CHAPTER ELEVEN: Knockturn Alley
Several hours later, the beginnings of the potion simmering under Hermione's watchful eye, Remus helped Roxanne back through the castle. She was very tired and limped gingerly. He offered to levitate her, but she refused-the thought gave her the creeps-then tried carrying her, but having her back stretched between his arms only made the pain worse. Lupin begged her forgiveness with each pain-filled step. Roxanne continually reminded him that she'd get even. He settled her on her pillows gently, as she grimaced and gasped with pain.
Madame Pomfrey was across the room forcing a nasty tasting potion down the throats of two Gryffindor third-years who had given themselves purple spots all over their bodies in hopes of gleaning some information from the hospital wing. Roxanne had begun to make a game of them and the others who wandered in and out almost daily, vexed with some very unusual, and often laughable, self-inflicted magical malady. She did her best to give them a good show, moaning and crying out in agony. Madame Pomfrey joined in the fun, tutting loudly and producing false tears of feigned sympathy. She even let slip little phrases such as, "If only the Headmaster would let me harvest the eyeballs of one or two students. Tut, tut."
Hearing this, one young Ravenclaw girl had run screaming from the room, even though her illness had been genuine.
Harry, Ron, and even Hermione did their part as well-at Roxanne's suggestion. They were busily fueling rumors, confirming all the worst ones with horrified expressions and bursts of well-orchestrated fits of crying. Hermione was especially convincing at these.
But Roxanne, much to the chagrin of those hoping for ever more gruesome details, was recovering. Still, it was three weeks before she was strong enough to leave the hospital wing for good. And only after Madame Pomfrey had removed the mangled bones from her hands and regrown them, straight and strong, in one agonizing night. It seemed the effects of the poison had left her at last, but the Dark Mark would remain forever.
Now the pain in her back was merely a constant dull burn, like a nearly- healed sunburn. The angry red scars had faded and diminished to thin black lines edged with pink. The scalding, venomous potion the Death Eaters had dipped the dagger into had left the scars permanently stained with its hollow blackness. The image of the Dark Mark etched deep into the flesh had become covered with a ghostly-thin layer of new skin that blurred the lines, like a page beneath waxed paper.
Roxanne was grateful it was on her back where she couldn't see it every time she undressed or looked in the mirror. Somehow word of the mark had gotten out-most likely through a Ministry member with a student at Hogwarts. She felt the stares at her back every time she walked through the school. She was of half a mind to stand on the head table at dinner and lift her shirt so they could all get their gawking over with.
"It wouldn't make any difference," said Harry when she told them this. "I still get it everywhere I go."
"What do you mean?" asked Roxanne. She hadn't noticed a Dark Mark carved into Harry's flesh anywhere. True there was the scar on his forehead, but most kids had a scar of some sort. Roxanne had one on her knee from her own childhood.
"You're not serious?" said Ron loudly. "You really don't know? I thought you were just joking at the train station."
Roxanne looked at him blankly.
"Harry. He's the boy who lived," Ron whispered meaningfully.
"The boy who-you mean the one Voldem-"
"SHHH!" hissed Ron cringing at the name and looking around, hoping no one else had heard.
Roxanne was staring at Harry, who lifted his hair to reveal the lightning bolt scar. "Harry? Then that's a curse scar?"
Harry nodded, disappointed that the only magical person he had ever known who did not look at him oddly when she first heard his name, now knew who he truly was. But she smiled wryly.
"That's pretty cool," she said, then shook her head sadly. "But mine's bigger than yours."
"That's OK," Harry laughed. "I'm definitely not in competition with you."
The four laughed easily together, downing handfuls of Berty Bott's Beans in a kind of mixed-flavor Kamikaze game Ron had come up with. A lovely combination of cherry-chocolate cake, peppermint, and cheesecake could be wholly ruined by a single pickled herring-which looked deceptively like the nearly flavorless cucumber.
**********
The mood in the school was improving, though for the general school population, Gryffindors especially, the Slytherins had become more unpopular than ever. Although few of the students knew of Roxanne's dangerous relationship with Lucius Malfoy, word had gotten out that Draco Malfoy was, in some way, responsible for the attack on Roxanne.
Gryffindors, encouraged by George and Fred Weasley, dogged Draco wherever he went. They even hung threateningly around the entrance to the Slytherin locker room at their first Quidditch match of the year, until Madame Hooch shooed them away. Slytherin beat Ravenclaw in a particularly brutal match. Three fourths of the school cheered for Ravenclaw, but the brawl afterward (someone remembered it beginning with Lee Jordan calling a Slytherin boy an unprintable name, and being jumped on by three or four Slytherins who'd heard it) involved mostly Slytherins and Gryffindors with Professors McGonagall and Flitwick flinging disabling charms in every direction. All the threats of docked points and detentions did little to keep them from beating each other to a pulp.
