The Man Who Won November

The Man Who Won November

Chapter 1.

London. Oh, how he loved this city.

It was a clear afternoon in September 1870 when he saw her for the first time. "Curse you, Father, for keeping such splendour from me," Redondo muttered to himself, not meaning anything by his harsh words. She lay dozing in the autumn sun, spread out before him like Avalon itself, and with a foolish grin on his face he took it all in, embracing it. She was calling for him; he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He was home.

He enjoyed his stay in Diagon Alley, but what really overwhelmed him was Muggle London. He loved it, deeply and truly - as he would a woman, he thought, with both body and soul. Loved it with all its poverty and filth, the fog, the rats, and the men down by the West India docks, screaming at each other over the deafening noise from their machinery, reeking from oil and soot. He couldn't help but feel slightly impressed by their creativity when it came to making up for their lack of magic.

He hadn't been here very long, merely a month, but already it felt as though the city were a part of him. He breathed it, he dreamt about it at night, and it constantly occupied his waking hours. He would walk through the streets, taking it all in, or sit in one of the uncountable pubs, listening to the murmur of voices surrounding him. At night he amused himself by seeking out the poorest quarters in Whitechapel or Saffron Hill, simply to observe the ragged people and their daily - or rather, nightly - trials.

Richard Crabbe, his brother-in-law, found this to be a rather tasteless pastime, and didn't let the chance to state his opinion pass him by. Then again, Redondo never expected much from him, dull and grey as he was, aged before his time and completely devoid of anything resembling imagination. Redondo was staying with his sister and her husband, and though his relationship with Edwina was a pleasant one, Richard would on occasion make the stay less comfortable than necessary.

Redondo lived off a small sum of money given to him by his father, but the money soon dwindled into nothing, and he'd had to borrow money from Richard. When those galleons were spent Richard had refused to lend him more, and Redondo once more found himself in a tight spot. One afternoon he was alone in the house, he walked up to his sister's bedroom and sat down by her dresser. The top was filled with little jars and potion vials, and a beautiful silver hairbrush lay beside her jewellery box. As he picked up the box, he kept his eyes fixed at his own face in the mirror, as if he wanted to deny the action made by his hands. The young man in the mirror looked back with dark eyes and lips drawn into a thin line. 'I'm only borrowing,' he thought to himself. There was nothing wrong with borrowing.

When he came back from the pawnbroker later the same night, he stopped for a minute in the hall, listening to the voices behind the wall. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he heard the hard tone in Richard's voice. He didn't have to listen; he knew what they were discussing already.

"Isn't it about time the boy found his accommodations elsewhere?" Richard would ask his wife, making certain Redondo overheard their conversations. "I have fed him long enough, and not once have I asked for my money back." His tirades would then be followed by his wife's spluttering voice, defending her brother to the best of her abilities. Redondo himself would simply find his coat, his hat and his walking stick, and leave the house to seek out the places he felt most comfortable.

So also this night. It was late October and a biting cold wind flew through the city, making his long dark hair fly into his eyes. With an irritated movement he tied it back, and set course toward the East End. He was in a foul mood, having endured Richard's lingering glances for long enough and Edwina's less-than-subtle hints about her husband's growing disapproval of his stay. As if he hadn't noticed.

Suddenly, he found himself in a street he didn't recognise. He was not certain whether or not to call it a street; it more resembled another of London's numerous alleys, the dark and gloomy kind that seemed to fill the whole city. He was near the river, that much he knew, but he'd been walking in anger and deep thoughts without paying attention to where his feet carried him. The fog seeped over the stones in the pavement and swallowed the feeble light from the lampposts, which gave the place an uncanny feeling of loneliness. With slow steps he walked further in, wanting to explore this new location and place yet another street name to his list of conquests.

It was a street though, a long street that never seemed to end. It was completely deserted, and for a long time he could hear nothing but his own footsteps. It puzzled him; to this day he'd never really felt alone in this bustling metropolis, but he did now. Even the icy wind had died down, only to be replaced by a light rain. For a minute he stopped and contemplated walking back. There was almost something unnatural about this silence. He heard a noise to his left, jerked and clutched the wand in his pocket. Then sighed from relief as a mangy cat run past him and disappeared in the shadows on the other side of the street.

His curiosity pushed him forward. Again only his steps on the pavement were heard, his quiet breath and the soft rustle of his clothes. Was that the shadow of a man, standing in the darkness on the other side of the street? Redondo kept on going, observing the dark from the corner of his eye, knowing he was safe as long as he had his wand.

