The Man Who Won November

Chapter 3

The next evening, Redondo stood in the Ministry's great hall, nervously straightening the new fancy robes he'd bought merely a few hours earlier. Handmade, of course, by the brilliant Madam Malkin, and of the finest velvet and silk. Looking around himself, he had nothing to be ashamed over, in fact he could outshine the Minister himself right now. This should probably have made him more self-assured, but Redondo only felt awkward and alien.

Wizards and witches from all over the world walked around him, carrying their wineglasses as weapons as they charged each other with smiles that seemed like sneers to him. Redondo stayed in his corner, not venturing out on the great plain that was the floor. With a sigh he looked at his pocket watch, two hours he'd been here, and the festivity didn't seem to be ending just yet. The dinner had been a nightmare, but he'd managed to have a conversation with the witch beside him without looking like too much of a fool. Or at least so he hoped.

Gloomily, he stared down into his drink. It didn't even taste very much.

"Such a waste of time," a voice said beside him. Redondo turned to see a chubby man standing beside him, picking up a cigarette from the pocket of his vest. "These dinners are always a bore. People standing on top of each other to make good impressions, chattering their heads off and yet no one is listening. Thanks." He lit his cigarette with the flame Redondo offered him, and blew out a cloud of white smoke. "How I hate these occasions! I'd rather be out fishing, wouldn't you?"

Redondo could easily think of more pleasant things to do on a cold November night than fishing, but he nodded and said that yeah, fishing would be preferable to this cacophony.

"Merlin, hide me," the man exclaimed as a young blonde witch came over. The man slipped behind Redondo to hide in the corner.

The girl came up to him, wearing a long black dress and a chilly smile, though the friendliness didn't quite reach her eyes. She sent him a calculating glance, and tried to peer over his shoulder. "Have you seen...?"

"I haven't seen anyone," Redondo replied, and with a dissatisfied grimace and a last lingering look behind him she turned and left, muttering irritably to herself. When she was on a safe distance, the man came out once more, brushing some imaginary dust off his sleeve.

"Damned woman," he growled. "Some people just cannot take no for an answer. May I offer you a drink to repay my debt?" He reached his hand inside his robe, and came out with a small bottle. He winked to Redondo, took the empty wineglass out of his hand and filled it to the brim. "This is much better than the ratpiss they're offering here. Cheers, my friend."

"Drinking pressure is my favourite sort of pressure," Redondo muttered and emptied the glass. The Firewhisky burned strong and pleasant in his throat.

"Seems I have to be going out there again," the other man said, making a face.

"You have my undying sympathy," Redondo replied with a grin.

"Thank you. Drop by my office anytime, lad, and I'll see that the bastards give you the promotion you deserve." With these words he took a deep breath, as if he was a swimmer preparing to do a dive, and walked back onto the floor.

A pair of wizards standing nearby immediately attacked him. "Mister Muldoon, Sir, if I could only have a word," one of them started, but Mr Muldoon waved him off and continued forward. Wilson Muldoon, the Minister for Magic. For some reason, Redondo didn't feel surprised.

*

Life was playing. He could easily say he'd never been happier in his whole life. Each day was an adventure different than the one before, filled with miracles, laughter and excitement. He no longer ventured out into Muggle London. He found he no longer needed their stories - after all, he was living one, right here and now. Who could ask for more?

He shrugged at the poker game, writing it off as a bad dream and nothing more. Still, it was with growing unease that he watched the dates change on the house owner's calendar. The month of November was nearing its end, and Edwina had started to talk about the upcoming Christmas arrangements.

On the wee hours of the morning of November 30th, he woke up from the sound of someone knocking at his door. No, not knocking, pounding was more like it. He'd thrown a big party last night, filling Mr Lovegood's lounge with the elite of the wizarding world; poets, musicians and Quidditch stars, and they all cheered for him and drank to his health. Now, someone tried to tear down the wall of his flat. Annoyed, he sat up in his soft four-poster bed, rubbing his eyes before he sent a quick glance down at the girl sleeping next to him. She moaned softly in her sleep, on the edge of awakening.

Quickly, he wrapped himself in Mr Lovegood's too small dressing gown and headed for the door. And stared in surprise at his sister, covering her face with her hands. She was positively shaking, and she had loosened the neat bun in her hair, letting her deep brown hair hang down in her face. "What's the matter?" he whispered as he led her into the living room, still a mess from yesterday's party.

"This is what's happened," she said. Her voice was strained but yet strangely firm, as if she wanted to cry but could not. With an unfamiliar expression of bitterness, she pulled aside the curtain of hair and revealed the bruises on her face. "I no longer care about the scandal or what Mother will say; I will not put up with this anymore. Since Uncle Bill died, I have a home to go to and money to live off. I will be a burden to no one."

