Chapter Text
ONE
The mud squelches under my newly purchased shoes as I step from the taxi, hurriedly opening my umbrella.
“Don’t you fret, young man,” the driver says. “This rain will let up in no time.”
“Certainly,” I say, distracted by the fact my umbrella won’t fully open. While I wrestle with the horrid contraption, I hear the driver clear his throat. Abandoning the effort with a sigh, I tuck the limp black mess under my arm and reach for my small suitcase—R. J. Lupin stamped on the side in silver lettering—and typewriter.
“Cheers,” I say, before closing the door of the black car. I run for the slanted porch of the cottage, which is to be my home for the indefinite future. Once under the protection of the roof, I shake my hair to rid it of some of the water, running my fingers through the brown waves to pull it back from my face.
I take a moment to look around the yard, a mud-soaked quagmire if ever I saw one. The hulking house just visible through the trees is drab in the downpour—property of my landlord and closest neighbor. I catch movement behind a high window as a white curtain falls back into place.
Shaking off the feeling of being watched, I lift the front mat to see a single brass key. Permission to enter the premises has been granted. The key sticks in the lock as I jangle the knob. After significant effort the door swings inward revealing a sight both underwhelming and expected.
A one bedroom groundskeeper cottage isn’t a palace. There’s a kitchen with scuffed black and white tiles laid in a diamond pattern across the floor. The lounge is attached to the kitchen and demarcated by the wood floor, hearth, and single faded blue velvet sofa. Two doors sit open off the lounge: a bathroom and a bedroom.
I take my luggage to the bedroom and empty it in a matter of minutes. There is no desk, so I arrange my typewriter on the weathered dining table which sits between the lounge and kitchen. This is why I’m here—the reason I’ve traveled to New York from Chicago—because I want to be a writer. My fingers ghost over the silent keys, willing a burst of creativity.
Turning my back on the small black tool which I drained my savings account to purchase, I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge. It’s clean but empty. The house is surprisingly well kept, if outdated. Perhaps the sloping roof over the porch could use repair, but there’s hot water in the tap and the windows are keeping the incessant rain out.
I should have asked to stop at the shop on the way in, but I didn’t want to fork out more money for the additional taxi fee. I’ll walk to the train stop when the weather clears. In the meantime, I sit down with one of the three books I brought—this one a monster of a thing claiming to teach even the newest investor how to win at the game. I start as a day trader at Wood & Diggory’s on Monday morning. It’s how I plan to pay the bills until I write my first great novel.
He stands with the curtain pulled back, the emerald ring on his first finger catching the fire dancing behind him. It’s raining and visibility is poor, but he watches as the generic dark cab pulls up the muddy drive, deposits a lanky figure, then spits mud behind it as it retreats.
Remus Lupin. His new tenant. The man seemed desperate, and it was the least James could do to offer him the cottage at a pittance. Word had reached him through a friend of a friend who knew a Narcissa Black from Chicago—apparently someone who doesn’t take no for an answer. It was a miracle that, through the stretched chain of communication, word had reached the young man regarding the proffered cottage.
Now he has arrived.
Stepping back from the window, he allows the curtain to fall back into place. He must invite the man over for a drink, get to know him. Ever the optimist, he never knew where a new business opportunity might reveal itself.
James walks to his desk where a cold cup of black coffee sits in a white saucer. Switching to drinking his coffee black is taking time to adjust to, and he’s often forgoing his daily dose of caffeine instead of enduring the bitterness of the unsweetened beverage.
“For your health,” his doctor had recommended—the same claim he’d given when recommending James cut back on the alcohol. Coffee had replaced some of the alcohol and now black coffee was replacing the milk and sugar concoction he had become accustomed to. The man is trying to make his life as miserable as possible.
There is a rap on the dark oak door of his study.
“Mister Potter,” his head butler says, poking his head around the door. “Boston on the line for you.”
“I’ll take it in here, Peter. Thank you.”
The call is short. Often his suppliers need to hear his reassurances, occasionally they are reporting a shipment delay. His knowledgeable and affirmative air placates their apprehension in performing essential but illegal roles. The prohibition opened up a new market for underground liquor, and James had jumped at the opportunity. His extensive network of acquaintances scattered across the country was proving very useful.
James considers the coffee, then carries it into the hall, handing it to the first housekeeper he crosses paths with. He employs a staff of twelve at his private residence where he is the only inhabitant. They are all housed in the west wing of the house, the reason the groundskeeper cottage was vacant. That and he sources his landscaping work from a company based out of the city. His staff is for upkeep, cleaning, cooking, and waiting on him—as is Peter’s role.
Much of the week there is little to do, but as the weekend approaches there will be plenty of work preparing for his next extravagant party, the cleanup of which often lasts through the following day.
James makes his way to the windows which overlook his sweeping back terrace. The bay is all but obscured, gray rain blending with gray water. He stands at the window, rivulets of water weeping down the glass. A faint green light momentarily flares to life in the distance, barely visible. James touches his fingers to the cold smooth surface, reaching for the illusive ghost.
If he stands at the window for minutes it will taunt him, strobing at a slow rhythm from across the waters. Even with the weather, to see it sends a thrill up his spine. A siren to boats on the harbor of the low dock; a siren to him in an entirely different sense. It has been years, but the memory of blue eyes framed with black lashes is permanently etched into his memory.
The green light weakly flares again, and James lets out a breath, lowering his hand, turning away from the window.
It rains into the night. I’m positively starved by the time I wake the following morning eager to sink my teeth into the first items of food I can lay my hands on. Mercifully the sun is shining, glinting off the rich dirt soup that is supposed to be the drive of my cottage. After several tentative steps on my toes, I abandon the effort to remain mud-free and instead focus on not losing a shoe in the coagulated goop.
