The Visitor

As the hour hand on the clock on the wall inched slowly towards midnight, Reginald sat on his battered couch, one of the books from the shelf open on his lap. Not only was he not reading, he was utterly clueless as to the title of the book. Behind the safety of closed doors and curtains, he was scowling at his forearm as if its mere existence had mortally offended him.

A slight knock came on the door, interrupting his reverie, and with stealth born of long practice, he inched silently to the door, staying clear of the windows. Slithering up the door with the stealth of a snake, he slid his eye up against the internally covered peephole and silently pried the cover away to investigate the late intruder.

He immediately recognised the newcomer and swiftly opened the door, beckoning the wizened old man inside. "Good evening, Grandfather," he said, arm swept toward the couch, before shutting the door.

"Ah yes Reginald, so nice to see you – and how are you faring?" the grandfather said, blue eyes twinkling with concern.

Reginald sighed. "You tell me . . ." he said, shaking his head as if frustrated by something. "Tea?"

"Certainly."

Reginald went to the kitchen and put a kettle on the cooker and fiddled a bit with the knobs, then took two cups and saucers from a cupboard and set them up. He prepared a sugar dish and a small milk jug and brought them to the small table, then took a seat in the chair.

He eyed his visitor appraisingly, and unsure how to phrase his question, chewed his thumbnail for a moment. "You've – um . . . you know it's not gone, right?"

The old man closed his eyes and nodded as if defeated. "I do."

"And so – now what?"

"We wait. We watch."

"How long?"

"I don't know. A week – a month? Maybe a hundred years. I just don't know."

Reginald sighed and covered his face as he shook his head in frustration. Sliding his large hand down his stubbled face to cover his mouth, his eyes flickered unseeingly about the room.

A few moments later, and he crossed his arms and gazed back at his guest. "And the others," he said, vaguely waving his hand in the general direction of the other occupants of his street, "do they know?"

The old man nodded.

At that moment, the kettle began to whistle, and the younger man got up to attend to domestic courtesies. He returned with the kettle and for a few moments, all that could be heard was the clinking of metal on porcelain.

When he was satisfied with his tea, Reginald sat back in his chair and crossed his arms again, thumping his fist to his lip as he went deep into thought. His grandfather seemed perfectly comfortable with letting him do this.

Finally, it seemed that Reginald settled on a question. "Are there going to be any changes to our . . . restrictions?"

The old man sighed. "I don't think that would be wise. There have been some arrests – your cousin and her husband, for example – "

"I do not consider myself related to her any longer, as you surely must know by my being here," the young man spat bitterly.

The old man looked at him askance for a moment, then continued as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, ". . . but others are still free and are claiming bewitchment."

Reginald snorted and rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. Malfoy?"

The old man nodded. "And others."

"I assure you, Malfoy was no more bewitched than I, my dear cousin, or Snape. And speaking of Snape . . . ?"

"He has sought safe haven at Hogwarts."

Reginald nodded while the old man gazed at him, blue eyes flitting back and forth across his features, obviously wanting to say something. Reginald waited – he'd known this man over half of his life and knew he'd say what was on his mind eventually.

True to form, he did.

"Have you – ah – spoken to anyone? Do you know what happened?"

"I do not. Well – at least not what I could conclude on my own. The first day I left my house was today, and that only long enough to apologise to Joe for my reprehensible behaviour in front of his children and beg off dinner. They told me to expect you. Why?"

The old man sighed, and his blue eyes looked weary. "I'm afraid I come bearing bad news."

"Yes, we've established that," Reginald gestured non-specifically with his left hand.

"No – worse than that. Your brother . . . has been arrested. And as he refused to speak in his own defence, imprisoned without a trial."

"WHAT?" Reginald gasped. "Why?!"

The old man explained the situation as Reginald sat in slack-jawed shock listening. When the story was finished, Reginald shook his head. "No. That's wrong. He would never – NEVER!"

The old man looked down and pressed his lips together. "There's more," he said quietly. "There's a corroborating witness."

"'Corroborating witness'?!" Reginald spat in disbelief. "Who?! Who of that lot is trustworthy?!" he demanded.

The old man told him, voice barely above a whisper, and Reginald went as white as a ghost, struck silent for a few moments.

"I don't believe it," he said softly. "Not even from him. Maybe . . ." and here he paused for a long moment and swallowed hard, as if what he were about to say were painful, or treasonous. " . . . maybe especially not from him."

"Reginald – he's the only one that COULD have. They told me themselves he was going to be the one."

"No. I don't believe it," he said with finality, shaking his head angrily. "Something's not right."