Redondo was in shock. He didn't like his brother-in-law, but never had he assumed him to be a physically violent man. "Why didn't you tell me?" was all he could think to say, staring at the blotches of red and purple spread out over his sister's fine features.

"Do you tell me all your secrets, Red?" she retorted, giving him a look that made him avert his eyes. "I thought not. I need a place to stay for a few hours. I will Apparate to Kent tonight. And please, no attempts to make me change my mind."

He looked up at her again, hurt by her words. "Why would I want to talk you into such an ill fate? Why, that dirty rat of a man, that bastard..." He felt anger rise in him like bile, threatening to choke him with hate - for it was hate he felt, overwhelming him. "No one does this to my sister," he muttered and walked out into the hall, grabbing his robes.

"Where are you going?" she called after him. "Don't do anything foolish, Redondo. It's not worth it." The sound of her voice was muffled as he closed the door after him.

He had never been easy to anger, but now his heart was pounding so heavily in his chest it almost hurt. He stalked up Diagon Alley, cursing himself for not seeing what should have been evident to him from the first day he set his feet on the Crabbe doorstep. He stopped for a second. It had been evident. All the signs had been there; her flaking eyes, her nervous manners - she had always been shy, but never around those she loved. The truth had stared him in the face for so long, but he, in his cowardice and indifference, had chosen not to see. This only fuelled his anger, and he took the steps up to the front door in two jumps.

Richard was standing by the fireplace with a glass of whisky in his hand, and gave Redondo nothing but a lingering glance in recognition. "A visit from my dear Red," he said, his voice dripping from sarcasm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What sort of man are you?" Redondo barked back at him.

"Let me turn the question," Richard said with a sneer. "What sort of man are you, stealing from those who have given you food and shelter? What sort of man are you, to let your sister take the beating that should have been yours?"

Redondo could only stare at him, his mouth open. In the presence of this tall man, looking at him with hard eyes that revealed no emotion at all, the words he'd thought up faded into nothing, every biting retort and flaming accusation disappeared into the void that seemed to grow in his stomach. "I have paid Edwina back," he muttered as he took his eyes off the man and turned his gaze to the floor.

"I'll tell you what sort of man you are." Richard continued as if he hadn't heard him. "You're nothing but a common thief, stealing from your family because no one in their right mind would hire you. A pathetic loser and a common criminal." He spat the word out. "You'll end up in Azkaban. No, that's too good a place for the likes of you; you'll be in that Muggle prison Newgate before the year is over. I'll see to that."

"At least I don't beat defenceless women," Redondo managed to get out.

To this Richard laughed out loud. "Your father should have used the cane on her more often as a child, perhaps that would have beaten some sense into her thick scull." He put the glass down on the mantelpiece, and Redondo could see that he was not completely sober. "Now, would you mind leaving? I have a Hit Wizard squad to alert."

Sending him a last glance, Redondo turned and walked out into the hall. He stopped there, and staring at himself in the mirror he ached to go back and shove the other man's words down his throat, making him eat every syllable. "God, I hate you," he said in a low voice, watching his own eyes shoot daggers back at him. Somehow, the image in the mirror fascinated him, seeing his own face turned into a frowning mask of disgust. Familiar and yet not, it mesmerised him, as if he'd sunk into the glass and disappeared.

There came a mocking chuckle from the living room doorway. "I'm doing my best to tear your life to pieces, and you're standing here admiring your own reflection? Like some demented parrot! Merlin, you are pathetic." As if waking from a dream, he turned to Richard, who stood leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Redondo in pure disbelief. Without speaking, he walked out the front door, followed by Richard's laughter. As he closed the door, the sound was cut off behind him.

With slow steps he walked out onto the Diagon and found his way back to Mr Lovegood's flat. Edwina was waiting, sitting in the sofa with her hands folded and looking out into the air in front of her. "There was a girl here," she said, a hint of disapproval evident on her face. "She left."

"All right," Redondo muttered in reply - he couldn't even remember her name. "If you'll excuse me..."

He entered the bathroom and sat down on a wooden chair next to the bathtub, resting his head in his hands. The anger was gone, all he could think of was Richard's words; they rang in his ears and seemed to throw echoes back from the walls around him. There was no doubt in his mind that the bloody man would put his threats into action, that he would enjoy seeing him like this. Another glance in the mirror, and Redondo recognised the eyes of the child who had been sent away to Hogwarts eight years before, kicking and screaming. He'd always been a coward; it was the trait he despised most of all in himself but also the one thing that was impossible to change.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when Edwina knocked on the door. "I'm Apparating to Kent now," she called out to him from behind the door. As in a haze, he watched as the doorknob turned around, but the door was locked with the strongest locking spell he knew. "Will you come with me? What are you doing in there? Are you all right? Red?"

