

Ancient days

And I cry.

And I go from there,

To the unpleasant wind,

That brings me

Here and there

Like a dead leaf.

*

Chapter One: Two Births and a Death

London, England, 1928

She was dying, this she knew. Although it pained her to leave behind her small son, she was gradually slipping towards that eternal respite that loomed beyond the horizons of her vision. One thing she wished, that she could see her husband, and the child's father, once more. His face surfaced abruptly before her, cold and cynical and cruel - but she could feel nothing but a fierce love for him. For him, and for the product of his seed that she had carried nine long months, culminating in painful labor.

The woman's dark curls matted damply to her head and frizzed around her ears in wild ringlets. Despite the fact that her face was very pale, there was a smile upon it, as she whispered to the two-year old boy sitting on the bed beside her. His face was anything /but/ smiling, and had upon it an incongruously intelligent expression, for one so young and callow. "Tommy," the mother was whispering, "Tommy, it won't be long now..."

"Don't go, mama," he said, face crumpling. "Don't leave me." The childish, high-pitched voice was strangely articulate.

"I'm sorry, Tommy... I'm sorry..." The woman hugged the boy close to her. "Don't ever forget who you are. Love y..." Her eyes slid shut and stayed shut, and her face resembled a waxen mask.

He buried his face in her shoulder, and for one of the few times in his life, Tom Marvolo Riddle cried.

*

London, England, 1936

"Oseh shalom b'imromah, hu ya'aseh shalom alenu, v'achol Yisrael, v'imru, amen." Rebecca Greenburn fidgeted nervously as she stood, trying to make as little noise as possible. Next to her, Ima, in black dress and cap, both torn in a gesture of mourning, let the tears flow down her face. She lamented the passing of her grandfather, Saul - but could not help being relieved as well. He had been ill so long... To her right, Aba stared ahead to where the Rabbi was reciting the Kaddish. His face had no expression. Aba had never been overly fond of Saba, but attended the funeral as a good man should.

Rebecca was trapped between them, her mother and father, Israel and Leah Greenburn, Ima and Aba. She had not know Saba well, but he had always been kind to her and given her hard orange candies to eat, whenever she visited. She would sit on his knee in the library, and inhale the bookish smell, mingled with the scent of oranges, fresh and tropical, and the smell of old man, musty and mildewed by time. She was sorry, but not quite sad. He had never trusted her to touch the books. More bored, than anything, and her legs were falling asleep. She pulled her long black socks up where they slipped to below the knee.

Becca's mother thought her strange. Perhaps, Leah was right. At the moment, vague thoughts were chasing through the child's head. What must it be like to die? Maybe Saba was sitting somewhere and reading his beloved books. Maybe he was young again and running through a grass meadow with Savta, years lost. It was times like these that Ima laughed, and called Becca her dear little dreamer. Not so little for long, she thought to herself. At least, not little and tiny like the infant Gideon, even now asleep in his crib at home.

Saul Greenburn had died on a Thursday, and had promptly been buried in an unadorned pine casket, as per his wishes. They filed from the synagogue, the mourners in sable, and chattered their small talk and condolences. Leah and Israel lingered on the stairs, she with tears streaking her mascara and he with a grave-somber face, shaking hands firmly. The community as a whole was somewhat subdued, as news from the Continent poured in. The Greenburn family had no relatives in Germany, but many of their friends did, and worried about what might happen, now that Hitler was mobilizing.

The talk gradually shifted from the departed elder to the situation in Europe.

"At least there is no war, kennahara," one old woman murmured.

"There is no war!" Becca's father exclaimed mockingly. "There is no war! D' you think Hitler will be satisfied with the Rhineland and the Sudetenland? He is like a hungry wolf, swallowing up everything in the way."

"Israel..." Ima said warningly.

"I'm sorry, Leah. I know how this must hurt you. But the situation in Europe will not get any better - Hitler is a maniac."

"Israel," Ima said, but pleading this time, quiet. "Please."

"I'm sorry," Aba said, and hugged her. "These are hard times we live in."

"I know," she whispered, clinging to him. "I know."

To Becca, small and forgotten on the stairs, it seemed a long time before anyone noticed her, the little girl with the too-serious expression and the skinned elbows.

*

London, England, 1936

The moon streamed through the window of the orphanage and onto Tom Riddle's face, and he turned over on his side, away from the blinding silver-light. He closed his eyes and burrowed more deeply into the hard mattress provided by the directors. It was fairly quiet for a London night, and perhaps he was imagining it, but - from somewhere, drifting through the open window, came the almost silent sound of a violin. The music reminded him of his mother - once, a long time ago, she had played for a delighted, chubby baby boy.

Tom fought back the sudden urge to laugh. Odd things amused him; the other children did not always understand his sense of humor. Shaking silently, he sat up and surveyed the other boys in the dormitory with something surprisingly like hate. He watched each and every one of them, lip curling upward. Their mouths, slack and limp, were open, and some drooled. /Muggles/, Tom thought fiercely. It wasn't as though they went out of their way to be kind to him, either. Hardly a day went by when the children didn't mock him about something, be it his paleness, or the occasional fits of melancholy that closed his face to emotion.

