CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A Cold London Night
Two days after a rollicking New Year's Eve party, the Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade station less than half-full. No Slytherins returned. While the holidays at the school had been quiet and warm, the rest of the wizard world was gripped in fear and uncertainty. Professor Dumbledore, unwilling to spoil the holiday mood among those whom he knew he would come to depend on most, quietly fielded letters arriving from all over the world, gathering information from his many loyal supporters, replying to panicked inquiries from others who had lost faith in the Ministry of Magic. His reply to them was always the same-Be watchful, don't give up hope, prepare for the worst.
Hogsmeade began filling with wizards and witches eager for the protection Hogwarts offered, and intent on doing their part to defend their families and way of life.
Despite the lack of any sort of official declaration from Cornelius Fudge, few now doubted that He-who-must-not-be-named had risen again, stronger and more malicious than ever. Many fled the country altogether, or went into hiding, hoping to shield themselves with a vast army of hapless, ignorant muggles. But even the muggle world sensed something amiss. Darkness seemed to be rising-crime rates soared, the nights seemed more threatening, the stars less bright.
Cornelius Fudge's contact in the Prime Minister's office spoke to him frequently. Stupidly, or perhaps by calculation, Fudge continually denied any knowledge of unusual events in the wizard world. The muggles, as far as Fudge was concerned, were on their own to grope in the dark, flinging haphazard legislation about in hopes of appeasing the muggle masses, with little or no real effect.
School at Hogwarts became a basic training ground of sorts. The students were given little time for recreation. Between increasingly intensive class work and homework, the teachers encouraged participation in a new dueling club taught by Professors Moody and Flitwick. They learned, reviewed, and practiced defensive tactics against a relentless onslaught of aggressive jinxes cast by the professors. Fifth, Sixth and Seventh years were allowed to stay up late on weekends, after the others had gone to bed, roaming the castle, doing their best to avoid an assortment of experienced teachers and dark creatures that lay in wait for them in the shadowy corners of the darkened castle. These sessions proved invaluable in putting the skills they learned from the dueling club into practice, but kept Madame Pomfrey busy patching up injuries and Roxanne busy replenishing the supply of medical remedies and potions.
The name of Sirius Black still had not been cleared by the Ministry of Magic, despite the mounting evidence that he was indeed innocent of the crimes that had sent him to Azkaban prison almost 15 years before. He lurked around the castle, growing impatient with the lack of freedom he had, padding about as a large black dog, wanting to sit at the head table at meals instead of hiding in the kitchen or Hagrid's cabin. He wanted more than anything to share Harry's time at Hogwarts with him and his friends. But until Cornelius Fudge cleared Sirius' name once and for all, it was a risk Dumbledore could not allow him to take. He could not afford to lose one of his most formidable wizards to Azkaban or the Dementor's Kiss.
**********
Mid January, the soaring turrets of Hogwarts were bathed in the light of the full moon. Remus locked himself away for the two or three days it would take for him to transform and recover. Roxanne worried about him. He always seemed so much more gaunt for a week or more afterward. She searched volume after volume, using her privilege of access into the restricted section of the library in hopes of finding something that could help him recover more quickly. She brewed several promising potions and locked them away in a cupboard in her room, waiting for the day when Remus would re-emerge.
Returning several large volumes to Madame Pince, she tripped in the library, spilling the books, and the contents of her schoolbag onto the floor. She picked up the books and hauled them to the library desk. Madame Pince looked at her disapprovingly, but took the books and reshelved them. Roxanne turned to clean up her things, and spotted a small, smooth black box. Her chess box. She'd forgotten it was there, buried in the bottom of her bag. She picked it up and looked at it, contemplating what she should do with it. She hated the very sight of it. She wanted it to disappear. She could transfigure it into something else, but its evil could never be disguised or hidden by changing its shape. She thought about casting it into the lake, but the idea struck that the pieces might come crawling out of the mud of the lake bottom. They would have to be disposed of in some other way, or destroyed.