The tone is her voice woke him up. "I'm fine," he replied. "I'm not feeling very well." Was it just him or did his voice sound strange? He rested his chin against the palm of his hand once more, overwhelmed by tiredness.

"Is it your tummy?" she asked from the outside. "You know you shouldn't drink Firewhisky with your tummy - do you have the potion you used to take? I could go down to the apothecary and..."

"For crying out loud, Edwina, I'm not five years old!" he roared, the anger flaring up in him again. "Just leave me the hell alone!"

For a long time there was nothing but silence. Then he heard her cough, and her feet stepping away from the door. "Very well," she said in that hurt tone he knew so well. "I will be on my way then. If you have time, you can always come by later." The sound of her feet moving away from the door...

His mind worked slowly, and it took him some time before he looked up, facing the door. "Edwina?" He heard the slam of the front door. "Edwina!"

He looked down at his hands, those soft white hands that hadn't done a single day's labour in his life, and he realised Richard was right. In everything he'd said, in every icy comment, he had been right. It hurt more than he thought it would, seeing himself like that, as others saw him. Now Edwina had left, he'd hurt her feelings and now she too was gone. Any minute now, the Magical Law Enforcement would come knocking at his door.

He wouldn't open. He knew that now; they would have to charm their way in, or break down the door, whatever method these people used. But he wouldn't fight them - oh no, he would come voluntarily, hold out his wand to them as they barged in through the door. If nothing else, he was still a Vance.

Such a shame it would be to the family name.

With clumsy movements, he got up from the chair and waved his wand over the bathtub, which filled up with steaming hot water. In a bag hidden underneath his bed, he found a small vial with a clear liquid, and poured three drops into a glass and filled up the rest with last night's remaining Firewhisky. Bringing the glass with him into the bathroom, he removed his clothes and once more stared at his reflection. "Cut your hair and get yourself a job," he muttered to the bloke looking back at him. Those were his father's last words to him before he left Oxford. In the corner of the room stood a small cupboard; in there he found a pair of scissors and stood with them in his hand for a while. Then he put them down again, and finished his drink in one gulp.

The water was so warm it almost hurt, but it was a good pain, burning away his worried mind as he soaked in the hot water. The potion started working, and drowsy, he realised the water was already going cold. He reached out for the wand on the chair beside him. The water poured out all over the floor, and as he sat back he put a heating spell on the water. "Where did all the water go?" he muttered to himself with a frown. Again, he swung the wand, and satisfied watched the water rising. His eyes grew heavy, and soon he drifted into an easy sleep.

*

He woke up with a start. He didn't know how long he'd been out - it couldn't have been too long. The heat that had been so pleasant now made him feel nauseated, and it was difficult to breathe. It was like his lunges didn't work properly, and he pushed himself up from the tub, gasping like a fish on shore. For a second he was convinced he was about to die, but indifference was a side effect of the potion and the thought didn't upset him as much as it usually would. Grabbing his wand, he stumbled towards the door, and after a few steps it occurred to him that he was still walking in hot water. He looked down to see the whole floor flooded. " Finite incantatem," he mumbled and waved his wand at the mess, before walking out. He'd take care of the rest later.

Later. Everything came back to him - later would be the knocking on the door, the crowded rooms in the Law Enforcement's offices right here in Diagon Alley. There wouldn't even be a later, only before and after. He fell down on the bed, still unmade from last night, and just curled up there, waiting.

But the hours came and went, and nothing happened. In the end, he looked up at the clock on his bedside table; it was three o'clock in the afternoon. Frowning, he sat up. He didn't understand, had Richard merely said those things to scare him? Didn't sound like Richard, but then again, he didn't know him that well. He was probably sitting in front of his fireplace right now, smirking - laughing at his young brother-in-law's misery, perhaps planning to blackmail him. Squeeze every Galleon out of him, believing he deep down had the right to do so.

"You won't get a Sickle out of me, you bastard," Redondo muttered as he got out of bed and started rummaging through his wardrobe. "Not a damned Knut; I have paid back..."

A biting wind hit him in the face as he entered Diagon Alley and, shivering, he walked up the street. It was unusually quiet now. People were probably hiding from the wind - the Leaky Cauldron would be crowded with people. A part of him wanted to turn and join them, but the thought of Richard sitting in his chair, laughing at him, spurred him onwards. Gritting his teeth, he walked up the stairs and knocked heavily on the door. No one answered, and he opened the door and went inside.

