Chapter Text
James Potter knew he could never be an honest man, but he did his very best to be a good one. After all, he had taken all the right steps for a man of his status, and executed them with such precision it was as though he was a character in one of his own writings. Instead of touring Europe drunk on wine and loose women, he had applied himself to a rigorous course of study at Cambridge, and published four novels before the ink had even dried on his own diploma. He had gone to the country for a time after, and returned with a beautiful wife whose eyes shone like emeralds as she marveled the London streets. He had then situated her in a nice newly constructed home on the up and coming Arlington street overlooking the park.
“Why not Piccadilly? Westward from Devonshire house of course.” One of her many friends had asked one day. It was a bold ask, given that her husband had purchased a flat for her on Bond Street of all places.
If James had been truthful, he would have explained that even his wallet could not stretch to accommodate the numbers such a residence would require, but instead he gave a gentle laugh. “I rescued my poor wife from Devonshire- I’m not about to make her live upon the same hill as it’s Lords and Ladies. She is a London Lady now, my beautiful London Lily and I will only give her the best. You’ll see in ten years time, Arlington street will outshine old Piccadilly and those who bought there will feel quite silly.”
“Say James?” Lily asked, looking up at her husband with those beautiful emerald eyes. She was far better than him at derailing conversation so that it might remain polite. “Would it be alright if I went to Marlene’s to have a dress made? They’ve just got in new fabric from Paris, and they’re stunning.”
James thought on that for a moment. The money of a dress was not an issue. She could have ten, twenty, even thirty dresses made and it would hardly be a footnote on their accounts. “Are they the best fabrics on the market?”
“In England, yes.” Lily said.
Her friend cleared her throat in an obnoxious way. “Well surely James if you want the best for your darling London Lily you would know that English fashion is simply French leftovers from last year.”
The wording irked him. Lovely London Lily, he wanted to correct- that was such a nicer alliteration of the name. “And where does France get their fashion from?” he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “If I am to shimmy down this rabbit hole I might as well know which tunnel brings me fresh air and what leads to the vermin’s lair.”
“Paris makes the fashion.” She said plainly, as if it was a common known truth amongst men.
“Right.” Said James, beaming down at his wife. “Then we go to Paris!”
And to Paris they went.
***
As it would turn out, Paris was not much different than London. Piss laden streets did not smell sweeter in a foreign tongue, nor did the sun drenching the land across the channel make the money hungry drunks more tolerable. Still, James sat fitfully through ever fitting as a good husband should, giving no limit to the amounts she might spend, and telling the dress makers to spare no expense on is wife. He didn’t realize it then, but he was quite lucky. Despite never stepping a foot in France before that moment, he had quite aced his French language classes at Cambridge. Had he not spoken the language, not only would the dresses have been twice the cost, but they also would have had corners cut- fabric not lined up quite right, stitches dropped at the most peculiar points.
On one particularly warm morning, four days into their trip, James left his wife at the dressmaker. She had insisted that he was fussing entirely too much about her, and that he deserved to see the sights of the city beyond the insides of expensive shops. He had balked, as any good husband would, and then he had relented to her whims, promising to collect her in four hours time.
“Make it six.” The shopkeep had shouted after him in French. “These English girls never know how to sit still and they wear their waists ridiculously large.”
He did not respond to her, for it was rather rude to tell a woman of her age that he would take a wife that could still draw breath over one who walked as stiff as a week old baguette.
Still he wandered the city in good spirits, stopping off in every book shop he could find. There was another reason he had been so eager to come to France, though he would never speak it aloud for fear of wounding his pride. He had had many a good muse at school, and when he had met Lily on his travel’s afterwards, he was certain that she would somehow fix the gap that had formed between him and the written word. He could read for days, even spin stories into the air with his quick witted tongue, but he had struggled over the last two years to commit a single word to page. No longer were his hands stained with ink or his eyes burning from straining to read by candlelight. It was as though the stories had left him, and the spirits that cheered him on left for other company.