Draco managed to stay out of the fray, instead keeping to his broom high above the pitch, watching his housemates take his punches for him with amusement. But he paid for his cowardice. Some of the Slytherins, nursing black eyes and scuffed knuckles, (which Madame Pomfrey refused to treat-for their own good) looked with disfavor on him. And he soon found his circle of protective friends growing smaller. Harry realized, with a shiver, that the only ones still loyal to Draco were those with fathers among the Death Eaters-a small cell of fifteen or sixteen students of different ages.
At the same time, the groups of Gryffindors grew larger, supplemented by Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as they followed Draco and his gang around the school.
Many of them had been receiving reports from home of strange happenings and disturbing rumors. Several more students, including a number of Slytherins, had been removed from Hogwarts and placed in other schools, in other parts of the world. Their leaving seemed to hang heavily on the Headmaster.
The Daily Prophet began reporting scattered disappearances and demanded inquiries from the Ministry of Magic. But the Ministry seemed unwilling, or unable, to take action. In reality the Ministry was in turmoil. Cornelius Fudge stubbornly refused to give in to the growing sentiment that Voldemort had somehow risen again. He vehemently denied any such thing, doing his best to ignore the warnings that streamed in to him from every corner of the wizard world. Under his lack of guidance, the Ministry fractured. The bulk seemed to want to hide behind Fudge's skirts of denial, hoping that if, like him, they pretended it wasn't there, the monster would go away. Several other groups orbited around the Ministry taking various stances on the issue. Some called for the dismissal of Fudge. Others for the closing of Hogwarts. One large group, led by Arthur Weasley, demanded the Ministry take action and stubbornly argued for leaving Hogwarts open. Arthur, for one, felt his children were safer there, with Dumbledore, than anywhere. A few acted oddly unperturbed by it all, going about their business cheerily, as if nothing were amiss at all.
Amos Diggory, whose son Cedric had died while at Hogwarts last year, was unsure of anything. The loss of his only son had left him somewhat aimless, and he argued against all sides. But he was sure of one thing. His boy had not been safe at Hogwarts. "Dumbledore couldn't keep my Cedric safe, could he," he'd said gravely to Arthur.
"Amos-" Arthur began. But Amos refused to discuss the matter any further.
**********
Eventually the calls for action from the Ministry went unheeded for so long, they ceased altogether and the Ministry was left with a larger group of do-nothings led by Fudge, and fringed by smaller groups of those still clinging to a viewpoint.
Mr. Weasley and his group of a dozen or so Dumbledore supporters-those who pledged to back their words with actions-were prepared to leave the Ministry altogether as soon as Dumbledore called for them. But he hadn't called yet. He wanted ears and eyes in the Ministry for as long as he could spare them.
They'd done the best that could be expected of them-at least keeping the calls for Dumbledore's removal and the school's closure from being seriously considered. And while few of the Ministry officials were prepared to act, the sentiment at the Ministry was, by a large majority, pro-Dumbledore. For many of them he represented their only hope, if the rumors about Voldemort's return proved true.
As for Roxanne Stewart, she had no trouble believing it. She bore his mark on her back and carried with her the memory of the night she had met his most loyal followers who vowed allegiance to their master as they tortured her relentlessly in his name. She came to hold Albus Dumbledore with the deepest respect, and came to trust him as she had allowed herself to trust no one before. Despite her dark fears and uncertainties, she would do anything he asked. Even when he took her aside one afternoon and asked her to do something for which she felt very unprepared.
"I need a potions master, Roxanne. I wonder if you wouldn't mind filling in for Severus until he returns."
With no outward signs of doubt, except an ashen face, and her heart thumping unseen against her ribs, she agreed, bolstered by the knowledge that Dumbledore trusted in her abilities, even if she did not. And so, early in December, after putting it off for far too long, Roxanne went with Remus into Diagon Alley to buy a new wand and a few potions supplies. They traveled by portkey-a much less unpleasant method of travel than the floo powder had been. She had owled Mr. Orcrist for an advance-enough to cover the new wand, and some extra for Christmas. Mr. Orcrist, very impressed with her new appointment, advanced her a large sum, for which Roxanne was grateful. She had a number of people she needed to thank with generous Christmas presents. Especially Remus, who'd been at her side throughout her recovery, with the exception of the few days he'd needed for his transformations.