The only respite, the only hope that he had for the future, was a letter from a certain school in the Scottish highlands. He remembered clearly his mother telling tales of the wizard world, but all the same, it was obscured behind the memory-fog that surrounded all thoughts as old as that one. Still, odd things would happen around him - one of the other boys his age, punching him casually in the stomach, was suddenly thrown backwards against the wall with such force that his head was cut and bled profusely. Another time, the director of the orphanage had locked him in the closet, and later found the bolt completely melted from the door. None of these things made the hellish atmosphere any easier, but they did give the boy a grim sort of satisfaction.

Tom lay on his bed, hating the orphanage, the people in it, his father for leaving his mother, and never even wondered whether that was strange for a boy of ten years of age.

After a while, he fell asleep, but it was to uneasy dreams that roiled behind his eyelids.

*

London, England, 1937

Becca Greenburn lay on her bed, eyes closed. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers," she whispered, "For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." With a sigh, she opened her eyes and glanced at the page upon which Henry the Fifth's famous speech was printed. Exactly right, and accurate.

"Becca!" Ima called from downstairs, "We're going to light the candles in fifteen minutes! Wash your hands and get down here!"

With another sigh, Becca's mind was drawn from the antiquated world of Henry the Fifth, where men gave brave speeches and a beautiful Princess laughed over the vulgarities of the English language. The world was not the same; to be sure, no one spoke like the characters in Shakespeare's plays. But she wished, with all her heart, she wished that they would. "There's just no magic left in the world," Becca said to herself, dark eyes closing again. Inside her head, everything was so much more interesting than here -

"BECCA!" Ima yelled, sounding annoyed, this time, "Shabbat is starting and we cannot wait!"

"You could start without me?" Becca rejoined hopefully.

"Not a chance!" Aba called cheerfully, his voice muffled by the distance.

"All right, all right," Becca answered morosely, closing the book reverently and placing it on her pillow. Though it was difficult to do in skirts, Becca ran down the stairs two at a time and presented herself to Ima and Aba with a flourish.

"Ah, I had wondered what that noise was," Aba said, his eyes comically crossed, "Now I see it is a young elephant, escaped from the zoo!"

Becca grinned at him. "No, Aba, it's me!" It was an old joke of theirs.

"Me? Who is me?"

"Becca, your daughter!"

"I think I would have known if Leah had given birth to an elephant."

"I'm large enough to hold an elephant now, am I?" Ima demanded, mock-outraged. She was frying potatoes on the stove, and turned over her shoulder to look at her family.

Becca examined them, as well. There was little Gideon, dark-eyed and with the beginning of a black fuzz upon his hair, in his high-chair, attempting to eat his toe in the mistaken belief that it was a viable source of nutrition. Aba, tall, thin, and black haired, a small shiny circle of skin daring to peep through the forest of his thick hair, grinning wickedly at Leah, who was deep complected, regal rather than beautiful. It was her family, and she fit here. Becca looked solemnly at them for a moment. She would not want to lose them.

"What now, Becca?" Ima asked in an exasperated tone, "What can you possibly have to look so miserable about?"

"Not miserable, Ima, just—"

"Biwd!" Gideon yelped delightedly, waving his pudgy hands above his head.

Becca stifled a yelp of her own, but Ima shrieked and jumped backward. "What — how?" she asked weakly, as the barn owl swooped through the kitchen, dropped a letter upon the table, and flew away again, through the open window. They all stared at the parchment envelope as though it might explode. In glowing green ink on the front, it was addressed to Becca. No postmarks, but then, of course they wouldn't need them - not as though the owl was any part of the postal service! After a moment, Becca picked up the envelope carefully.

"I - I wonder what this could be."

"Open it," Ima said.

"I don't believe it," Aba said; still staring out the window. "An owl - you saw it, did you? An owl just flew through the kitchen—"

"Aba, hush, I need to read this," Becca said, frowning at the letter. With sudden resolution, she slid her thumb beneath the purple wax seal and lifted the top of the envelope, pulling out several sheets of heavy parchment. Scanning it quickly, dark brown eyes gradually widening, the girl looked up at her parents in total shock. "Ima," she said, "Ima, it says I'm a witch!"

"You're a WHAT?" Aba demanded, "Let me see that!"

The letter said, in entirety:

"HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY.

"Headmaster: A. Dippet (Order of Merlin, Second Class, Exc. Officer, International Confed. Of Wizards)

"Dear Miss Greenburn,

"This letter may shock you, even frighten you, but we at Hogwarts School must assure you that this letter is no hoax. There is, in London and around the world, a society of magic people living in secret from those of non-magic descent, those we call Muggles. You, though descended from the very same, have abilities and powers which merit your introduction to the wizard-world. You, Miss Greenburn, are a witch.