The idea came to her as she stirred a thick greenish-blue headache remedy she was making for Madame Pomfrey. The thought of her grandfather's malice had nagged at her since that day with Remus in Knockturn Alley. She refused to believe that a grandfather could hate his granddaughter enough to want her dead-to attempt to do the deed himself. She needed to see him, speak to him, know for certain how he felt about her. She would take the chess set to him. Give him, and her grandmother, the opportunity to get to know her. She needed to go into Diagon Alley anyway. She knew he lived in London. She could slip through the Leaky Cauldron and find his house. She'd do it while Remus was locked away-he'd most certainly try to stop her.
**********
The day was a typical one for London in mid-winter-a cold drizzle splattered the streets from slate gray skies. As night approached the rain stopped and fog settled in, rolling over the city in great heaps like tumbleweed in the ravines back home. Roxanne pulled her collar high and gathered her cloak around her. The chill seemed to seep in easily through the heavy wool, penetrating her skin, raising tiny bumps all over her body. Was it the cold? Or the fear?
She walked along a row of upscale white stone houses, packed neatly together and fenced in by tall black iron bars. An odd sort of neighborhood, she thought, for a wizard's house. She half-expected them all to live somewhere separated from the muggles-like the Burrow, Hogwarts, Hogsmeade.
She wondered if the whole row of houses belonged to wizards, but the curious stares at her odd clothing from the passing muggles told her otherwise. Spotting the house, she stopped and looked at it from across the avenue. Its windows were heavily curtained, allowing only tiny slivers of orange light to escape into the night, announcing that someone was indeed home. She'd hoped, just a little, that no one would be.
Clutching the chess set, wrapped in brown paper, tightly under her arm and taking a deep breath, she strode to the gate and rang the bell.
"Yes?" came a low, drawling voice from a speaker on the stone gate post.
"I-I'm looking for Arriman Stewart. I want to speak with him," she said shivering slightly.
"May I ask who is calling?" the voice said lazily.
"Tell him it's Roxanne."
"Just a moment." There was a long pause. Roxanne looked at the house. A curtain parted slightly. She could see a silhouette of someone looking at her. She shivered again. The curtain was thrust angrily closed, swaying back and forth for a few moments, the light from the room winking at her as the curtain swung from side to side.
"Mr. Stewart is very busy. He wants to know what you want," the voice drawled.
"I have something I need to return to him." Another long pause.
"Leave it by the gate, please."
"No," she answered firmly. "I'll only give it to him in person." Silence again. Then the heavy black door opened, the light spilling onto the walk. A short man dressed in a black suit came out to the gate, opened it for her and escorted her inside.
"May I take your cloak?" he asked coolly.
"No. I won't be staying long."
"Very good," he said, and disappeared through a side door.
The house extended farther up and out than the outside led one to conceive- obviously a trick of magic. The expansive hall was richly paneled in dark wood. A high staircase, carpeted in green and silver, rose to an upper floor landing where dozens of portraits hung. The faces all looked familiar. She noted some of her own features in the faces there. They all looked at her disdainfully, some had turned their backs. One stared coldly at her with glinting dark eyes.
A woman appeared, gliding down the staircase, gripping the banister with white knuckles. Her face was pinched and threatening. Her silver hair hung smoothly down to the center of her back, her long green dress trailed behind her on the steps, hissing faintly as it slid over the floor.
She stopped near the bottom step.
"Do you know who I am?" she said coldly.
Roxanne shook her head.
"Your father was my son."
Roxanne paled a little under her grandmother's icy stare, but said nothing.
"It would have been better if you had never come here. You should have stayed in America-among your own kind," she hissed.
"What do you mean my 'own kind?'" Roxanne asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Among the muggles." She said the word as if it were poison, to be spit onto the dirt.
"I'm not a muggle."