Lupin took the opportunity to visit a small shop in a dingy, seedy back street called Knockturn Alley. Two of the ingredients needed for his potion could only be found here. Roxanne stayed close to his elbow as they made their way along the narrow cobblestone path. The residents there seemed to be in a jolly mood and Roxanne's sneakoscope spun madly all the way. She was beginning to feel like a rat in a trap, waiting with churning insides for the master of the house to come club her to death.
Snape had given her the device for a reason, and here she was, trying to ignore its warnings as she followed Lupin into a dark and musty shop. It looked like a replica of Snape's office with his private stores of disgusting slimy potions ingredients that filled the shelves there.
Lupin saw the fear on her face, saw her clutching at the object he knew to be hidden beneath her robes. He stopped.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here. I'll take you back-you can wait for me on Diagon Alley."
"I'm all right." But her heavy breathing and wide eyes told differently.
"It won't take long," he said, and took her hand encouragingly.
The shopkeeper brought several small jars to the counter. Lupin inspected them carefully before handing over several gold coins, then tucking the jars carefully into his robes, he took Roxanne's hand again and led her out into the street.
The walked silently, Roxanne close to Lupin's side. She glanced furtively into the passing shop windows as they passed, stunned by what she saw inside. She'd never quite considered that, not only were there dark wizards out there, but that there were shops where they could purchase the tools of their vile trade-that dark magic was more than a hobby, but an industry and a way of life.
Suddenly she stopped, frozen, staring into a dirty window. There, propped on a threadbare pillow of black velvet, sat a dagger-the dagger. It's emerald eyed snake handle seemed to wink at her, the blade taunting her. She gasped as phantom pains slid over the scars on her back. She could feel again the first winding slice on her skin. She swayed, clutched Lupin's arm.
"Roxanne?" he asked, alarmed.
"The dagger," she whispered, pointing. "That's the one."
"Are you sure?" Lupin asked, looking into her panic whitened face.
"I see it every night when I close my eyes. I'm sure."
Lupin, still clutching her hand, led her out into the safety of Diagon Alley, sat her on a bench and told her to wait. "Don't move from this spot," he said, waiting for her nod of agreement before disappearing down the narrow, dark alleyway again.
Back at the shop, a middle-aged wizard with gray hair emerged from the back room at the tinkle of the bell on the door.
"Yes, sir. Is there something I can help you with?' he asked pleasantly, glancing at Lupin's worn robes and hiding a distasteful sneer.
"I'm interested in the dagger in the window, if you don't mind," Lupin said calmly.
"Ah, sir has excellent taste!" The shopkeeper glided, looking almost as if his feet didn't touch the ground, to the window and, picking up the dagger, held it out to Lupin, handle first. Lupin took it, pretending to admire it, inspecting it closely. He could see remnants of blood, Roxanne's blood no doubt, near the hilt. They hadn't even bothered to clean it, he thought with disgust.
"A one of a kind piece, sir. Custom crafted for a fine pure-blood family."
"Why is it they were willing to part with it?" asked Lupin, seeming amazed.
"It seems the maid used it to murder her lover. That is what I was told."
"Who sold it to you?" Lupin asked curiously.
"We never disclose such information, sir. Surely you understand."
"I see. No exceptions?" Lupin asked, reaching into his pocket and jangling the heavy gold coins there.
"I'm afraid not," the man frowned.
Lupin lifted the dagger, then held it up, ready to throw it at a blank wall. "May I?" he asked the shopkeeper.
"Of course, sir."
Lupin flung the dagger masterfully. With a thwack it lodged itself deep into the wood, its silver handle quivering in the dim light.
The shopkeeper fetched it, prying it carefully from the wall. He turned back to find Lupin, wand drawn.
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Remus shouted. The dagger flew from the man's hand and clattered to the floor, sliding beneath a low shelf. Lupin held his wand at the ready, the pleasantness gone, his gray eyes cold. "Who sold you the dagger," he said slowly, making it very clear he meant to have what he sought.
The shopkeeper held his hands up. "Please, sir. There's no need to-"
"WHO!" Lupin bellowed, pointing his wand directly between the man's eyes.
The shopkeeper turned out to be more of a coward than he at first appeared. He blurted the name quickly and disappeared into the back of the shop.
"Arriman Stewart," he'd said.
**********
Remus hurried back to Roxanne. She'd stayed obediently on the bench, even as snow began to lightly fall. She sat, stunned, staring at the ground. Remus crouched in front of her, looking up into her ashen face. He told her the name the shopkeeper had given. She showed no reaction, her blank eyes gazing fixedly beyond his.
"Roxanne," he whispered, holding her hands in his. "If I'd had any idea. . ."
"He was there-that night" she breathed, closing her eyes.
"You can't know that," Lupin assured her.
