Chapter 6: A Silent Promise
Cressida waits against the brick wall carving the inside of the alleyway closest to her home. She only has to wait a few minutes before a young boy turns the corner, hands stuffed in his red jacket over his open button plaid shirt and white singlet.
His blonde hair has grown longer over the holidays, now brushing across his eyes when he lets it drop in front of his face. "I'm wearing my walking shoes-" she declares, kicking her foot up in display, -"and I haven't eaten breakfast so I can stuff my face for lunch and ice cream."
He chuckles bashfully, ducking his head.
"Aw, I'm not embarrassing, am I?" she taunts. "And here I was trying to pull off the cool aunt position."
"You play it perfectly well," Bastian gibes. "My aunt wears only leopard prints and eats diet yoghurt. So this is a big step down."
"Leopard print? Gosh, there are many better animal prints out there. Even non-animal prints. Is this what Muggle families are doing these days?"
Bastian hooks his arm through hers as they prepare to disapparate. "Aren't you Muggle-born?"
"Proudly," she grins. "But I've spent the majority of my life in the hands of purebloods and the time that I did spend with my family I wasn't exactly looking at what they were wearing. We weren't exactly in a town that had the height of fashion in the shop windows. More like overalls and straw hats."
"With Sirius' family?"
Cressida snorts aloud at that one. With the distinct 'pop', they reappear in a side street of Diagon Alley. "No," she answers, peering down at the now fifteen-year-old boy who is still very short for his age. At that age, James was taller than her by over a head. "Haven't you learnt much about the Black family?"
"Not really," he answers. "I only know they're mostly Slytherins. Regulus Black graduated last year and he didn't exactly look like the type of fella I could go up and have a good ol' chat to, ya know?"
"Probably smart," she deliberates. The streets are flooded with students, families and wizards just trying to go about their day whilst the back to school rush occurs. "The Black family are quite Pure-blood driven. Sirius ran away from all that when he was your age."
"Did he come to live with you? Is that why you live with him and not James?"
Cressida parts her wet lips, tilting her head to the side. "No, actually. He went to James. I stayed at James too, but I had my own home at the time. Sirius and I just both needed our own places, to feel like we could hold our own. If that makes sense," she adds, realising that her prattling became more of a monologue of her own mind. "We're peas in a pod."
"It does," he assures her with a sense of confidence. She hasn't really asked him, but he strikes Cressida as an only child. Just the way he can be independent and assured when he needs to be, but also a looming sensation of solidarity. "I have a list of things to get."
He hands her a scrap piece of paper and Cressida peers over the list. "A new 'Monster Book of Monsters'," she reads, "the last one destroy itself, did it?"
"Yeah," he replies gloomily, but a youthful smile re-emerges. "Some Slytherin unlatched it when I wasn't looking, and it got into a fight with another. Tore them both up."
"Only at Hogwarts do books tear each other apart."
They make a plan to go to the bookstore last so they wouldn't have to carry the weight of school textbooks around and head to the uniform shop first and foremost. It's a guilty pleasure taking Bastian to Diagon Alley. Though she would do so without the side pleasure, for the young boy has taken a large chunk of her heart, it brings her back to her younger years where she was doing the same. After second year she had a growth spurt and Euphemia took her get new robes. Buying her first broomstick and wand.
But it's not an entirely safe space.
Cressida eyes off the turn to Knockturn Alley, watching a cloaked figure morph with the shadowed lane that reeks of darkness. And not just in the physical sense. But a string tugs at her chest, taunting her to come seek what others avoid. After all, that is where her obscure interests lie.
And no, she hasn't performed any sort of Dark Magic. Only studied it. And despite the grotesque interest it unravels inside of her, she has no intention to do so. It's like studying the Dark Ages, or the torture devices used in Medieval Europe. They exist and there is no denying it. There is a thick, unmistakable line between studying burning witches at the stake and lighting them yourself. Cressida is performing the former.
"Hey! I think I see some of my friends," Bastian announces, waving on his tippytoes. Cressida peers through the crowd, spying the group of younger boys and girl.
"Why don't you hang out with them for a while?" she suggests, for both their sakes. "I'll stick around and find you in an hour or so."
