Dead End Street

Dead End Street

There's something special about alleys.

I cannot claim to have travelled very much, so obviously I have no idea what alleys look like in other parts of the world. Let's just say there's something special about British alleys. Then again, I haven't travelled much in my own country either... All right, there's something special about the alley where I was born.

Alleys -there's always someone there. Have you noticed? Whether you're going out for a night on the town, or dragging yourself (and hopefully someone else) home; there's always someone standing there, looking out -watching as the world goes by. Sometimes standing alone, choosing to be alone, having a break in life with nothing but a cigarette and their own thoughts for company. Some poor sod, trying to get an hour of sleep before it's time to start wandering again -no home, no bed, just this alley for an hour or two. Maybe a couple, talking with hushed voices and serious faces; you may not be able to hear them, but their body language tells you everything you want, or don't want, to know.

This is doubly so in Knockturn Alley. People fear this place, and I suppose I can understand that, but they don't see it for what it is. They see the filth, the cold walls, and the calculating stares as a stranger enters the place, measuring him from his hair to the soles of his boots. They don't see the glimpses of warmth between those who live there, or the children playing deep inside the Alley's belly, guarded by many eyes. It is a society like everywhere else, and no place is completely devoid of laughter.

There is a down-to-earth honesty in this place that I have not seen any other place in the wizarding world. Strange then, that so many say it is like entering a nightmare, walking down our world, when it is in truth one of the most real places I know. Every stone in the Alley's pavement screams realism to me, unlike its gilded sister, the Diagon, which the Ministry of Magic enjoys showing their foreign visitors. No one ever shows them Knockturn Alley.

The Alley is a place between places, a hideout between this night and what will come tomorrow; a place to seek solitude, or companionship, while you gather strength to come back out and face all those little demons and disappointments life inevitably brings you. It's a place for quiet conversations, for quick deals and black despair. And when two souls meet in this world between worlds, they meet on another level, because in this dark and narrow universe there is no point in pretending anymore. All masks come off; there are no more charades and playing games -in the darkness between the walls we're all equals.

Us wizards.

*

Once, a few years ago, I met a young woman in Knockturn Alley. How she got there I didn't know. Probably left there by some careless boyfriend, I thought, or maybe she took the wrong way after buying books for her little sister. She looked distinctly Muggle to me, with her makeup and her expensive Muggle clothes. Leaning against the cold stone wall outside the pub, she looked alien, like a colourful exotic bird suddenly appearing in the shadows. Crossing her arms over her chest, she kept her eyes on the ground. The tough expression on her face had started to wane, to be replaced by fear. Her presence did not go unnoticed; the inhabitants had already started to circle around her - I nearly said smelling fresh blood, but that's not what I mean. She didn't belong. By pulling away, she told them that she didn't want to belong, and that made it personal.

"Raise your head, girl," I whispered to myself as I watched her from afar. But no, she shrank away from them as if she wanted to melt into the wall behind her, oozing out the signals that marked her as different. Beneath the tough facade, her insecurity was almost touchable. Those signals trigger the worst in human nature -by marking herself as a victim, she would be met as a victim. An easy prey. The world is filled with predators, and the Alley is no different.

A man was leaning over her, talking to her in a low voice. She looked away, seemingly wanting to do nothing but run, but for some reason she remained.

Quietly, I walked over to them, not able to explain to myself why. I rarely get involved in situations like this. Weasley call it cowardice, I call it being a realist -if I were to rescue every damned soul who found this place, I wouldn't have time for anything else. Why, then, did I approach these two? Perhaps it was the naïve stubbornness on her face that caught my attention, the fact that she hadn't moved an inch since he came over. Or maybe I did it just because I'm a silly old fool -take your pick.

"I will take over from here, Toby," I told him with a disarming smile.

He peered at me for a second, and the frown disappeared when he recognised me. "A friend of yours, is she?" he said, turning back to her and sniffing her hair. His hot breath against her neck seemed to fill her with disgust, and she turned her face away with a grimace. "You shouldn't let them roam around like that, Dung. Something might happen to them."

"Thanks for reminding me," I replied dryly. With a wry grin to me, and a last lingering look at the girl, he turned around and left. I returned my attention to the girl; she was staring after him with a frown and a sneer. The sneer seemed faintly familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Let's leave," I muttered, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged my hand away. "No," she said, her voice slightly shaky and yet strangely firm.

I stared at her in disbelief. "What did you say?" She didn't even look at me, just kept staring into the ground with the same expression as earlier. "Do you understand where you are? This is no place for a teen, Miss. Are you a Muggle?" I eyed her with scepticism.