"I know he was. He broke my wand. He tied my wrists-so tight they bled. He was the first to-"
"Roxanne." Remus held a finger to her lips, then lifted her chin until she looked directly into his eyes. "I believe you."
"But he's my grandfather. How could he-his own granddaughter." Her eyes were hollow, sad. Her lip quivered slightly, but she did not cry. She couldn't.
Lupin thought a moment. "The power of darkness is intoxicating. He is lost to it-bent on obtaining more. He can only do that by proving himself. You could be his wife or child for all it would have mattered. He cares for nothing but restoring his black soul to honor. Serving Voldemort is the quickest, and-he believes-surest way."
"I'm not like him," she hissed.
"No. You're nothing like him. You're a Gryffindor for starters. Whether you understand the significance of that, I don't know. But your courage sets you apart from him."
"I don't feel very courageous," she said shivering slightly.
"We seldom do, until it matters. You will have the courage when you need it. You certainly showed that to be true in the forest. You spit in Malfoy's face, remember?" He smiled at her.
"That was stupidity, not courage," she whispered bitterly.
His eyes glinted impatiently. "If you believed begging for your life would have saved you, would you have done it?" he asked, raising his voice slightly.
"No. Never." She shook her head, surprised by his outburst, and her own response. But his expression softened again, and he stood, pulling her up with him. "Don't worry about courage. It'll always be there for you when you need it most."
**********
"Mr. Ollivander?" Remus called, peering down a long narrow corridor for some sign of the famous wandsmith. Roxanne sat on a high stool near the window, gazing out into the falling snow.
Mr. Ollivander, a very old wizard with pale watery eyes emerged, rubbing his hands together.
"My friend here needs a wand," Lupin explained pointing to Roxanne, who turned to look at them.
Ollivander looked Roxanne up and down.
"I do hope it was not one of my wands you lost," he said in a patronizing voice, making it clear that his wands were to be well looked after. Roxanne didn't answer, but turned to gaze out the window again.
"It was not," Lupin answered for her.
Ollivander frowned slightly, removed a measuring tape from his vest pocket, and began measuring Roxanne's arm, shoulders, head, face. She sat perfectly still, flinching slightly when his elbow brushed against her back. Ollivander noticed, but said nothing.
"Your old wand," he said as he moved toward a row of shelves stacked with long narrow boxes, each containing a wand, "what was it made of?"
Roxanne shook her head. "I don't know."
"So, you do speak," Mr. Ollivander said in mock surprise. He pulled up another stool and sat looking into her eyes. "Tell me about it please."
Lupin came and placed his hands on her shoulders reassuringly.
"It was my father's wand. His parents bought it for him in Hungary." Ollivander's eyebrows rose, but he did not interrupt as she continued. "It was black, with snakes carved into the handle. It felt warm in my hand when I used it." She looked at her outstretched palm as if she'd find the wand's imprint there.
"If you want another wand like it, I cannot help you," Ollivander said watching her closely over his spectacles.
"I do not want another like it," she said firmly.
Ollivander tapped his chin with a long slender finger. Then rose and scanned the shelves again, searching and muttering to himself. He stopped and peered at her. "You are American, correct?"
Roxanne nodded. The longer he searched, the more interested she became, straining to hear his muttered words. She looked to Remus who shrugged and shook his head. Finally Mr. Ollivander seemed to find what he'd been looking for. He shuffled quickly to his stool and opened the box in his hand. He lifted a wand delicately from the tissue wrappings inside and held it out to her. It was nearly white, long, smooth, and lined with tiny black threads that wound through the grain of the wood like veins of ink.
"Give it a wave, then," Ollivander urged.
She grasped the handle gingerly and felt a cool shock surge up her arm. She gasped quietly.
"Yes. Very good. Go on," Ollivander prompted again.
Roxanne pointed the wand at the box in Mr. Ollivander's hands. "Wingardium Leviosa," she commanded, and the box glided smoothly into the air.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mr. Ollivander snatching the box. "That will do nicely. Your new wand is made from American Aspen, with a dragon heartstring core. I made it, oh, some twenty years or more ago. It was a special order, but the gentleman never came for it. It has been gathering dust in my shop ever since. I'd nearly forgotten about it." Ollivander stood and shuffled toward the counter, muttering again. "That name-what was it? Oh, yes. Stewart," he said aloud.
"Stewart?" Roxanne spun around. "Did you say Stewart? Lorenzo Stewart?"
"Yes! Lorenzo Stewart!" Ollivander exclaimed. "You know him?"
"He was my father," Roxanne breathed.
"Well, in that case," said Ollivander with satisfaction, "it's yours. It's even been paid for."