He heard music. Low, but clear, and soon after the soft murmur of people's voices. He picked up the pace, wanting to sit down and rest his tired legs and perhaps enjoy a mug of ale.

Then he heard the clapping sound of hooves against the stone behind him, and he turned to see a carriage approaching him in the fog. The horse was black, as was the carriage, and the dim light from the lamppost reflected its wet sides. He could not see the coachman though; it was as if the horse itself knew where to go. With a creaky sound coming from one of its wheels, the carriage passed him. He could see that it had a driver after all; a small man dressed in dark clothes, and his hat pulled down over his face to shelter himself from the rain.

Redondo frowned when he saw the horse. What had at first sight appeared to be a healthy animal now revealed itself to be a gaunt and old nag, dragging its feet and looking like it would keel over any minute. Surely it would be an act of mercy to put the poor animal out of its misery, Redondo thought. The coach passed him and stopped further up the street, outside what appeared to be an old inn. No one stepped out from the coach; it just stood there, waiting.

He looked up at the sign outside the inn, which read "The Cock and Bull", and with a wry grin he decided to go inside. If nothing else, at least he could hear some entertaining stories. "I do believe you need to take better care of your horse," Redondo said in a cold voice to the coachman as he passed him to approach the door. The man didn't reply nor give any signs of having heard him, and with a snort Redondo entered the pub and closed the door behind him.

The room was dimly lit; only flickering flames from the fireplace and torches were illuminating the furniture and the people. He stood for a while by the door, merely taking in the scene in front of him. The people were a motley group; cloaks, top hats and robes, mixed into a mosaic of seemingly chaos. He could've bet his left hand that this was a wizarding pub -only there were no wizarding pubs outside Diagon Alley. Or were there? He frowned and wiped his eyes; he could not remember anymore.

Little did it matter - with firm steps he walked down the narrow stairs and approached the bar where he ordered a mug of ale. Taking his first sip, he looked closer at the man standing beside him, a tall chap hidden beneath a black cloak so long that it dragged along the filthy floor. "So, what sort of place is this?" he asked the stranger, and leaned his elbow against the bar as he turned to face him. "I can't recall having heard of this place before."

The man slowly turned his head toward him, and though his face was hidden in the shadows from the hood, Redondo thought he could see a malevolent shimmer in his eyes. When the man didn't reply, Redondo took his cup and pushed himself away from the counter. "I'll be sitting over there, then," he muttered. He sent a quick glance back at the hooded creature as he approached an empty table. He'd never been a violent man, and admitted willingly that the prospect of a duel didn't appeal to him very much. The gloomy feeling settled over him again as he sat down by the table to stare into his glass.

He could not tell how long he'd been sitting there, sinking deeper and deeper into his very private little sea of depression, when he heard a female voice talking to him. "Why are you sitting so alone on a Friday night?" Surprised, he looked up to see who it was who disturbed him, and stared right into the eyes of a young woman. She smiled back and sat down opposite from him, leaning her elbows on the tabletop. It struck him that she didn't seem quite sober; nevertheless he was grateful for her company.

"Good evening," he replied, a slight hesitation in his voice. "Yes, I'm quite new in London and don't really have many acquaintances here..."

"Come over to my table," she said, cutting him off. "My sisters would love to meet you, I'm sure." She nodded toward a table at the other end of the room, where two other girls were sitting together with an old witch. The girls giggled and whispered to each other, and Redondo felt his face turn red -he was a very proper young man, after all, but the idea seemed both alluring and tempting. He broke his train of thoughts; there was nothing indecent in sharing a mug of ale with new friends. He'd done it with Muggles on many occasions this last month, why should it be different with his wizarding kin?

"Of course," he said with a smile. "I'd be delighted."

He stood up and followed the girl over to her table, and made his best effort not to stare at the two girls sitting there, waiting for him with twinkling eyes. He fixed his attention on the elderly witch, who seemed to measure him, though there was no malice in her eyes. As custom demanded he greeted her first. "Red Vance...pleasure meeting you."

She presented herself as Rosalie Wilkes, and the girls were named Alice, Annie and Dora. He soon forgot which once carried what name and was too embarrassed to ask again, something that made him feel oafish and clumsy. Annoyed with himself he stayed silent most of the time, but it did not seem to bother the girls, who kept on chatting between themselves. Each time his mug was empty, Rosalie would fill it again from the bottle of Firewhisky standing on the table.

The old woman held his gaze for a long time, a little smile playing in the corner of her mouth. "Tell me, Mr Vance," she said once the girls paused in their conversation. "Do you play poker?" Her voice was low, and still it was clearly audible to him over all the noise from the pub.