"Richard? Where are you? I want to talk to you." His voice lost its firmness as he looked around him. For the first time he felt like a stranger in this house, now that his sister was no longer there. It was as if the house held its breath, like it was waiting - though for what he didn't know.

When he entered the living room, he found Richard sitting in his favourite armchair. Resting his head against his chest, he appeared to be sleeping; his stern face peaceful and calm, and his hand still clenching the glass, resting it against the arm of the chair. Redondo went into the room and approached him with careful, slow steps, and sat down in the opposite chair, Edwina's usual place.

He watched the older man for awhile, opening and clenching his fist to get rid of the prickling sensation in the palms of his hands. "Richard? I know we've had our differences, but I would appreciate it very much if we could push them aside for a moment and talk this over like gentlemen." He spoke fast and in a low voice, as if he half hoped his brother-in-law would remain sleeping. Swallowing heavily, knowing the conversation had to take place, he leaned over and poked Richard's knee. "Wake up already..."

The knee hit the arm of the chair, and with an almost lazy movement the hand slipped and sent the glass to the floor where it broke into a thousand shards. The hand hang limp in the air. Suddenly, Redondo felt sick. He sat back, covering his mouth with his hand while staring at the man. "Oh God," he muttered. "Oh Merlin..."

What would Edwina say when she found out?

Then it occurred to him that Edwina would probably feel nothing but relief, not to mention that his own worries were over. "Everything I wanted, for the whole of November," he said to himself. This had been what he wanted, hadn't it, deep down? To rid both himself and his dear sister of this brute of a man. That meant that he'd killed him, just as surely as if he'd thrown the killer curse at him in person.

Redondo alerted St. Mungo's, and then threw up in the bushes outside the front door. He sat on the stairs outside waiting for them to finish their work. One of the Healers came out to sit with him for a minute, and while smoking a cigarette he asked Redondo the usual questions; name and location of the next of kin, Richard's medical history and eventual funeral arrangements. Redondo mostly shook his head, "You'll have to ask Edwina." As the Healer threw the cigarette butt into the street and turned to walk back in, Redondo turned and faced him. "Why did he die? I mean, what was the cause of death?"

"Looks to me as if he had a heart attack," the Healer answered, scratching his chin. "Must have come as a shock, I can imagine, he appears to have been a strong man. Well, we're finished here, so we best be off. We will contact your sister from the hospital."

"Thank you," Redondo answered. "I don't think I'm up to that just yet."

The Healer closed the door after him; they would be leaving via the fireplace. Redondo remained where he sat for a long time, until the cold wind forced him in, freezing and shaking. He looked around the entrance hall - somehow it had seemed warmer outside on the stairs. With hesitant steps he entered the living room. The large room seemed even darker than usual, and in the centre of it all Richard's chair loomed like a threatening presence. He grabbed the bottle of Firewhisky and sat down in it.

"To you, Richard, wherever you may be," he mumbled, poured himself a generous drink and emptied it in a way that would've made Edwina reach for her potions. Poor Edwina. Always so worried, she was, always carrying around vials for everything in her purse, headache potions, stomach potions, potions for her nerves and for every malady known to man. At least he had given her one thing less to worry about, he thought bitterly as he filled his glass once more. She would never know, of course, the guilt would kill her - no, sometimes it was better to keep one's silence.

Redondo emptied the bottle, slow and steady, and wondered what was wrong with him. It scared him to feel so little, faced with the fact that it was indeed his fault this had happened. It was as if he'd swallowed a pint of ice cubes. He felt cold. The roaring flames in the fireplace didn't offer any warmth at all; the chill came from inside. He tried to drown it, but not even the Firewhisky could chase it away.

Darkness fell outside the window, but Redondo didn't move. It started raining again, and he didn't see. Not until he glanced up at the clock did he move. It was five to twelve, soon midnight, and it was with unease that he watched the minutes go by. His childhood home in Oxfordshire was filled with ghosts, and it occurred to him that Richard might come back, to stand in the doorway like he used to, looking at him with those cold eyes of his. Maybe he was standing beside him right now, walking quietly toward the chair, stretching out long arms at him. Suddenly he found it hard to breathe, and he got up from the chair, rubbing his neck and staring out into the darkness behind him. Of course there was nobody there.

He dropped the glass into the chair and stumbled over to the door, half expecting to he hindered by some unseen presence, but he made his way unimpeded. The cool night air met him, and he could once more fill his lungs freely. Closing the door thoroughly, he made towards Mr Lovegood's flat down the street.