The first book shop he had found was indeed not a book shop at all, but rather a print shop with an oddly translated name. The man who worked the counter was nice enough, pointing him down into the heart of the city.
“It’s an oddity.” He told James. “You wont think it’s a book shop when you walk in- they’re a queer sort and sell a bit of everything, but they have books.”
It took him the better part of an hour to find the shop- he had walked himself straight into a rough part of town and had scampered away before gathering the courage to venture in again. He was dressed as a gentlemen, and the streetwise urchins had clued into that the moment he crossed the high street barriers into their territory.
He nodded at each one that he passed.
“Are you looking for the emporium?” A small girl asked, her voice much shaper than her young features.
“Yes.” James replied plainly, adjusting his glasses that had slid down his nose. “Remus Emporium?”
“There’s only one.” She said, rolling her eyes. “And it’s the only reason people like you come into these streets. Follow me.”
In the end, she demanded two francs for her trouble, which he parted with gratefully. He had the sinking suspicion that if she was to find him on the way back, that that price would indeed double.
The red door creaked open, and he was immediately greeted with the smell of smoke and freshly brewing tea. The room was such a haze that he could hardly see the back wall, and he nearly walked into a low table before he heard a man clearing his throat.
“Are you the Doctor?” The man asked as he came into view. He was tall, with black hair that curled to his shoulders and the most piercing grey eyes that James had ever seen.
“No, no I’m afraid I’m English, English and an author.” He stammered out.
The man smiled. “Do they not allow the English to be doctors anymore? Probably better for it- French doctors are second to none.”
“No.” James cleared his throat. “No, I quite think they do. I was just here, I heard you had books, you see.”
The man took two steps towards him, peering down with a quizzical gaze. The space between them was suddenly so minuscule that James “could scarcely think. You’re not very good with words, for an author that is.”
“Long trip from England.” James lied.
“Then you’ve just gotten in today?”
“Yes.” He lied again. “Say, if you’re waiting for a Doctor, I need not disturb you more, I will simply be on my way.”
But the other man was not having that. He poured a cup of tea from the cast iron kettle, shoved it into James’ hand, and began marching him towards the stairs. “I dare say Remus would like a good story while we wait for the Doctor to arrive. He loves stories, and his favorite author is a British fellow. James Potter, I believe his name is.”
James’ mouth went very dry. “I wasn’t aware he was popular in France.”
“I don’t believe he is.” The man shrugged. “But Remus was gifted the first book by my brother when he was still courting him, and he’s loved those stories quite since.”
“Which is his favorite?” James asked, trying to sound casual, even though his heart was anything but.
“The Adventures of the Curlews”
“That’s a rather sad choice.” James remarked.
“People who need Doctors as often as he do tend to take to sad things. Something about the beauty of knowing your own mortality, I suppose.” There was no judging in the statement, just a casual observation of fact, and James felt a surge of warmness wash over him, although he could not place why he was feeling such pride towards a stranger whose name he hadn’t even become acquainted with.
They were coming to the top of the stairs now, and up onto a landing with a grand wooden balcony overlooking the shop. There were two rooms on this floor, and the man knocked once, and then strode into the first door to their left, beckoning James after him.
It was by all means a lovely room, with a grand bed and fashionable wallpaper. He noted the color palette and began thinking of how he would describe it upon his journey home. It was so unlike anything he had seen, with bold golden suns atop blue blocking. It was as though there was a slight element of Japanese artistry, although he had never been one to easily distinguish art styles. Lily would know, he reckoned. It would be unsuitable to bring her, but so long as he could paint the air with his words and bring the image to life in her minds eye he knew she would be able to decipher and find what he was looking at.
Then he saw the two men in the room, sat on the sofa on the wall opposite the bed tenderly kissing one another. His tea nearly fell from his hands, half the contents sloshing from his cup as he jumped in surprise.