Several hours later, the beginnings of the potion simmering under Hermione's watchful eye, Remus helped Roxanne back through the castle. She was very tired and limped gingerly. He offered to levitate her, but she refused-the thought gave her the creeps-then tried carrying her, but having her back stretched between his arms only made the pain worse. Lupin begged her forgiveness with each pain-filled step. Roxanne continually reminded him that she'd get even. He settled her on her pillows gently, as she grimaced and gasped with pain.
Madame Pomfrey was across the room forcing a nasty tasting potion down the throats of two Gryffindor third-years who had given themselves purple spots all over their bodies in hopes of gleaning some information from the hospital wing. Roxanne had begun to make a game of them and the others who wandered in and out almost daily, vexed with some very unusual, and often laughable, self-inflicted magical malady. She did her best to give them a good show, moaning and crying out in agony. Madame Pomfrey joined in the fun, tutting loudly and producing false tears of feigned sympathy. She even let slip little phrases such as, "If only the Headmaster would let me harvest the eyeballs of one or two students. Tut, tut."
Hearing this, one young Ravenclaw girl had run screaming from the room, even though her illness had been genuine.
Harry, Ron, and even Hermione did their part as well-at Roxanne's suggestion. They were busily fueling rumors, confirming all the worst ones with horrified expressions and bursts of well-orchestrated fits of crying. Hermione was especially convincing at these.
But Roxanne, much to the chagrin of those hoping for ever more gruesome details, was recovering. Still, it was three weeks before she was strong enough to leave the hospital wing for good. And only after Madame Pomfrey had removed the mangled bones from her hands and regrown them, straight and strong, in one agonizing night. It seemed the effects of the poison had left her at last, but the Dark Mark would remain forever.
Now the pain in her back was merely a constant dull burn, like a nearly- healed sunburn. The angry red scars had faded and diminished to thin black lines edged with pink. The scalding, venomous potion the Death Eaters had dipped the dagger into had left the scars permanently stained with its hollow blackness. The image of the Dark Mark etched deep into the flesh had become covered with a ghostly-thin layer of new skin that blurred the lines, like a page beneath waxed paper.
Roxanne was grateful it was on her back where she couldn't see it every time she undressed or looked in the mirror. Somehow word of the mark had gotten out-most likely through a Ministry member with a student at Hogwarts. She felt the stares at her back every time she walked through the school. She was of half a mind to stand on the head table at dinner and lift her shirt so they could all get their gawking over with.
"It wouldn't make any difference," said Harry when she told them this. "I still get it everywhere I go."
"What do you mean?" asked Roxanne. She hadn't noticed a Dark Mark carved into Harry's flesh anywhere. True there was the scar on his forehead, but most kids had a scar of some sort. Roxanne had one on her knee from her own childhood.
"You're not serious?" said Ron loudly. "You really don't know? I thought you were just joking at the train station."
Roxanne looked at him blankly.
"Harry. He's the boy who lived," Ron whispered meaningfully.
"The boy who-you mean the one Voldem-"
"SHHH!" hissed Ron cringing at the name and looking around, hoping no one else had heard.
Roxanne was staring at Harry, who lifted his hair to reveal the lightning bolt scar. "Harry? Then that's a curse scar?"
Harry nodded, disappointed that the only magical person he had ever known who did not look at him oddly when she first heard his name, now knew who he truly was. But she smiled wryly.
"That's pretty cool," she said, then shook her head sadly. "But mine's bigger than yours."
"That's OK," Harry laughed. "I'm definitely not in competition with you."
The four laughed easily together, downing handfuls of Berty Bott's Beans in a kind of mixed-flavor Kamikaze game Ron had come up with. A lovely combination of cherry-chocolate cake, peppermint, and cheesecake could be wholly ruined by a single pickled herring-which looked deceptively like the nearly flavorless cucumber.
**********
The mood in the school was improving, though for the general school population, Gryffindors especially, the Slytherins had become more unpopular than ever. Although few of the students knew of Roxanne's dangerous relationship with Lucius Malfoy, word had gotten out that Draco Malfoy was, in some way, responsible for the attack on Roxanne.
Gryffindors, encouraged by George and Fred Weasley, dogged Draco wherever he went. They even hung threateningly around the entrance to the Slytherin locker room at their first Quidditch match of the year, until Madame Hooch shooed them away. Slytherin beat Ravenclaw in a particularly brutal match. Three fourths of the school cheered for Ravenclaw, but the brawl afterward (someone remembered it beginning with Lee Jordan calling a Slytherin boy an unprintable name, and being jumped on by three or four Slytherins who'd heard it) involved mostly Slytherins and Gryffindors with Professors McGonagall and Flitwick flinging disabling charms in every direction. All the threats of docked points and detentions did little to keep them from beating each other to a pulp.