“Ahoy, there,” a man’s voice calls from above me. I pause, squinting through the gate, toward the wide staircase which leads to the facade of the mansion. He’s taking the steps at a trot, dressed in a crisp cream suit, his hair slicked back from his richly warm face. He raises a hand, and I instinctively raise mine in response.
“Lupin,” he says as he crunches down the white gravel of his circular drive taking long strides in my direction. I’m unsure if he wants me to approach, given the mud caked to my loafers.
“That’s me,” I call, standing still. He waves me energetically toward him.
I sigh as my stomach growls; I’m not in the mood for pleasantries. I take slow, squelching steps until I’m clear of the mud on the grass which separates my drive and his gravel lane. I dare not step closer but do attempt to rid my shoes of mud on the green blades.
“You’ve arrived then,” the man says, holding out his hand. He’s tall, not quite as tall as I am, with black hair he has combed back with grease, the subtle wave indicating it would be curly if allowed freedom to flow. His nose is large, stately and set between equally large dark eyes. The lines of his chin are angular; his turned-up lips full. Everything about this man’s face hints at power, confidence. I suspect he could grow a full beard before afternoon tea.
“So it would seem.”
We shake.
“James Potter.”
I smile and nod. I knew this; he is my landlord, after all.
“Remus Lupin,” I say. He has yet to let go of my hand but does so after two more hearty pumps.
“Welcome, Remus. Where are you off to this morning? Do you need a lift? I have a car.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.”
“I’m on the way to the market, if you must know. I didn’t arrive with any food.”
“Good man, you must come in. I’m sitting down to breakfast myself shortly. Surely the shops aren’t open at this hour.”
“I suppose not, but by the time I get there—”
“Nonsense.” Potter turns with another wave of his hand and walks back around his drive. I take one glance at my still muddy shoes, shrug, then follow. A free meal is a free meal. My long legs enable me to catch him within a few strides.
“Remus, you want to be a writer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not much money in that.”
“Not unless you’re one of the lucky few.”
“Which you intend to be,” Potter says as we mount the stone steps.
“I suppose.”
“Come now, you must have more confidence than that. You’re surely brilliant, the next great American novelist to be certain. Tell me about yourself.”
Potter keeps me talking through our meal, which goes on for hours because I don’t seem to be able to get as much food into my stomach as I want while Potter takes over the conversation in brief spurts. His voice is as rich as his skin, drawing me into his fantastical tales of world travel and casual correspondences with the most notable names of the day. It isn’t until the waitstaff have cleared our plates—the sun high in the sky—that I start to question the truth of his exploits.
Just when this thought crosses my mind, Potter hits me with such a genuine smile I completely forget my suspicions. It’s one of those smiles a man only comes across a few times in his life, like the bearer was born to bring light into the lives of those he deems esteemed enough to witness such an act.
“What do you say to a drive, old sport? We can take my car into town, pick up those groceries you so desperately need.” He winks at me.
Finding Potter to be pleasant company, I accept his offer. We walk to his garage where six cars are housed, five of which are on display, the sixth hidden under a canvas tarp. He pulls the keys for one off a little hook on the wall and opens the door to a sleek yellow coupe.
“This baby’s new,” Potter says. “Only got her a few months ago. A Bentley three-litre, custom paint job.”
I take the passenger seat, and Potter peels forward, spitting gravel as we swing around the roundabout and through the front gate. He drives like an absolute maniac, keeping up a constant stream of anecdotes about the car as we fly past other vehicles moving at only a fraction of the speed. One hand is holding my fedora in place, while the other steadies me against the seat. I can see why Potter didn’t put a hat on. His sunglasses are round and give me little confidence in his ability to see the road.
As we pass another law-abiding driver—barely avoiding a collision with an oncoming truck—Potter honks twice waving at the truck driver whose face goes from furious to awed as he raises a hand in response. We are already long past him, Potter eyeing our next victim to overtake.
“My Rolls-Royce needs another trip to the mechanic,” he says as we fly past a family of five, all gaping at us. Over my shoulder, I make an apologetic face.
“That so?” I say.
“Severus is the best this side of the tracks,” Potter says. “But he’s slow. Parts for the high end models aren’t as readily available, or so he claims.”
We slow as the car bumps onto a dirt road and approaches a set of railroad tracks surrounded by mounds of black coal. The stooped people walking the lane look tired, clothes and skin dirty with soot. Each downcast face says they are residents of a valley of misery breathing the dust we churn up as we slide past.
“That’s Severus’ shop,” Potter says carelessly, flicking two fingers toward a rundown building with The Silver Doe shining in flickering green neon over the second story. “Odd name, I know, but he’s the best.”
As soon as we’re back on pavement, Potter hits the accelerator.
By the time he drops me at my house an hour later, I’m quite relieved to retrieve my groceries from the trunk and make a few rushed trips inside.
“I have a car you can borrow. You mustn’t think you’re going to walk all the way into the city every day.”
“No, I was planning to take the train.”
“You must take a car, old sport. They sit in my garage and collect dust. Come by tonight and choose one. Not the Rolls,” Potter adds as if I would have chosen that one to begin with.
“Of course, thank you very much, sir,” I say.
“It’s James, Remus. James.”
“James.”
We nod at each other and Potter drives slowly through the mud, careful not to splash me as he disappears up the drive.
Groceries stored, I fix myself a cup of tea and sit before my typewriter, my fingers hovering over the keys. I lift them when I pull myself out of a reverie about some of James’ more fantastical stories to find my tea cold. The blank white page entrapped in my typewriter’s jaws taunts me.
Sighing in frustration, I dump my tea down the sink and take up my investment book again.