"I most certainly am not!" she replied with a snort. "I'm a squib," she added, more quietly.

"Well, it's late," I continued. "You don't want to be here when the bad boys come out. Don't be a fool, come on now."

She shook her head again, and for the first time she looked up at me. The quiet desperation in her voice startled me; I have to admit that. "I can't. I'm waiting for someone."

"Who're you waiting for, then?" I asked, impatiently. For once I had actually stepped in, "done my duty", as Weasley would have said it, and getting that favour thrown back at me was the least I'd expected. Frankly, I felt more like grabbing her by the shoulder and pushing her out, telling her what an ungrateful little brat she was. I saw Toby and a group of his friends further down the street, looking at us, and I repressed the urge to leave. Instead, I turned my back towards them and leaned my shoulder against the wall. "Let me know if the blokes come over," I muttered, picking my pipe out from my pocket and started cleaning it.

She gave me an insecure look, before she too discovered the men. "I thought you knew them," she replied slowly.

"I do. That's why I'm asking you to pay attention." I was starting to get annoyed, and stuffed the pipe in silence. When she didn't elaborate, I repeated my question, more slowly this time. "Who're you waiting for?"

Without speaking, she sent a quick glance towards the locked door of Borgin and Burkes. "It's closed," she muttered.

"Yeah. Well, if you're looking for something special, perhaps I could help you out," I replied, silently wondering what use a Muggle girl would have of a Dark Arts object. As a keepsake, or a good-luck charm...? Then she'd be in for a nasty surprise. "I have a little store of my own, and I'm not rich enough to not accept Muggle pounds."

"It's not that," she replied. "It's... personal."

"Personal business with old Borgin..." I lit the pipe with my wand and tried not to look too surprised. "Then you might have to wait; he's been gone for two days, and I have no idea when he'll be back."

"Oh." Such a little word, more a whisper than a word, and yet there are so many ways to say it -and her little whisper gave away the feelings she tried to hide from me. Disappointment, sadness even, as if she'd been waiting for this moment for a long time and finally taken the step she'd been dreading for so long, only to have her courage thrown back in her face.

"What's this personal business?" I asked, curiously. "I know Borgin and most of his associates, but I've never seen you. Who are you?"

She sent me a cold glare. "I said it's personal, all right?"

I shrugged. "All right, I was just asking, no harm done." I pushed myself away from the wall, and took a few steps away. "Since there's nothing for you here, I suggest we move up to the Diagon. Come on."

She looked over at Toby and his friends, who were still eyeing us, now with more interest since it was clear to them that I was leaving. "When will he be back...?"

"I don't know."

"Is there anyone else who would know?"

"I don't think so."

Quiet, she followed me up towards the Diagon. At first I thought I'd just leave her there and continue minding my own business, but when we reached the bustling street my feet turned and walked down toward the Leaky Cauldron. It was a strange feeling, walking there, knowing this girl was following only two steps behind me. I felt her presence more that I heard it, but I didn't turn to talk with her and she seemed content with that.

I turned to face her when we reached the Cauldron. "You like something to drink?" She shook her head, and I could see that she'd been crying. All the way down Diagon Alley she'd been crying behind my back; it felt vaguely unnerving. "Hey! Wipe your tears, or people will think I'm a child molester or something," I said, trying to make a joke.

She gave me a little smile. "It's just... that I won't be back here for a while," she said. "I wanted to see him. Could you bring him a note from me?" She added the words as an afterthought, and looked at me with pleading red eyes.

"Well, I suppose I could," I muttered. "It's not that I have that much to do these days..."

I found some familiar faces among the crowd, and while I sat down with them, she approached the bar and borrowed a piece of parchment. She picked up a pen from her pocket and scribbled down a few words before coming over to me, hesitantly eyeing my friends by the table. I accepted the parchment and tucked it safely in the pocket of my overcoat.

"Thanks," she muttered, and opened the door out to Muggle London. With a last glance in my direction, she closed the door behind her and was gone.

*

To be honest, I forgot all about her for a while -the little piece of parchment didn't exactly burn a hole in my pocket, to put it like that. It must have been, what, three days before I remembered it, and it was only a comment from Toby that made me recall the brief meeting. But a promise is a promise, and I was going down to the Alley anyway, so that same afternoon I grabbed the doorknob of Borgin and Burkes and found it open. The small bell above the door made its cheery little jingle, a sound that sounded oddly out of place in this shadowy room.

"May I help you?" Borgin's voice came from behind the curtain, and only seconds later he pushed it aside and stepped out from the little office behind the counter. His fake smile disappeared when he saw me.