“I forget how jumpy the English men can be.” The man who had led him up the stairs teased gently. “Love here is hardly a secret thing, please may I introduce you to my brother, Sirius, and his husband, Remus.”
“Husband?” The word came out in two distinct syllables, James’ voice cracking as he tried to swallow the fire that was now burning in his cheeks. At least it was easy to tell who was who. Sirius, the brother, had the exact same hair and eyes, though he was a good head shorter and much broader. Remus, his husband, had fair sand colored hair and pale waxy skin. It was as though the moon had been ripped from the sky and made a person, fragile and yet somehow inhumanly beautiful.
Sirius looked up at him, bemused. “Of course I do not call him husband on paper. But I have married him before our Lord, and for us, that is enough. Come sit friend, before you faint.”
James obliged, sitting down next to Sirius on the couch. He wasn’t feeling lightheaded per se, but the mirage of men before him was objectionable enough that his head felt as though it was going to explode. Kisses between men were a schoolboys passion- always behind a doubly locked door in the dead of night. No one carried on their fantasies past the days when it could be chalked to a years labor and a child’s wild and godless nature.
He had of course kissed his fair share of boys during his school days. It had been practice, he had told himself, so that he knew the way in which he was suppose to kiss his wife when he was wed to her. What a dreadful thing it would have been to go in with gnashing teeth on his wedding day. The boys of his youth had schooled him on the proper placement of lips and tongue, the way to gently pull forth lewd moans to ready one for bedroom activities or to quiet a sleepless night with gentle brushes.
“Is this the Doctor, Regulus?” Sirius asked his brother. So Regulus, that was the strange man’s name. It was a beautiful name, a noble name even. He could feel the way the name felt on his tongue, the way it shaped in his mouth and could project out to the star which he was named. Regulus- the heart of the Lion, Cor Leonis, the Lion heart. It was poetic and just a name, something that seemed to leap from a story. He could see it now, Regulus, no, no best not call him by name. Corleonis, and his band of, oh he needed a word, a good word. Marauders. Yes! Corleonis and his Marauders. That was it.
“No, just an author passing through. Say, I am very sorry, I don’t think I’ve gotten your name.”
“Well you’re not going to believe me when I tell you.” James said, feeling a smile coming across his face.
“Why wouldn’t we believe your name?” Regulus asked.
“I bet it’s something silly.” Sirius said.
“Sirius.” Remus warned. “There is no shaming names here. Please tell us, so we can address you properly.”
“Well you see it’s James.” James stated, looking between the three men. “James Potter.”
Regulus laughed, whooped and punched his fist into the air. It was such a wild gesture that James wished he was able to bottle the whole moment right then and there. How beautiful it would be on parchment, if he could only watch it back one hundred times to get every nuance right.
“Do you have a copy of The Adventure of the Curlews, Remus? Regulus told me you’re quite the fan of my stories.” James asked.
Remus nodded, looking almost dazed, and his husband got up, fetching an old leather bound volume from the bedside table. It was well read, and much to James’ delight was stained with ink and coffee. There were many an author that looked down upon the annotating of a story, but James was so very fond of it. How wonderful was it that someone loved the work so much that they added notes and their very feelings to the pages. It was as if they were giving just a tiny piece of their soul- imprinting themselves into the print with characters. There was nothing sadder in the world than a much loved book with no notes. Books, after all, were not made to stay pristine. They were made to read and love, and read again. They were made to cry over, throw at a wall, and pack in a bag. The margins and spaces were the blank spot left for the reader he had argued many times, and it was refreshing to see them used.
“Turn to the epilogue, please. I spent three months on that, and I remember it word for word, because it was the first thing I wrote for The Adventures of the Curlews. It was stuck in my head and I barely attended classes because I could hardly think with it rattling around up there all day.”
Remus flipped to the page, and looked up at him expectantly, though he did not speak. James knew that he was already convinced of his person, but even though he wold never say so aloud, he did quite like to show off.