"In order to prove the authenticity of this letter, one of our staff members will arrive at your house tomorrow, at nine o' the clock. Enclosed is a list of necessary materials, and term will begin September 1st.

"I hope this will not inconvenience you terribly.

"Yours sincerely,

"(Here in a scrawling, looping signature) Calliope Abernathy.

"(In print) Calliope Abernathy,

"Deputy Headmistress."

"Is this your idea of a joke, Becca?" Aba asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

"No! No, I swear, I didn't know anything about this at all," Becca said hastily.

"One of your friends."

"None of them has enough imagination. Besides, how could anyone train a live owl to fly in and drop it?"

"I don't know, but... Magic?" Ima said, confused.

"What can we do?" Aba asked.

"We can wait until nine o' clock tomorrow," Becca said, in a helpful tone.

"Quiet!"

"All right, all right." The dinner was finished in silence, with the letter sitting accusingly on the table between them.

*

Tom glanced over his shoulder to make sure that none of the orphanage staff were present before slipping the window open. It creaked uncertainly, and he was hard put not to jump. No one noticed, however, and he smiled lightly. Heaving his body onto the sill, Tom balanced precariously on the ledge, steadying himself before gripping hold of the stones above the window. He lifted himself up, and, from there, was able to shinny up onto the roof. Tom was agile for his age, and quick, and managed to settle comfortably onto the shingles. He lay back and stared up at the sky, blue and dotted with clouds.

He did this, sometimes, when the oppressive atmosphere below grew too much to handle. Up on the roof, there were no mocking faces or voices, only the air and the clouds and the birds. Sometimes, he would see cats leaping lightly over the ceiling of the city, and would nod at them courteously. Cats and snakes compelled respect, as humans did not. Speaking of which ... The Hogwarts letter should be arriving soon. Although Tom was not by nature a worrier, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. He /had/ to be a wizard. He had to. If he wasn't...

He could not bear living in the orphanage any longer. If he wasn't a wizard then he'd have to take matters into his own hands. And, Tom thought sardonically, those matters were not likely to be pleasant ones.

Perhaps he had dozed off, but was soon awakened by something hooting in a concerned manner and poking him in the stomach with sharp claws. "Ouch!" Tom exclaimed, so startled that he almost rolled off of the roof completely, and was only saved by quick reflexes and a protruding shingle. The owl sitting beside him frowned reproachfully and jerked its head sideways to indicate a letter resting next to it. Tom's dark eyes fell upon it and, gradually, a wide, slightly goofy smile spread across his serious features.

"Mr. T. M. Riddle," it read, "The Roof, Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children, London," and on it was emblazoned the purple seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

*

Nine o' clock could not come soon enough for Rebecca Greenburn, who lay awake in her bed, too excited to sleep, listening to her parents argue about the letter. It was a dream come to life, truly, for she had always dreamed that there might be some vestige of the fantastic left in the world and here - here she found that she was a wizard, with magic all her own! Not for one moment did she doubt the validity of the letter. Of course it was not a hoax. How could it be? Something within her quivered with excitement and reverberated with the truth.

Her parents, on the other hand, were not so convinced. It worried them no end that the letter might be a fake, but worried them even more that it was true. Both of them were observant Jews, if not quite Orthodox, they were most certainly the next step below. The idea that a member of their family could work magic was completely against their belief system. Though they fretted that Becca's hopes might be raised accidentally, they were even more anguished that perhaps it might really occur.

Becca, in her room, was completely oblivious to all this, lost in her own thoughts.

*

Leah Greenburn paced the living room, biting her lip. "Israel, do you have any idea what this might mean? If it is true, our daughter will go away - far away— Oh, Israel, I just don't know what to do!"

He was slumped in a chair, staring thoughtfully into the distance. Israel Greenburn was taking the news better than his wife was; his fingers rested below his chin as he pondered the future. "It is anathema to Judaism," he said softly, "But perhaps it will not be such a bad thing? It does not mean that Becca will turn from her faith, but what she will gain from this is - is immeasurable."

"I don't care!" Leah screamed, "Israel, we are going to lose our child! Do you understand that?"

In the kitchen, Gideon woke abruptly and began to cry. His wails made the clamor in the living room even worse, and Israel winced and covered his face with his hands. "Love, I understand completely. I do. But look at the clock - it's a minute to nine." They both watched as the minute hand, then the hour hand, swung around to land silently on the 9. And nothing happened. Leah was in the middle of breathing a long sigh of relief when suddenly, a man appeared in the center of the room. With a shriek, she jumped backwards, hand over her mouth.

He was tall, with red-auburn hair and the beginning of a beard. Glasses perched on the edge of his nose, and he smiled faintly as he took in the surprise of the two Muggles before him. "Hello," he said in a friendly, casual tone of voice, "I apologize for my tardiness." And as Leah Greenburn crumpled to the floor in a dead faint, he glanced curiously at her husband before moving to help her up. "I'm sorry, was it something I said?"