The Man Who Won November

Chapter 2

He could not say exactly what woke him up. Perhaps it was the light, peering in through the curtain, the tickling of hair against his chin or the sweaty sensation against his skin. But he woke, and stared into a room he did not recognise. He was lying in a giant four poster bed, and someone had forgotten to pull the drapers tight. With a muttered curse he lifted his head, feeling more dead than alive. Luckily, he was not one of those unfortunate souls who suffered from hangovers, though he could neither claim to be feeling particularly cheerful.

He stared down at the girl behind him, unable to remember her name. And next to her, another girl was sleeping - he couldn't recall her either. He didn't remember much at all from the previous night, only that he'd ended up in a dingy street and played poker with the devil.

She had promised him November. Such an odd dream.

With a feeling of unease he watched them. They were both sound asleep; the redhead moaned softly and turned over in bed, revealing a perfectly rounded breast. With slow movements, careful not to wake them, he sat up and looked around for his clothes. He found them, neatly hanging over the back of a spindly wooden chair in the corner. As he pulled on his trousers, he was startled by a soft meowing behind him, and turned to see an old Siamese cat sitting on top of the dresser. It watched him with calm eyes as he quietly got dressed. With a last glance at the cat, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Perhaps not a gentleman's way of leaving, but right now he didn't care. Confused, he walked down the stairs of what seemed to be a gigantic house. Ancient portraits followed him with their eyes as he descended and walked out the front door, not looking back.

He found himself in Knockturn Alley. Whatever he had expected, it was certainly not this place. Scratching his head, he walked past Borgin and Burkes and found his way up to the Diagon. Standing in the bustling street, he stared up at his sister's house, and wondered for a second if she was worried about him. Not likely; it wouldn't be the first time he'd spent the night out. She would just wink at him and ask if he'd found himself a special friend. He had no doubt though, that Richard would make a big racket out of it. He usually did. Fearing the worst, he checked his pockets, but found to his surprise that his money was safely in place. He decided to go down to the Leaky Cauldron for a cup of tea.

The pub was nearly empty, except for a few guests finishing their lunch. He put one Knut on the counter and ordered a cup of tea and a piece of pie. He wasn't hungry, but knew from experience that he would feel better after having had something to eat. Feeling groggy and shabby, he picked up the Daily Prophet lying on the counter for the guests to read. Chewing his piece of pie, he leafed through the paper without finding anything that caught his eye. He glanced at the date, printed on the front page. November 1st.

As he slurped his tea, he dreaded the idea of walking into his sister's house. Richard would be there, with his scowls and nasty comments, and Redondo didn't needed his tirades. Not now, when even the Leaky Cauldron's famous kidney pie tasted like hay in his mouth. Merlin, what wouldn't he give for a room of his own, a place he could call home.

"So you see, Pete, I simply don't know what to do with it. I cannot leave it unattended, can I? Not with the current crime wave that's flooding Diagon Alley. It's those scoundrels down in Knockturn Alley, I tell you, and what is the Ministry doing with it? Nothing!"

Redondo turned his head to see who was talking. The angry voice belonged to a tall, thin wizard sitting on a stool by the bar, holding a glass of red wine. He looked faintly familiar, but Redondo could not place him. The man sighed and rested his chin in his hand. "To think I might have to say no, just because I can't find a suitable lodger to my flat. What a shame..."

"Excuse me," Redondo said as he stroked his hand over his hair, trying to make a last attempt to look proper. "I couldn't help but overhear your words. Is it so that you have a flat for rent?"

The man measured him from his hair to the soles of his boots, looking extremely sceptical. "Well, yes. Though I'm not looking for a regular lodger - who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Redondo Vance, and I..."

The wizard stared at him in surprise, and cut him of. "Vance?" He looked closer at Redondo's appearance. "You wouldn't by any chance be related to Ephraim and Adrastea Vance?"

"Yes, they are my parents," he replied, looking at the man with big eyes. "Do you know them?"