“The day Mary Curlew died was the day magic left the world. Matthew had of course known the moment it happened. He was pouring himself a glass of whiskey, when the clock stopped neatly at eleven. He froze, the hairs on the back of his arm raising as though he could feel her spirit departing this world for the next. Then there was nothing- no hum in the ground, no magnetic pull gripping at his heart. It was as if the world had simply stopped.
There was a moment of glee. He was free! Free finally of her terrible magic, free of the horrible curses she had laid on him as a child. And then, there was horror. The still pining in his heart, that piece of him that as he had told her on her wedding day loved her their curse be damned. He remembered it so vividly, the tears in her eyes as she had told him that the day she died would be the day he was free from that feeling.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that that too was a lie.
“Mary Curlew is dead.” He said, as he walked into the parlor and sank onto the settee next to his wife.
“Who?” She asked.
“Mary Curlew.” He repeated.
“I’m not familiar, sorry.” She said, taking a sip of her tea. “Do we know her? Is she one of the wives of the men at your club?”
“No.” He said. “No I knew her as a child- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t burden you. I’m going to go for a walk, if that’s alright?”
“Yes dear.” She said.
And stiffly, he left the house. He had no aim, no place to be or destination in mind. He simply let his legs carry him until the streets of London became more faded, and he was booking a train for just the notion of movement, of vibration so that he could pretend to touch that queer magic once more.
But there was no magic- Mary Curlew was dead. She had never cursed him, nor had she ever laid a foul word upon his brow. She had loved him the best she knew how, and he had been too scared to admit that she had never tarnished his soul. How could she, when she had been of such pure grace that she had spent her entire life trying to right a wrong she had never committed?
The train carried on as the morning gave way to a beautiful sun, then clouds, then night. He disembarked at a station he knew not the name of, only to find himself riding towards the wilds of their youth once more. He would rationalize this decision in the years to come, though he could never come to terms with exactly what it had meant in that moment. The life he had cultivated for himself, this Matthew Parkson he had created had never been real.
“Name?” The conductor asked him as he presented his ticket.
He hesitated a moment, the breeze running through his auburn hair. He was laid out in the meadow, looking up at her- his Mary. It was the first time he had seen her, the first time those blue eyes had probed at his soul.
“You best watch where you’re going” She said.
“I’m sorry?”
“You ran right into me.” She stated, offering her hand to help him to his feet. “Can you not see? It’s dangerous to not see things here, there’s quite a few witches about.”
“Witches?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” She frowned. “Yes, witches. I am one. And if you come with me, we’ll have the greatest of adventures. I’ll need your name first though. Mine is Mary Curlew, by the way.”
The cry of the train brought him back to the present. He of course remembered how he had answered her that day, Mathias, just Mathias. It had been true he had had no surname he could recall, and true she had given him the moniker of Matthew Parkson for names held an unholy amount of power in the hands of witches.
“Your name?” The conductor prompted, as though he was simple.
“Mathias Curlew.” Of course that would be his new name. If he could not have her back, if death would not release her as it had him all those years ago, then he would carry on the name she had given him so freely. He would make sure that the world knew of the adventure of the Curlews’s, and in turn, that Mary Curlew was never the villain. If he could not have been brave for her in her life, then he could be brave for her in her death. And when the birds sang in the morning, it would be in her honor.
Mathias Curlew would live in her honor, for an honor it had been.”
Regulus whistled, as Remus looked up from the book, stunned. His fingers continued to trace over the words, shooting to the margins and then back to the text.
“Sorry.” James said as the silence filled the room. “I didn’t mean to come off as pretentious, you probably would have believed me-“
Remus cut him off. “I have a few questions I’d quite like to ask you. If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”
James laughed. “Please, ask away.”
“Okay.” Remus began furiously flipping through the pages. “Mary- is she one of the fair folk? I only ask because you put such an importance on names. Matthias’ name changes, obviously she calls him Matthew or Matt and never by his given name. He refers to himself as Matthias until her wedding, and then Matthew there after. Yet and he can summon her with her full name, which leads me to believe she is fae, not a witch.”