The woman stared at her for a moment, then stepped to the floor and glided over , her eyes unblinking, fixed on Roxanne's. "Perhaps not. Neither are you a member of this family. Arriman and I disowned your father many years ago-and you with him. You have no claim here." Her voice was cold and firm, her eyes fierce, her stance threatening.
"I don't want anything from you," Roxanne responded quietly, her voice low and cool.
"Then why have you come," her grandmother hissed.
Roxanne pulled the package from beneath her arm. "I came to return this to my grand-to Mr. Stewart."
"Give it to me," said the woman, stepping forward and reaching out her hand.
Roxanne withdrew it quickly beneath her cloak. "Only to him," she said steadily, her heart pounding, her fingers searching for the handle of her wand. The sneakoscope began to spin and bob under her shirt.
Mrs. Stewart glared at her, but withdrew a step or two. The sneakoscope continued spinning. 'What would Professor Snape say if he saw me now?' Roxanne thought.
The woman retreated to the side door through which the short man (Roxanne assumed he was a butler) had disappeared and knocked lightly before opening it and stepping inside. There were a few terse, inaudible words exchanged between she and whoever was inside. Then she reappeared and beckoned Roxanne to enter.
The room was richly furnished in heavily cushioned green, silver and black chairs. A large fire burned in the black stone fireplace, but Roxanne could not feel its warmth. It seemed silver snakes with emerald eyes stared at her from every corner. They were inlaid into the tabletop, carved into the feet of the chairs, slithering down the stems of tall silver candlesticks that stood on the mantle. She felt her knees buckle slightly, and her scar burn. Uncertainty swept over her again and again in cold sweats, as if the chill of the night and the rain were working its way into her heart.
The man in black stood silently beside a large chair in which sat Arriman Stewart.
"Your persistence has paid off," he growled angrily. "What do you want."
Roxanne reached into her cloak. The butler stiffened slightly, his fingers moving slowly toward his inside pocket. Eyeing him carefully, Roxanne pulled the package from under her arm and held it out to her grandfather. "I thought you should have this back."
The butler took the package from her, inspected it quickly, and handed it to Arriman. He untied the string and tore open the brown paper. He knew the black box well. No doubt he'd had it custom made for his son-a gift for his coming years as a student at Hogwarts. He gasped slightly and stroked the silver snakes. He opened it and touched each piece tenderly, counting them.
"It belongs to a Slytherin. It's not worthy of me," Roxanne said grimly, echoing the words she'd heard in the Forbidden Forest before watching a malevolent, masked wizard, whom she believed to be the man sitting before her now, snap her wand in half; before he kicked her viciously and dragged her to what would become the very depths of hell for her.
Stewart stood suddenly, the chessmen spilling from his lap and scattering onto the floor. He came at her, drawing his wand, stalking toward her as she backed up, stumbling, slamming against the closed door, fumbling for the knob.
Arriman's left arm came up, holding her across the throat, pinning her there. "What's to keep me from killing you right now?" he growled, his teeth bared.
"Dumbledore-knows-I'm-here," she gasped, thinking fast and lying smoothly. Stewart backed off, releasing her, but still holding his wand at the ready, swearing violently at her. "If I'm not back in one hour, he'll be knocking down your door."
"Anton!" he bellowed. "Get this filth out of my house!"
The butler came forward and took Roxanne roughly by the elbow, hustled her through the hall, out the front door and down the path. He shoved her out the gate slamming it with a loud clang behind her as she fell heavily to the sidewalk. The rain was falling again, pouring down on her in sheets of cold. She scrambled to her feet and shook the gate viciously. "I KNOW YOU WERE THERE, ARRIMAN!" she screamed at the black windows. "I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME!"
But the curtains remained still. A shrill whistle blew from down the street. Roxanne saw a muggle policeman running toward her. Rain dripping from her hair washed the tears from her eyes as she ran into the night.