Draco managed to stay out of the fray, instead keeping to his broom high above the pitch, watching his housemates take his punches for him with amusement. But he paid for his cowardice. Some of the Slytherins, nursing black eyes and scuffed knuckles, (which Madame Pomfrey refused to treat-for their own good) looked with disfavor on him. And he soon found his circle of protective friends growing smaller. Harry realized, with a shiver, that the only ones still loyal to Draco were those with fathers among the Death Eaters-a small cell of fifteen or sixteen students of different ages.
At the same time, the groups of Gryffindors grew larger, supplemented by Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as they followed Draco and his gang around the school.
Many of them had been receiving reports from home of strange happenings and disturbing rumors. Several more students, including a number of Slytherins, had been removed from Hogwarts and placed in other schools, in other parts of the world. Their leaving seemed to hang heavily on the Headmaster.
The Daily Prophet began reporting scattered disappearances and demanded inquiries from the Ministry of Magic. But the Ministry seemed unwilling, or unable, to take action. In reality the Ministry was in turmoil. Cornelius Fudge stubbornly refused to give in to the growing sentiment that Voldemort had somehow risen again. He vehemently denied any such thing, doing his best to ignore the warnings that streamed in to him from every corner of the wizard world. Under his lack of guidance, the Ministry fractured. The bulk seemed to want to hide behind Fudge's skirts of denial, hoping that if, like him, they pretended it wasn't there, the monster would go away. Several other groups orbited around the Ministry taking various stances on the issue. Some called for the dismissal of Fudge. Others for the closing of Hogwarts. One large group, led by Arthur Weasley, demanded the Ministry take action and stubbornly argued for leaving Hogwarts open. Arthur, for one, felt his children were safer there, with Dumbledore, than anywhere. A few acted oddly unperturbed by it all, going about their business cheerily, as if nothing were amiss at all.
Amos Diggory, whose son Cedric had died while at Hogwarts last year, was unsure of anything. The loss of his only son had left him somewhat aimless, and he argued against all sides. But he was sure of one thing. His boy had not been safe at Hogwarts. "Dumbledore couldn't keep my Cedric safe, could he," he'd said gravely to Arthur.
"Amos-" Arthur began. But Amos refused to discuss the matter any further.
**********
Eventually the calls for action from the Ministry went unheeded for so long, they ceased altogether and the Ministry was left with a larger group of do-nothings led by Fudge, and fringed by smaller groups of those still clinging to a viewpoint.
Mr. Weasley and his group of a dozen or so Dumbledore supporters-those who pledged to back their words with actions-were prepared to leave the Ministry altogether as soon as Dumbledore called for them. But he hadn't called yet. He wanted ears and eyes in the Ministry for as long as he could spare them.
They'd done the best that could be expected of them-at least keeping the calls for Dumbledore's removal and the school's closure from being seriously considered. And while few of the Ministry officials were prepared to act, the sentiment at the Ministry was, by a large majority, pro-Dumbledore. For many of them he represented their only hope, if the rumors about Voldemort's return proved true.
As for Roxanne Stewart, she had no trouble believing it. She bore his mark on her back and carried with her the memory of the night she had met his most loyal followers who vowed allegiance to their master as they tortured her relentlessly in his name. She came to hold Albus Dumbledore with the deepest respect, and came to trust him as she had allowed herself to trust no one before. Despite her dark fears and uncertainties, she would do anything he asked. Even when he took her aside one afternoon and asked her to do something for which she felt very unprepared.
"I need a potions master, Roxanne. I wonder if you wouldn't mind filling in for Severus until he returns."
With no outward signs of doubt, except an ashen face, and her heart thumping unseen against her ribs, she agreed, bolstered by the knowledge that Dumbledore trusted in her abilities, even if she did not. And so, early in December, after putting it off for far too long, Roxanne went with Remus into Diagon Alley to buy a new wand and a few potions supplies. They traveled by portkey-a much less unpleasant method of travel than the floo powder had been. She had owled Mr. Orcrist for an advance-enough to cover the new wand, and some extra for Christmas. Mr. Orcrist, very impressed with her new appointment, advanced her a large sum, for which Roxanne was grateful. She had a number of people she needed to thank with generous Christmas presents. Especially Remus, who'd been at her side throughout her recovery, with the exception of the few days he'd needed for his transformations.