“Descendant.” James said. “There was a scene in chapter four when they discussed it but my publisher cut it. He decided that being a witch was explanation enough. That’s why she’s mortal.”
“Right. Right.” Remus said. “How does she die? I mean I hope Gregory didn’t kill her, but Sirius thought he might have.”
“Bored her to death maybe.” James playfully countered. “No, Gregory didn’t kill her. It was the magic she used as a child finally catching up with her.”
Sirius wordlessly pulled out his wallet, pressing a Franc into Remus’ waiting hand.
“Did Matthias’ wife ever have a name?”
“No. No I did that one quite on purpose. Everyone paled in comparison to Mary. She wasn’t named because to Matthias she wasn’t important. That’s why it’s so easy for him to leave her in the end. As harsh as it was, it was to highlight the fact that it was never the magic controlling him- that the darkness, those bad traits, were just him.”
Remus coughed, and Sirius gently placed his hand on his back in a comforting gesture.“Why didn’t the love spell work? I mean they both believe it to have worked, and it’s a great twist, honestly, it’s why it’s my favorite, but why?”
James paused, it was a part of the story that had many answers and yet none at all, but he felt the need to answer it anyways. “Because to take the will of another person was never truly in her heart. She was scared, she was hurt, and she had had her agency taken away. She did the one thing she thought she could do to gain control of the situation, and spent her life trying to fix her mistake.”
Remus seemed happy for this answer, as he closed the book gently, holding it close to his chest. Regulus had disappeared at some point when the questions started, and James felt a strange pang in his stomach that he had missed some of his answers. It was such a silly thought, that he had to pinch himself to stop from laughing aloud. Oh how funny the muses could be, making him care so deeply about the waiting attention from someone who he had just met and would most likely never spent a moment more with again.
But then Regulus returned, this time with the actual doctor in tow. Feeling as though his welcome would be waining, James excused himself. “It was lovely meeting all of you, but I must be back to my wife. I dare say I left her in a dress shop, and you know how women can be! Remus, shall I ever publish again, you will be the first address I send my book too. I am beyond flattered that my work has been so well loved.”
“Why don’t I walk you back?” Regulus piped in. “The streets can be tricky to navigate, and I dare say I wouldn’t like to intrude on Remus’ appointment, as my brother always has these things quite well handled.”
“I would be delighted.” James said, his heart lurching in his chest.
They walked together, though they did not discuss his writing. The streets seemed shorter, and in a matter of minuets they were standing outside the shop. Lily was chatting away with another patron, and James felt himself snap back into reality.
“Thank you.” He said earnestly. “You have shown me a great kindness today. Please, once again pass on my best wishes to your brother and his husband. I think the three of you will live on in my memory for quite some time.”
“The pleasure was entirely mine.” Regulus answered, his eyes never wavering from James’. They were such a piercing grey, and James’ couldn’t help but think how much he would love to get lost in them, to study then in depth. He was so very lovely to look at, the pinnacle of high society, etched upon a living breathing angel. If tomorrow he woke to Lily telling him it had been some strange dream, he would have easily believed her. How else could a muse take such a delightful human form? How else could the stars have aligned so perfectly in this moment?
“I hope our paths may cross again.” James said, bowing his head so that the red creeping up his cheeks would not show. “I feel as though I have hogged the spotlight today, and I would love to pick your brain for stories should fate ever allow.”
Regulus smiled before turning away. His words carried back over his shoulder. “May fate allow it then.”
From one blink to the next, he was swallowed by the crowd. James let himself move almost automatically, willing his mind to live in the moment, to capture every detail he could of Regulus and commit it to memory.
Out of habit, he gently kissed Lily on the cheek as he walked to her side. “I have had the strangest day darling, but I think I might be ready to write another book.”