The man was nothing but a huge grin now. "Know them? Of course I know them, your father and I were in Ravenclaw together when we went to Hogwarts! I even came to your first birthday, though I don't expect you to recall such an incidence." He chuckled and shook his head, then his face turned sad once more. "Fancy meeting Ephraim's son here, in such a desperate hour! Though I fear I must leave you all too soon, I must visit my partner and tell him that our trip to Congo will have to be cancelled."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Well, I have a rare collection of natural historic artefacts in my flat. The ultimate proof of the existence of the mokele mbembe, no less! But I cannot leave the items without supervision - what if some joker decided to break into my house? It's worth tens of thousands of Galleons, if not more. And now my partner and I had managed to arrange the funds for a mission to Congo." He shook his head again and took a sip from his glass of wine. "And now I cannot go. It's a sad day for natural science - the mokele mbembe is only sighted this time of year."

"What about storing it in Gringotts?" Redondo could bite his tongue, but the words were out. The older man saved him though, as he stared at him with an expression of distaste.

"The goblins!" he spat. "Those creatures have no respect for science! Have you seen the way they treat their goods? Have you seen their vaults? The damp walls would destroy my work within days, if it isn't already broken from the ride in those horrible carts." He shuddered. "I'd sooner leave my collection behind this very bar - no offence, Pete."

The barman smiled and shook his head and continued with his work. Redondo cleared his throat, and said in a low voice, "I do understand your situation, Mr...?"

"Lovegood. Gregory Lovegood." He stared at his wineglass with a sad face.

"And since you are a friend of the family, I would like to offer my help. I could always move in for a while, just to look after the place. Science has always been close to my heart," he lied without feeling the slightest tingling of remorse, "and to see such effort come to waste would be a shame indeed."

*

A few hours later, he was standing alone in a large flat on the third floor above Gambol and Japes, looking out the window onto the street below him. It hadn't taken more than a quick conversation with his father through the impressively large fireplace, and then Mr Lovegood had run out in the stairway, leaving Redondo with the keys. They now lay heavy in his pocket, a pleasant sensation indeed.

It was a marvellous flat. The high windows let the light flow inside freely, and the floors were covered with thick Persian rugs. Every item, from the paintings on the wall to the chandelier above the dining table, told the story of a man with impeccable taste and wealth to match it. Mr Lovegood's office and his precious collection were placed downstairs, and curious as ever Redondo followed the winding stairs down to take a closer look. He didn't make much out of the ancient scrolls and prints, and in the end he closed the door and left.

A light rain was falling from the grey sky as he walked up Diagon Alley to his sister's house. He stopped for a moment on the outside and watched the dark windows, trying to come up with a line that would stop his brother-in-law's mouth for good. When he saw the shadow of his sister in the window, he walked in, resigned. The front door was open as usual.

He knocked on the living room door, and opened it. "Hello, dear sister!" he said in a cheery voice when she turned her face to him.

"Red! Where have you been? I've been worried about you." She gave him a reproaching look.

"Oh, here and there," he replied and sat down in the chair beside her.

"Tell me, Redondo; who gave you the impression that my house was a cheap inn?" It was Richard's cold voice, coming from the doorway. The older man entered the room, a stern expression on his face as he watched his stocky brother-in-law. "Scaring you sister like that... I simply will not have it - either you behave like a gentleman, or you can find yourself quarters more suitable to your tastes." He let the last word roll on his tongue, as if that would be a foul and disgusting thing for Redondo to want.

"Ah, but that will be no problem, dear Richard," he replied. "I have already taken care of that. I've simply stopped by to collect my things."

Richard stared at him for a while, his expression unreadable, but then shrugged his words off. "Very well," he muttered and walked out of the room.

Edwina turned to Redondo with a big smile on her face. "Have you really? Oh, I'm so glad for you! Where is this place? Is it in Diagon Alley...?" She looked worried again. It was no secret that Edwina found it difficult to share her brother's sentiments about Muggles.

"Right here in Diagon Alley, sweet sister," he said with a wink, something that seemed to comfort her.