Lupin took the opportunity to visit a small shop in a dingy, seedy back street called Knockturn Alley. Two of the ingredients needed for his potion could only be found here. Roxanne stayed close to his elbow as they made their way along the narrow cobblestone path. The residents there seemed to be in a jolly mood and Roxanne's sneakoscope spun madly all the way. She was beginning to feel like a rat in a trap, waiting with churning insides for the master of the house to come club her to death.
Snape had given her the device for a reason, and here she was, trying to ignore its warnings as she followed Lupin into a dark and musty shop. It looked like a replica of Snape's office with his private stores of disgusting slimy potions ingredients that filled the shelves there.
Lupin saw the fear on her face, saw her clutching at the object he knew to be hidden beneath her robes. He stopped.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here. I'll take you back-you can wait for me on Diagon Alley."
"I'm all right." But her heavy breathing and wide eyes told differently.
"It won't take long," he said, and took her hand encouragingly.
The shopkeeper brought several small jars to the counter. Lupin inspected them carefully before handing over several gold coins, then tucking the jars carefully into his robes, he took Roxanne's hand again and led her out into the street.
The walked silently, Roxanne close to Lupin's side. She glanced furtively into the passing shop windows as they passed, stunned by what she saw inside. She'd never quite considered that, not only were there dark wizards out there, but that there were shops where they could purchase the tools of their vile trade-that dark magic was more than a hobby, but an industry and a way of life.
Suddenly she stopped, frozen, staring into a dirty window. There, propped on a threadbare pillow of black velvet, sat a dagger-the dagger. It's emerald eyed snake handle seemed to wink at her, the blade taunting her. She gasped as phantom pains slid over the scars on her back. She could feel again the first winding slice on her skin. She swayed, clutched Lupin's arm.
"Roxanne?" he asked, alarmed.
"The dagger," she whispered, pointing. "That's the one."
"Are you sure?" Lupin asked, looking into her panic whitened face.
"I see it every night when I close my eyes. I'm sure."
Lupin, still clutching her hand, led her out into the safety of Diagon Alley, sat her on a bench and told her to wait. "Don't move from this spot," he said, waiting for her nod of agreement before disappearing down the narrow, dark alleyway again.
Back at the shop, a middle-aged wizard with gray hair emerged from the back room at the tinkle of the bell on the door.
"Yes, sir. Is there something I can help you with?' he asked pleasantly, glancing at Lupin's worn robes and hiding a distasteful sneer.
"I'm interested in the dagger in the window, if you don't mind," Lupin said calmly.
"Ah, sir has excellent taste!" The shopkeeper glided, looking almost as if his feet didn't touch the ground, to the window and, picking up the dagger, held it out to Lupin, handle first. Lupin took it, pretending to admire it, inspecting it closely. He could see remnants of blood, Roxanne's blood no doubt, near the hilt. They hadn't even bothered to clean it, he thought with disgust.
"A one of a kind piece, sir. Custom crafted for a fine pure-blood family."
"Why is it they were willing to part with it?" asked Lupin, seeming amazed.
"It seems the maid used it to murder her lover. That is what I was told."
"Who sold it to you?" Lupin asked curiously.
"We never disclose such information, sir. Surely you understand."
"I see. No exceptions?" Lupin asked, reaching into his pocket and jangling the heavy gold coins there.
"I'm afraid not," the man frowned.
Lupin lifted the dagger, then held it up, ready to throw it at a blank wall. "May I?" he asked the shopkeeper.
"Of course, sir."
Lupin flung the dagger masterfully. With a thwack it lodged itself deep into the wood, its silver handle quivering in the dim light.
The shopkeeper fetched it, prying it carefully from the wall. He turned back to find Lupin, wand drawn.
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Remus shouted. The dagger flew from the man's hand and clattered to the floor, sliding beneath a low shelf. Lupin held his wand at the ready, the pleasantness gone, his gray eyes cold. "Who sold you the dagger," he said slowly, making it very clear he meant to have what he sought.
The shopkeeper held his hands up. "Please, sir. There's no need to-"
"WHO!" Lupin bellowed, pointing his wand directly between the man's eyes.
The shopkeeper turned out to be more of a coward than he at first appeared. He blurted the name quickly and disappeared into the back of the shop.
"Arriman Stewart," he'd said.
**********
Remus hurried back to Roxanne. She'd stayed obediently on the bench, even as snow began to lightly fall. She sat, stunned, staring at the ground. Remus crouched in front of her, looking up into her ashen face. He told her the name the shopkeeper had given. She showed no reaction, her blank eyes gazing fixedly beyond his.
"Roxanne," he whispered, holding her hands in his. "If I'd had any idea. . ."
"He was there-that night" she breathed, closing her eyes.
"You can't know that," Lupin assured her.