Two days after a rollicking New Year's Eve party, the Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade station less than half-full. No Slytherins returned. While the holidays at the school had been quiet and warm, the rest of the wizard world was gripped in fear and uncertainty. Professor Dumbledore, unwilling to spoil the holiday mood among those whom he knew he would come to depend on most, quietly fielded letters arriving from all over the world, gathering information from his many loyal supporters, replying to panicked inquiries from others who had lost faith in the Ministry of Magic. His reply to them was always the same-Be watchful, don't give up hope, prepare for the worst.
Hogsmeade began filling with wizards and witches eager for the protection Hogwarts offered, and intent on doing their part to defend their families and way of life.
Despite the lack of any sort of official declaration from Cornelius Fudge, few now doubted that He-who-must-not-be-named had risen again, stronger and more malicious than ever. Many fled the country altogether, or went into hiding, hoping to shield themselves with a vast army of hapless, ignorant muggles. But even the muggle world sensed something amiss. Darkness seemed to be rising-crime rates soared, the nights seemed more threatening, the stars less bright.
Cornelius Fudge's contact in the Prime Minister's office spoke to him frequently. Stupidly, or perhaps by calculation, Fudge continually denied any knowledge of unusual events in the wizard world. The muggles, as far as Fudge was concerned, were on their own to grope in the dark, flinging haphazard legislation about in hopes of appeasing the muggle masses, with little or no real effect.
School at Hogwarts became a basic training ground of sorts. The students were given little time for recreation. Between increasingly intensive class work and homework, the teachers encouraged participation in a new dueling club taught by Professors Moody and Flitwick. They learned, reviewed, and practiced defensive tactics against a relentless onslaught of aggressive jinxes cast by the professors. Fifth, Sixth and Seventh years were allowed to stay up late on weekends, after the others had gone to bed, roaming the castle, doing their best to avoid an assortment of experienced teachers and dark creatures that lay in wait for them in the shadowy corners of the darkened castle. These sessions proved invaluable in putting the skills they learned from the dueling club into practice, but kept Madame Pomfrey busy patching up injuries and Roxanne busy replenishing the supply of medical remedies and potions.
The name of Sirius Black still had not been cleared by the Ministry of Magic, despite the mounting evidence that he was indeed innocent of the crimes that had sent him to Azkaban prison almost 15 years before. He lurked around the castle, growing impatient with the lack of freedom he had, padding about as a large black dog, wanting to sit at the head table at meals instead of hiding in the kitchen or Hagrid's cabin. He wanted more than anything to share Harry's time at Hogwarts with him and his friends. But until Cornelius Fudge cleared Sirius' name once and for all, it was a risk Dumbledore could not allow him to take. He could not afford to lose one of his most formidable wizards to Azkaban or the Dementor's Kiss.
**********
Mid January, the soaring turrets of Hogwarts were bathed in the light of the full moon. Remus locked himself away for the two or three days it would take for him to transform and recover. Roxanne worried about him. He always seemed so much more gaunt for a week or more afterward. She searched volume after volume, using her privilege of access into the restricted section of the library in hopes of finding something that could help him recover more quickly. She brewed several promising potions and locked them away in a cupboard in her room, waiting for the day when Remus would re-emerge.
Returning several large volumes to Madame Pince, she tripped in the library, spilling the books, and the contents of her schoolbag onto the floor. She picked up the books and hauled them to the library desk. Madame Pince looked at her disapprovingly, but took the books and reshelved them. Roxanne turned to clean up her things, and spotted a small, smooth black box. Her chess box. She'd forgotten it was there, buried in the bottom of her bag. She picked it up and looked at it, contemplating what she should do with it. She hated the very sight of it. She wanted it to disappear. She could transfigure it into something else, but its evil could never be disguised or hidden by changing its shape. She thought about casting it into the lake, but the idea struck that the pieces might come crawling out of the mud of the lake bottom. They would have to be disposed of in some other way, or destroyed.