"Such luck...you've always been the lucky one, though," she said in a dreamy voice and winked back. "Perhaps I can help you with some furniture, just to get you started. I have quite a few of the things aunt Mabel left me, stored in the attic. Richard didn't want them in here, and I suppose I can understand that - they are neither the latest fashion nor the most expensive. But you know me; I always was a sentimental fool, and I stored most of it." She lowered her eyes to the floor, as if she was ashamed of taking care of the gift from her beloved aunt.

"Thank you," he said. "But I won't be needing them. Everything is taken care of. Perhaps I can invite you to tea tomorrow? Though it wouldn't bother me if Richard were too busy to attend."

She giggled, but then raised her hand to her mouth and sent a quick glance to the empty doorway. "I would love to," she said, giving him her warmest smile.

*

Later that night Redondo was sitting in front of the roaring fire in his new bedroom, leafing through a book he'd found in Mr Lovegood's office. He stared at the pages in disbelief as he watched the drawings Mr Lovegood had made of his monster. Surely such a creature couldn't exist. The man was mad. Though who was he to complain, sitting here warmed by the man's fire and sipping a glass of his finest red wine?

Redondo didn't complain at all.

He had a home now. What he needed next was a job. He frowned at the thought; truth be told, he didn't particularly want to work, to be reduced to a slave of the clock like everyone else. What he wanted was to continue what he did now, wandering around London, only stopping for a beer or two on his way to the next adventure, the next story. He played with his old idea of writing a book. What would be a more fitting career for a man such as himself, than to share his joy of stories with others?

But writing took such a long time, and it was a lonely job. Whenever he sat down behind a desk, the restlessness would tug at his sleeve like an impatient child, and he could hear the street outside call for him. How could he describe the smells of this wonderful, cruel city? How could he capture the feeling of walking down Diagon Alley in the moonlight, in just a few words? In the end, the scribbling he got down on paper could in no way do justice to the wonders outside his window.

Even if he could find those words, he needed food while writing them. He needed clothes and money for the coaches and the beer he would trade for stories. With a sigh he decided to start looking the next day. Tired, he closed the book and got up from the chair, but as he was walking toward the bathroom he was disturbed by a knocking sound from the window. An owl.

He opened it, and saw a large barn owl sitting on the windowsill. "Want to come in?" he muttered to the bird, but it simply stood there, looking at him with its big eyes. It struck him that it looked rather official. "No? Well, let's see what tidings you bring, then." The owl stretched out its leg for him, and he could see that the small scroll had a black seal. Someone had died.

His heart was beating in his chest as he ripped it open, tearing into the parchment in the process. He had to sit down and take a relieved breath when he saw that nothing had happened to his parents. He looked again; an old uncle of him had died, and he was summoned to a meeting with the uncle's solicitor tomorrow at noon. Uncle Balthazar... He could hardly remember the name, but the image of a tall, imposing man came to him.

He made a mental note to visit the solicitor the following day, and exhausted, he crawled into bed. After a few minutes he slept like a baby.

*

He woke up late the next morning. He heard the clock in the hall strike eleven, and with a muttered curse he jumped out of bed and started pulling on his trousers. As he was buttoning them, doubt came over him. It was the death of a relative; perhaps he should show the man the last respect and wear his robes. He had been wearing Muggle clothes for too long, and it had become a habit by now.

Half an hour later he showed up at the attorney's doorstep, wearing his finest robes. There he found Edwina, who gave him a smile of appreciation when she saw him. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying all night, and she clutched a handkerchief in her white hands. "To think that the dear old man has left us," she muttered and brought the handkerchief to her face like she would start crying again. "Such a fine man. He was only one hundred and nineteen!"

While Edwina started sobbing quietly into the cloth, Redondo made a vague sound and patted her carefully on the shoulder. His sister was nearly twenty years older than he was, so he assumed it was only natural that she remembered him differently. The only thing he could remember from the old bugger was a long grey beard and beady malicious eyes. Together they entered the attorney's office, and sat for a while waiting for him. After a few minutes, Edwina stopped her sobbing and wiped her nose with a sniff.