"I know he was. He broke my wand. He tied my wrists-so tight they bled. He was the first to-"
"Roxanne." Remus held a finger to her lips, then lifted her chin until she looked directly into his eyes. "I believe you."
"But he's my grandfather. How could he-his own granddaughter." Her eyes were hollow, sad. Her lip quivered slightly, but she did not cry. She couldn't.
Lupin thought a moment. "The power of darkness is intoxicating. He is lost to it-bent on obtaining more. He can only do that by proving himself. You could be his wife or child for all it would have mattered. He cares for nothing but restoring his black soul to honor. Serving Voldemort is the quickest, and-he believes-surest way."
"I'm not like him," she hissed.
"No. You're nothing like him. You're a Gryffindor for starters. Whether you understand the significance of that, I don't know. But your courage sets you apart from him."
"I don't feel very courageous," she said shivering slightly.
"We seldom do, until it matters. You will have the courage when you need it. You certainly showed that to be true in the forest. You spit in Malfoy's face, remember?" He smiled at her.
"That was stupidity, not courage," she whispered bitterly.
His eyes glinted impatiently. "If you believed begging for your life would have saved you, would you have done it?" he asked, raising his voice slightly.
"No. Never." She shook her head, surprised by his outburst, and her own response. But his expression softened again, and he stood, pulling her up with him. "Don't worry about courage. It'll always be there for you when you need it most."
**********
"Mr. Ollivander?" Remus called, peering down a long narrow corridor for some sign of the famous wandsmith. Roxanne sat on a high stool near the window, gazing out into the falling snow.
Mr. Ollivander, a very old wizard with pale watery eyes emerged, rubbing his hands together.
"My friend here needs a wand," Lupin explained pointing to Roxanne, who turned to look at them.
Ollivander looked Roxanne up and down.
"I do hope it was not one of my wands you lost," he said in a patronizing voice, making it clear that his wands were to be well looked after. Roxanne didn't answer, but turned to gaze out the window again.
"It was not," Lupin answered for her.
Ollivander frowned slightly, removed a measuring tape from his vest pocket, and began measuring Roxanne's arm, shoulders, head, face. She sat perfectly still, flinching slightly when his elbow brushed against her back. Ollivander noticed, but said nothing.
"Your old wand," he said as he moved toward a row of shelves stacked with long narrow boxes, each containing a wand, "what was it made of?"
Roxanne shook her head. "I don't know."
"So, you do speak," Mr. Ollivander said in mock surprise. He pulled up another stool and sat looking into her eyes. "Tell me about it please."
Lupin came and placed his hands on her shoulders reassuringly.
"It was my father's wand. His parents bought it for him in Hungary." Ollivander's eyebrows rose, but he did not interrupt as she continued. "It was black, with snakes carved into the handle. It felt warm in my hand when I used it." She looked at her outstretched palm as if she'd find the wand's imprint there.
"If you want another wand like it, I cannot help you," Ollivander said watching her closely over his spectacles.
"I do not want another like it," she said firmly.
Ollivander tapped his chin with a long slender finger. Then rose and scanned the shelves again, searching and muttering to himself. He stopped and peered at her. "You are American, correct?"
Roxanne nodded. The longer he searched, the more interested she became, straining to hear his muttered words. She looked to Remus who shrugged and shook his head. Finally Mr. Ollivander seemed to find what he'd been looking for. He shuffled quickly to his stool and opened the box in his hand. He lifted a wand delicately from the tissue wrappings inside and held it out to her. It was nearly white, long, smooth, and lined with tiny black threads that wound through the grain of the wood like veins of ink.
"Give it a wave, then," Ollivander urged.
She grasped the handle gingerly and felt a cool shock surge up her arm. She gasped quietly.
"Yes. Very good. Go on," Ollivander prompted again.
Roxanne pointed the wand at the box in Mr. Ollivander's hands. "Wingardium Leviosa," she commanded, and the box glided smoothly into the air.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mr. Ollivander snatching the box. "That will do nicely. Your new wand is made from American Aspen, with a dragon heartstring core. I made it, oh, some twenty years or more ago. It was a special order, but the gentleman never came for it. It has been gathering dust in my shop ever since. I'd nearly forgotten about it." Ollivander stood and shuffled toward the counter, muttering again. "That name-what was it? Oh, yes. Stewart," he said aloud.
"Stewart?" Roxanne spun around. "Did you say Stewart? Lorenzo Stewart?"
"Yes! Lorenzo Stewart!" Ollivander exclaimed. "You know him?"
"He was my father," Roxanne breathed.
"Well, in that case," said Ollivander with satisfaction, "it's yours. It's even been paid for."