The idea came to her as she stirred a thick greenish-blue headache remedy she was making for Madame Pomfrey. The thought of her grandfather's malice had nagged at her since that day with Remus in Knockturn Alley. She refused to believe that a grandfather could hate his granddaughter enough to want her dead-to attempt to do the deed himself. She needed to see him, speak to him, know for certain how he felt about her. She would take the chess set to him. Give him, and her grandmother, the opportunity to get to know her. She needed to go into Diagon Alley anyway. She knew he lived in London. She could slip through the Leaky Cauldron and find his house. She'd do it while Remus was locked away-he'd most certainly try to stop her.
**********
The day was a typical one for London in mid-winter-a cold drizzle splattered the streets from slate gray skies. As night approached the rain stopped and fog settled in, rolling over the city in great heaps like tumbleweed in the ravines back home. Roxanne pulled her collar high and gathered her cloak around her. The chill seemed to seep in easily through the heavy wool, penetrating her skin, raising tiny bumps all over her body. Was it the cold? Or the fear?
She walked along a row of upscale white stone houses, packed neatly together and fenced in by tall black iron bars. An odd sort of neighborhood, she thought, for a wizard's house. She half-expected them all to live somewhere separated from the muggles-like the Burrow, Hogwarts, Hogsmeade.
She wondered if the whole row of houses belonged to wizards, but the curious stares at her odd clothing from the passing muggles told her otherwise. Spotting the house, she stopped and looked at it from across the avenue. Its windows were heavily curtained, allowing only tiny slivers of orange light to escape into the night, announcing that someone was indeed home. She'd hoped, just a little, that no one would be.
Clutching the chess set, wrapped in brown paper, tightly under her arm and taking a deep breath, she strode to the gate and rang the bell.
"Yes?" came a low, drawling voice from a speaker on the stone gate post.
"I-I'm looking for Arriman Stewart. I want to speak with him," she said shivering slightly.
"May I ask who is calling?" the voice said lazily.
"Tell him it's Roxanne."
"Just a moment." There was a long pause. Roxanne looked at the house. A curtain parted slightly. She could see a silhouette of someone looking at her. She shivered again. The curtain was thrust angrily closed, swaying back and forth for a few moments, the light from the room winking at her as the curtain swung from side to side.
"Mr. Stewart is very busy. He wants to know what you want," the voice drawled.
"I have something I need to return to him." Another long pause.
"Leave it by the gate, please."
"No," she answered firmly. "I'll only give it to him in person." Silence again. Then the heavy black door opened, the light spilling onto the walk. A short man dressed in a black suit came out to the gate, opened it for her and escorted her inside.
"May I take your cloak?" he asked coolly.
"No. I won't be staying long."
"Very good," he said, and disappeared through a side door.
The house extended farther up and out than the outside led one to conceive- obviously a trick of magic. The expansive hall was richly paneled in dark wood. A high staircase, carpeted in green and silver, rose to an upper floor landing where dozens of portraits hung. The faces all looked familiar. She noted some of her own features in the faces there. They all looked at her disdainfully, some had turned their backs. One stared coldly at her with glinting dark eyes.
A woman appeared, gliding down the staircase, gripping the banister with white knuckles. Her face was pinched and threatening. Her silver hair hung smoothly down to the center of her back, her long green dress trailed behind her on the steps, hissing faintly as it slid over the floor.
She stopped near the bottom step.
"Do you know who I am?" she said coldly.
Roxanne shook her head.
"Your father was my son."
Roxanne paled a little under her grandmother's icy stare, but said nothing.
"It would have been better if you had never come here. You should have stayed in America-among your own kind," she hissed.
"What do you mean my 'own kind?'" Roxanne asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Among the muggles." She said the word as if it were poison, to be spit onto the dirt.
"I'm not a muggle."