"Oh yes!" one of the girls said - Dora, or perhaps it was Annie - and placed a casual hand on his knee as she leaned over to him. "You have to play. Isn't that so, girls?"

"Oh yes," they replied and broke out in a fit of giggles.

"Well, yes, I do," he admitted. His wallet was in its usual place in the inside pocket of his overcoat, and it was considerably lighter than what he could have wished for. "Though I wouldn't dream of playing against you - I wouldn't have the conscience to leave such charming ladies of their purses."

Old Rosalie laughed out loud. "Dear Mr Vance, I can assure you that money is not a problem in our case. Though it might perhaps be in yours...?" She stared at him with that annoying smile, seemingly entertained by his obvious embarrassment. "Do not worry, dear friend, that will not be a problem. Trust me, you have other assets that might be of interest to us." A deck of cards emerged in her hand, out of thin air. With skilled fingers she shuffled the cards, all the time watching their colourful backs without losing the smile.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the desire to wipe that knowing grin off her wrinkly face, to strip her of every Knut and Sickle she had. He swallowed heavily, pushing the feeling away to the back of his head, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. But the decision was made. "All right. If that is indeed what you want, who am I to refuse you?"

"That's the spirit, Mr. Vance," she replied.

*

An hour later he had lost everything he had, including his Muggle top hat and the silver pocket watch his father had given him before he left his childhood home in Oxford. The three girls sitting around him were still giggling, though their laughter had taken on a vicious tone and their eyes no longer seemed friendly to him. Redondo was drunk, depressed and desperate; how could he explain this to Edwina and her oafish bore of a husband? What would they say? Once more he grabbed the mug, and leaned back in his chair. His hair had come loose from its ponytail sometime during the game, and was now tickling his nose. With an irritated movement, he pulled it back.

"Would you like one more round?" Rosalie asked in her soft voice.

"No, thank you." Redondo had started to slur; no matter how much he focused on the words they didn't want to come out sounding right. "I prefer to keep my trousers on in public, thank you very much."

"I have no interest in your trousers," she replied. "As I said, you have other things that might be of interest."

He snorted loudly at her words, and sent a glare at the girl who was now wearing his top hat aslant on her pretty head. "And exactly what could that be, Mrs. Wilkes? I'm no fool, ma'am, I know I don't have anything to offer that either you or your...delightful granddaughters would want."

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong," she replied.

He waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing and kept on shuffling her cards. He was certain they were charmed - what a fool he had been, agreeing to such a game. He deserved being plucked of each Knut he had, for being so naïve. He had spent too much time among Muggles, how else could he have forgotten about the wizarding trickery he'd suffered so many times?

"You're not replying," Rosalie said. "Would you really throw away your chance of winning it all back? All, and more."

"As I said," he concentrated hard on making each syllable as clear as possible, "I have nothing more to bet."

"Sure you do. You have yourself."

He stared at her in disbelief. Was he hearing wrong? He leaned his head back and laughed out loud. "Like some sort of servant? Are you in need of a butler, Mrs. Wilkes? Or perhaps another sort of servant...?"

He kept chuckling as the old woman shook her head and leaned over the table in a very unladylike manner. "No, my friend. I have my girls; what would I need another servant for? Servants come and go, they are of no importance. You, on the other hand, have something I need. You're a young man, Mr Vance. How old are you?"

"Nineteen," he muttered, staring into the golden liquid inside his mug.

"Nothing but a child, then," she replied, looking pleased. "Are you pureblood or Muggleborn? Half-and-half, perhaps?"

"I'm as pure as they come," he replied, and gave her a sceptical glare. "Why?"

"Pureblooded wizards have longer life spans than other wizards, you know. Certainly you wouldn't miss a year. It would be the year at the end, anyway, the year you spend sitting alone in your room, no longer having the strength to walk outside without help. The year when you will be little more than a source of sentimentality and embarrassment to your own family as they wait for you to die."

He stared at her in disbelief. Not once did she lose the friendly smile on her face, not even as she spoke of his forthcoming death. "You are mad," he said in a hoarse voice and put the glass back on the table. "I will do nothing of the sort. Do you take me for a fool? It would be against all the laws of nature to agree to something like that."

"The laws of nature," she repeated with a snort. "The only law of nature is self-preservation, I agree with you. But what is this preservation worth if you cannot enjoy life?" She leaned closer again. "Will you not even consider it?"

He shook his head and followed her example. His elbows landed on the tabletop with a thud as he leaned over the table. "What do you have to offer?" he asked with a wry grin. "Surely your bet would have to be something of a similar value -I hope you don't expect me to give away a year for two Galleons and a silver watch."