Bastian stretches his neck to look at her with wide eyes and an astonished expression. "I can hang out with them?"
Cressida's smile is riddled with bemusement. "Of course you can. I'll do my own thing. I've got a few book shops I want to check out anyway."
Bastian takes his time registering her permission. She doesn't need to ask, recognising the look. And perhaps his family are still much different from hers, but Muggle parents still have a tendency to keep them close when they don't understand everything going around them in the Wizarding world. Which is why she is more than happy to take Bastian in the first place.
"Be back in an hour," he cries, barging through the crowd towards his little gang of buddies. Cressida waves to his back, but her eased disposition doesn't stay in place much longer after he disappears. Straighten the collar of her denim jacket, her hand brushes over her necklace momentarily out of habit. As nonchalantly as she can, she weaves through the crowd back the way she came. The necklace's heat grows as she turns down Knockturn Alley.
The warmth and life of Diagon Alley melt away with a few steps. The stone walls are high and cold, the grey starkness swallowing everything that makes the world feel nice. Cressida bows her head, letting the loose and dark waves curtain around her like a barrier. She passes a grubby looking witch whose hair is sprinkled with dry grey strands, a strange and long crackling sound sending a shiver down her spine.
Cressida rolls her shoulder as though to ward off the traces of sickness lingering in the air. Her fingers drift over her wand pocket more than once, contemplating having it already in her hand, but she isn't sure if that would display as a threat.
The book store may have been a lie, but she isn't ruling out one if that is what she finds. Anything that her eyes and mind deem worthy. The signs to the stores are more often than not, bleak, faded and even non-existent in some cases.
Cressida feels the itch of invisible hands becoming too much, creeping under layers of clothes and along her bones and almost turns back until she crosses the sign of 'Borgin and Burkes'. It isn't the most unfamiliar thing, as it had been mentioned for its downright bizarreness a few times by Sirius and even Marlene.
With a quick turn of her feet, Cressida elbows the shop door open, having no desire to touch the handle with her skin. The scent of the store is pungent and musty. Many of the shelves are dust-covered and the entire place is dimly lit. There's a stone heart along one wall. And almost nobody inside. Cressida eyes off the shopkeeper – Borgin – as she wanders around the shelves. The Hand of Glory. A creepy line of masks along the wall.
Feigning interest in a collection of bizarre jewels, displayed next to a necklace of opals with a very direct warning not to touch, Cressida turns to the bald man at the counter. "Excuse me, I was wondering if there are any stones you are looking at buying."
"Stones?" the gruff man grumbles, raising an uninterested brow. "I ain't buying pebbles off the street if that's what you're wondering."
"No," Cressida swallows, choosing her next words carefully. "I just mean to ask, if you were in the market to buy, what magical stones would you be searching for?"
The man, amused by the young woman's odd question and clear displacement in his store, answers, "The Philosophers stone," he chuckles willfully. "Get me some immortality." Cressida makes a near-silent hum, having already dismissed that idea. "Or the Resurrection Stone, but I'll be damned before believing a young lady like yourself is in the possession of such a legend." He squints, debating whether she is in fact in possession of such a thing.
"And if I did?" she ponders, noting the name though she has no idea what it is. "How much would you pay for it?"
Borgin smirk to himself. "Lady, I would sell ya' anything ya wanted in here for it. Given of course that it exists and you'd have to prove it first."
So it's worth a lot. Straining a smile, she nods to the man. "Thank you. If I'm in possession, I'll come right down here." Could this be what Dumbledore is after? Cressida has never heard of the stone before, but that isn't to say it doesn't exist. Her voice cracks, beginning to ask what the Resurrection Stone actually is, but movement outside the window catches her eye. A dark head of curls.
Dashing out of the shop, she doesn't even need to call his name. Regulus turns to her, the whites of his eyes growing. Tossing his head over each shoulder, he sees the huddled man in a corner and the owner of Borgin and Burkes behind her. With a subtle gesture of his head, he darts down an empty lane, Cressida waiting a few seconds before following his lead. The shadows grow even thicker, near covering both their faces to a point where he is unrecognisable.