The woman stared at her for a moment, then stepped to the floor and glided over , her eyes unblinking, fixed on Roxanne's. "Perhaps not. Neither are you a member of this family. Arriman and I disowned your father many years ago-and you with him. You have no claim here." Her voice was cold and firm, her eyes fierce, her stance threatening.
"I don't want anything from you," Roxanne responded quietly, her voice low and cool.
"Then why have you come," her grandmother hissed.
Roxanne pulled the package from beneath her arm. "I came to return this to my grand-to Mr. Stewart."
"Give it to me," said the woman, stepping forward and reaching out her hand.
Roxanne withdrew it quickly beneath her cloak. "Only to him," she said steadily, her heart pounding, her fingers searching for the handle of her wand. The sneakoscope began to spin and bob under her shirt.
Mrs. Stewart glared at her, but withdrew a step or two. The sneakoscope continued spinning. 'What would Professor Snape say if he saw me now?' Roxanne thought.
The woman retreated to the side door through which the short man (Roxanne assumed he was a butler) had disappeared and knocked lightly before opening it and stepping inside. There were a few terse, inaudible words exchanged between she and whoever was inside. Then she reappeared and beckoned Roxanne to enter.
The room was richly furnished in heavily cushioned green, silver and black chairs. A large fire burned in the black stone fireplace, but Roxanne could not feel its warmth. It seemed silver snakes with emerald eyes stared at her from every corner. They were inlaid into the tabletop, carved into the feet of the chairs, slithering down the stems of tall silver candlesticks that stood on the mantle. She felt her knees buckle slightly, and her scar burn. Uncertainty swept over her again and again in cold sweats, as if the chill of the night and the rain were working its way into her heart.
The man in black stood silently beside a large chair in which sat Arriman Stewart.
"Your persistence has paid off," he growled angrily. "What do you want."
Roxanne reached into her cloak. The butler stiffened slightly, his fingers moving slowly toward his inside pocket. Eyeing him carefully, Roxanne pulled the package from under her arm and held it out to her grandfather. "I thought you should have this back."
The butler took the package from her, inspected it quickly, and handed it to Arriman. He untied the string and tore open the brown paper. He knew the black box well. No doubt he'd had it custom made for his son-a gift for his coming years as a student at Hogwarts. He gasped slightly and stroked the silver snakes. He opened it and touched each piece tenderly, counting them.
"It belongs to a Slytherin. It's not worthy of me," Roxanne said grimly, echoing the words she'd heard in the Forbidden Forest before watching a malevolent, masked wizard, whom she believed to be the man sitting before her now, snap her wand in half; before he kicked her viciously and dragged her to what would become the very depths of hell for her.
Stewart stood suddenly, the chessmen spilling from his lap and scattering onto the floor. He came at her, drawing his wand, stalking toward her as she backed up, stumbling, slamming against the closed door, fumbling for the knob.
Arriman's left arm came up, holding her across the throat, pinning her there. "What's to keep me from killing you right now?" he growled, his teeth bared.
"Dumbledore-knows-I'm-here," she gasped, thinking fast and lying smoothly. Stewart backed off, releasing her, but still holding his wand at the ready, swearing violently at her. "If I'm not back in one hour, he'll be knocking down your door."
"Anton!" he bellowed. "Get this filth out of my house!"
The butler came forward and took Roxanne roughly by the elbow, hustled her through the hall, out the front door and down the path. He shoved her out the gate slamming it with a loud clang behind her as she fell heavily to the sidewalk. The rain was falling again, pouring down on her in sheets of cold. She scrambled to her feet and shook the gate viciously. "I KNOW YOU WERE THERE, ARRIMAN!" she screamed at the black windows. "I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME!"
But the curtains remained still. A shrill whistle blew from down the street. Roxanne saw a muggle policeman running toward her. Rain dripping from her hair washed the tears from her eyes as she ran into the night.