"Hello, Stu," I said. "Aren't you pleased to see me?"

"Well, that depends on what you're offering me this time," he replied with a sour expression. I couldn't blame him though; I cannot always guarantee the quality of my supplies. Then again, Borgin knows this as well as I do -it's a part of the game, like everything else.

"Just a letter this time," I said, and gave it to him. With a frown he accepted it, turned it around in his hand as if he was afraid it was going to bite. "Nothing wrong with it, Stu, just relax. You offering a cuppa?"

"All right," he muttered and pushed the curtain aside once more.

His office was quite small, compared to the large room on the outside, and filled with even more of the dark items that filled his shop from roof to floor. He rarely brought guests back here, and I had to remove a heap of parchments and papers to get to the only other chair. "So, how's business these days?" I asked, trying to get a conversation going.

"Well, can't complain," he muttered, still holding the paper. "Of course, I could complain, but what would be the point...? Who gave you this?"

"Have no idea; some girl I found right outside a few days ago. Claimed she was a squib, but she looked Muggle to me. Then again, what do I know?"

He sent me a quick glance. "In Knockturn Alley? She must be one tough little Muggle bitch, then." Frowning, he opened the letter.

As I sipped the tea, I watched his eyes follow the lines on the parchment, once, twice... Curiosity got to me again. "What does it say?"

He didn't respond, just folded the paper neatly up and placed it in one of the drawers. Slowly, he pushed the drawer closed, and stared out into the air for a while. His pale face had turned ashen, and I got the distinct feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Perhaps I should be going," I muttered and placed the cup on his desk.

"No. No, you can stay," he said, absentmindedly.

"Well, thanks," I added dryly, but he didn't appear to be listening at all. "'Sup, then? You're going to let me in on this, or what?"

"Seems I have a funeral to go to."

For a second I thought he was going to start talking, but he sank back into his thoughts and left me sitting in an awkward silence with the cup in my hand as my only life buoy. Finally, he opened his mouth again, though he seemed to struggle to get the words out. "This girl... What did she look like?"

I leaned back, trying to recapture her in my mind as I balanced the teacup on my knee. "Rather ordinary, really. Brown long hair, blue eyes, I think, about sixteen? Not very tall, could perhaps put on a few pounds, if you know what I mean. Stick figures aren't exactly the sexiest things..."

"I don't give a toss about your tastes, Dung," he spat at me. "All I want to know is what she looked like."

I blinked, surprised to see hostility on his face. "That's what I'm trying to explain, innit? She was, as I said, ordinary -just the average Muggle girl. Nothing special." He stared at me for a minute while I tried to understand what I'd said that was so wrong.

"Get the Hell out of my house," he muttered in a husky voice. The anger on his face was fading, and was replaced by that familiar firm expression I've seen so many times.

And it dawned on me. "Bloody hell, Stu." I stared at him for a while with my mouth open, probably looking rather unintelligent. "When did you manage to... I mean, I thought you..."

"Close the door as you leave, will you? Put up the closed sign, there's a good chap." He picked up a quill, and started sharpening it with the little silver knife on his desk. "And by the way... If you mention this to anyone, I will kill you."

"Funny, Stu," I replied with a little laugh. "It was a joke, right...?"

"Good bye, Fletcher," he replied without looking at me. He wasn't joking, though; I should have understood that. Jokes were not what Borgin did best, and he rarely made any attempts at pulling any. Stern and serious, he got up from his chair and picked out an item from a box on the shelf above him. Sitting down, he placed the time turner carefully on his desk.

I walked quietly out, and closed the door as he had told me.

Further down the Alley, Toby and his friends were sitting on the steps of their house, and I sat down with them. As I cleaned out the pipe, they talked and laughed, and then Toby turned to me and said something -I didn't quite catch what, but I smiled and nodded anyway. He looked quite peaceful here in the presence of his mates, yet I don't doubt for a second that he would have gone through with his plans that evening. People are strange like that.

*

Someone said that the ability to do the worst as well as the best lies in us all -I can't for the life of me remember who, but I believe that's the truth. Deep down, buried beneath all the layers of culture and upbringing, man has kept the reptilian brain. In the end, we're nothing but animals. Toby, you and me.

But as we sat there, talking and laughing, all of those thoughts were far away. It was spring, the kids were playing, and a lonely streak of sunlight found its way down to us, painting the grey wall with its warm golden light. Sometimes the Alley has its own beauty, no matter how rough. It is a society like everywhere else, and no place is completely devoid of laughter.