Then the door opened, and a grey-haired elderly man looked down on them from his place in the doorway. "Michael Redondo Vance?" he asked. "Edwina Margaret Crabbe? I'm Ethan York." He looked very stern and serious, and once more Redondo wondered why he had been summoned and not his parents.

Redondo nodded and got up. "Come on, sis," he said, and pulled her up on her feet. "Can't keep the man waiting, can we?"

"No," she muttered, and followed him into the office. It was a large room with panelled oak on the walls, and the portrait of a man above the desk. The portrait resembled the attorney with an uncanny likeness, and the old man stared back at them with a grave expression.

"I have called you here to read the will of Balthazar Vance, your great uncle," Mr York said, and Edwina wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. The attorney picked up a scroll, unfolded it and started to read out loud.

"I, Balthazar Vance, hereby declare my last will.

Since my dear brother Ephraim had the nerve to call me a Mudblood-loving scoundrel, I have the pleasure of stating that he will inherit nothing of my fortune. I'd rather take my Galleons with me to the grave than let that old vulture lay a hand on my belongings. That scurvy mongrel!

Instead I have decided to leave my possessions in the hands of his children, in hope that they will use them more wisely than their father. To Michael Redondo I leave the sum of 25.000 galleons, and to Edwina Margaret I leave my estate in Kent, as well as a sum of 10.000 galleons.

Have fun.

Signed, Uncle Bill."

They stared at each other. "What?" Edwina said, and the attorney read the letter once more. "I didn't know there was ill will between Uncle Bill and Father." She seemed to be in a haze, staring blankly at the portrait of the old attorney on the wall.

York pushed a key over to Redondo, and he picked it up with hesitation. "For your account in Gringotts. Now, I will need you to stay behind, Mrs Crabbe. I need a few signatures." He started talking about the estate in Kent, and Edwina nodded lamely without listening to his words.

Redondo's face was blank when he once more breathed the fresh air outside. "I'm rich," he muttered to himself, and looked down on the key in his hand. Well, perhaps not rich, but at least well off. It was the strangest feeling. The first thing he did was to cross the street and enter Gringotts, where he took out a large sum of Muggle pounds. With this delightful burden in his pocket, he walked out into Muggle London, where he bought his sister a lovely necklace in silver and pearls.

*

The night to November 5th, he once more sat in his chair, reading, this time a Muggle novel. He was mesmerised by the book, and when a tapping sound once more came from the window he brought the book with him as he approached it. Still reading, he opened the window and heard the flapping sound of wings. He looked up from the page, expecting to see an owl, but when he saw the colourful bird sitting on the back of his armchair he knew immediately who the letter was from.

"Have you flown all the way from Africa?" he mumbled at it, still reading the page as he tried to free the bird from its letter. It was firmly tied to the bird's leg though, and he had to put the book down in order to get it loose. Slightly annoyed, he opened it, and started reading Mr Lovegood's neat handwriting.

"Dear Mr Vance,

Two days after my departure, I had the somewhat mixed pleasure of receiving an owl from the Minister for Magic. The poor bird was half-dead from the long journey, and personally, I find it appalling to see such carelessness. I would never let a small owl make such a long trip, this particular species is simply not equipped for such long distances. Though I can safely guarantee she will recover perfectly with a nice bit of rest. I have found that several of the local plants and herbs, mixed with a dilution of the venom from a black mamba, makes a good pepper-up potion for birds.

By the by, the Ministry wants a member of our faculty to attend the annual dinner at the Ministry, and since all our members are currently in Congo, you must go in our place.

Regards, Gregory L."

"Merlin, was this man in Ravenclaw or what?" Redondo muttered as he once more read the letter. The bird on the chair was skipping up and down, eager to return to a warmer climate. It didn't look tired at all - probably filled to the brim with herbs and mamba juice. "A dinner? What sort of dinner? Am I supposed to make a speech?" The letter didn't specifically say so, so he assumed his role would just be to attend. He decided to just make a brief appearance, and then leave as soon as they would allow him.

He found a piece of paper and stared at it for a while, not knowing what to write. In the end it became a very short letter, simply forming the words "all right". Happily, the bird flew out of the window, once more heading towards Africa.