He stops suddenly, spinning on his heel and his arms latch around her waist. Cressida gasps sharply, taking a step back but only to regain her balance. She hadn't expected such a welcome from him. She hugs him back with only a second of delay, his growing hair tickling her forearm that lays around his neck. He has grown over the last year, now an inch or so taller than he was before.
"What are you doing here?" she demands in a soft hush.
Regulus leans back, but his hands still rest on her waist. "Me?" he drawls. "I think it's a bit more disconcerting to see you down here. I'd expect to see you outside that overcoloured ice-cream parlour."
Cressida tosses her head from to side in partial agreement. "I just thought that I might find something interesting down here."
"Did you?"
"Information more than a physical thing," she answers. Breathing out a sharp breath, she looks him over. "Regulus. Are you alright?" Unlike her, he's dressed in nearly all black. The only thing keeping him from fitting in is the pristine quality of his thick black coat that has a high propped collar and silver buttoning down he front.
"Fine," he answers quickly, looking down either end of the small street. "We really can't stay together long." Cressida nods in agreement, words stuck in her throat. Regulus narrows his eyes into a fine line, a defence around him growing. "What?"
"Nothing," she mutters. "You've just changed a bit."
"I haven't talked to a proper friend in-person for over a year," he answers flatly. He shrinks away from her, hands falling back down to his sides. "I don't feel like I can talk to many of them-" Death Eaters "-and I fear that they will use legilimency one day on me."
"Do you know occlumency?"
"Enough to keep the novice out." His black eyes flicker and twitch, heavy in thought. "I also fear that they are growing aware of my hesitation of allegiance. I refused to join Bellatrix Lestrange when she killed those Muggle families near the Scotland border. I feigned boredom at the idea, wishing for a more fulfilling task."
Cressida grips his upper arm, squeezing it to offer what comfort she can. He's in a terrible position. Even if he did run, declaring his link to them severed, the soldiers of Voldemort's army wouldn't hesitate to hunt him down as a prize for their master. "I'm glad you consider me a friend," she says with a gentle smile.
"Do you consider me one of yours?" he questions. There's a sincerity behind it that still amazes her. He's gone from calling her Mudblood, to truly wondering if he is her friend.
Cressida nods. "Yeah, I do." A faint ghostly smile lifts the corner of his lips. Her own matches, but does not live long. "Just remember, that I know you're in a terrible position, but you still have choices. And people will condemn you for them. Including me." Those black eyes turn hard again, giving her a single nod. "I want you to join me and I will give you what protection I can."
"I-I can't," he stammers, stepping backwards. "My family. They would kill my family."
Both their eyes dart behind her as a man comes stumbling into the lane. It's time to go. Cressida can't stay here and argue her case to him. He isn't Sirius. He isn't going on what is wrong and what is right. It would be a weakness to fall to the knees in Voldemort's name out of fear, but Regulus isn't doing this out of fear. He's doing it because his mind is still trying to determine what world he falls into. To follow his brother or his parents. She will condemn him if he chooses to stay, just as she condemns all Death Eaters, but Cressida cannot give up on him while he still lingers a hand into her world. He wouldn't call her a friend if he truly believed what they were telling him.
Like Sirius once told her, the world isn't full of good people and Death Eaters.
Cressida watches his eyes carefully as they linger on the approaching man. She doubts that he is dangerous, but a few words spoken at a tavern about what he's seen may lead to something far more terrible. Regulus raises a slow hand to her shoulder, drawing her closer to both him and the wall. They turn in time of the man hobbling around them, her back staying outwards and her face hidden.
He breathes a sigh that is neither of relief nor calmness. "I don't know what to do," he whispers. Cressida appreciates how easy her choices have been. There was no tug-of-war to choose a side. His safety relies on staying with them. He looks into her eyes, desperate for an answer that she just doesn't have.
"If it's not too late-" if he hasn't killed Muggles or some other horrible act "-you can come to me."
He blinks, looking down at the space between them. He wanted to be yanked out of his situation without a choice. To take away the guilt of the consequences but she couldn't do that.
"Hey," she whispers, lifting up his chin. "You do know what to do, so figure out how to accomplish it." Regulus grips her wrist, his head moving in a slow nod.
"I will."