"Oh no," she said, looking slightly taken aback. "I wouldn't dream of it. In addition I offer you a night with my granddaughters."

He gave them a brief glance. The suggestion might have tempted him an hour earlier, but now these girls seemed about as attractive to him as harpies. "For three pence I can have a Muggle anytime," he retorted. "Most of them more attractive than your dear girls. You'll have to do better than that, old witch."

"Of course," she said, filled her glass and pushed it over to him. She had some angry lines on her forehead now, something that gave Redondo more pleasure than he wanted to admit. "I also give you November. Everything you want, for a whole month."

He had taken the glass and raised it to his mouth, but his hand stopped halfway. "Well, excuse me, but that's stupid! No one can win a month." He could barely manage to keep the contempt away from his voice. "It simply cannot be done."

"Well, using that logic no one can lose a year of their life either. So, what are you afraid of, Mister Vance?"

A dare - how could he refuse? "All right, Rosalie. I get my money, my watch and my hat; I get the month of November and the chance to fuck your granddaughters. If I still want them."

"Please, not so vulgar," she snapped back. "I understand that this might be an awkward situation for you, Mr Vance, but there's no need to use foul language in front of ladies."

"I see no ladies," Redondo growled back. "But I agree to your terms. Though I want her to deal the cards." He pointed at the youngest of the girls.

She gave him a startled look. "Annie? What for? Perhaps you'd like to deal yourself?"

"No. I want Annie to do it." His voice was firm; the last time he'd dealt the cards it had cost him his watch. The two older girls had also taken the job of shuffling and dealing, but Annie, the one who was now wearing his top hat and staring at him as if he'd suggested something indecent, had been sitting idle.

Rosalie stared at her granddaughter with stern eyes, and the young girl slowly picked up the deck of cards from the table. Glancing at the old woman she started shuffling the cards, and it was apparent to everyone that she was unused to this work. After fumbling for a while, she dealt out five cards to each player.

Redondo picked them up, and saw to his surprise that he had a good hand. For the first time this night, things might go in his direction. He discarded one card, threw it back to the girl with a casual flick of his wrist, and she pulled a new card out from the deck and gave it to him. "You want to draw?" he asked Rosalie, who didn't even look at him anymore. She handed two cards over to Annie. He could see the girl's hand tremble as she gave the old hag two new cards.

"Do you raise?" he asked her, raising his eyebrows. "You could throw in December as well, and I could raise two weeks." He grinned from his own joke, but the smile faded from his face when he saw her furious eyes. "Well, let us finish this unfortunate game."

"A flush, Mr Vance," Rosalie said and spread her cards out on the table. Three jacks and a pair of fives, a good hand.

But his was better. He didn't even bother to comment as he spread out the cards, four nines and the king of cloves. "Now I think I'd like my things back, if you don't mind." Rosalie sat back in her chair and stared at the cards laid out before her. Dora --or was it Alice-- picked up her purse and gave him his money back, and with a nod in her direction he stuffed it in his pocket. The watch was once more fastened to his vest, and as he got up from the table he picked his top hat off Annie's head. "Thank you, my dear," he muttered to her, and she looked down on the floor, blushing.

Snickering, he walked over to the bar. Halfway, he had to stop and lean on one of the empty tables to prevent himself from falling. The whole world seemed to spin, but he wanted yet another drink to celebrate his victory. "Give me a beer," he muttered to the barman, who sent him a sceptical glance.

"Are you sure you haven't had enough?"

"Not yet, my friend, not yet." He got his beer, and on the third attempt, he managed to sit up on the stool. He sat there for a while, grinning and staring into his beer. He had no idea how late it was, but the tiredness came creeping up on him. "Say, do you have a room? I don't think I'll be able to walk home tonight, and I don't want to split...splinch myself somewhere in Whitechapel."

"Yes, we have some cosy rooms upstairs, two Sickles per night," the barman started, but got cut off by a voice from behind Redondo.

"That won't be necessary, we'll drive him home."

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he turned to stare into Rosalie's face. Again she was wearing that annoying half-smile. His drunken brain did its best to think, but the alcohol made it difficult to get anything coherent out of it. "Well, how nice of you. Truly a Christian act."

Rosalie snorted. "I can assure you, Mr Vance, that I'm no Christian. Come now."

She gave him a nudge, and if it hadn't been for his firm grip on the bar he would have fallen flat on his face. Good thing he didn't, he thought, because if he did he would not likely be able to get up again.

"Are you going to kill me in some alley?" he asked with a grin as she led him toward the door, helped by her granddaughters.

"Most certainly not, Mr Vance. We're going to give you your prize."