The Man Who Won November

Chapter 4

He was drunk and tired, all he wanted now was to go to sleep. But his thoughts were still racing inside his brain, and he decided to take the sleeping potion his sister had given him. He rummaged around for a while before remembering he'd left it in the bathroom. As he laid his hand on the doorknob, he looked down and saw a puddle of water right outside the bathroom door. Frowning, he opened it, and a flood of hot water poured out from the opening. "Bloody hell, what's this...?" he muttered, staring at the disaster area that used to be his cosy bathroom; water filled the floor an inch deep, and the air was foggier than the London night outside.

"Finite incantatem!"

The water stopped running from the overfilled bathtub, and he waded over the floor to take a closer look at the damage. "Arefacio," he muttered, and the water seemed to be swallowed up by an invisible force. Dripping wet, he looked around himself for a moment, then remembered...

Running down the stairs to the office below, it felt as if his heart had stopped beating. Tearing the door open revealed a disaster he'd never seen the like of before. All Mr Lovegood's notes, all his prints and samples were reduced to heaps of unrecognisable rubbish, sticky and wet. He cast the drying spell again, but the result was, if possible, even more pathetic; the numerous notes were stuck to each other, hard as pinewood, and the prints and samples were nothing but hard rocks of plaster and paper.

Staring at it all in disbelief, he lifted his wand but let it fall back down. Nothing could fix this, no reparo was strong enough to mend the damages done in this room. All Mr Lovegood's notes were gone, all of them. It was too much to bear, looking at it. Once more he raised his hand, but for what? "Reparo," he muttered in a tired voice, but the only result was that one of the logs of paper ended up on the floor in the effort to change back to its original shape. "I said reparo, dammit!" He threw the charm so hard that the table almost fell over, and he had to grab it and steady it with his hand.

As he stood there, he remembered what his mother always said when he managed to destroy something that wasn't his own, "You know what you have to do, Red?"

Yes, he knew what he had to do.

He put on the Muggle clothes he'd left hanging for so long, threw a reducio charm over his belongings and stuffed the tiny items inside a bag. The air was fierce outside, and pulling his robes tighter, he walked down to the bank where he found some shelter for the wind in the narrow alley between Gringotts and the shop next door. The marble stood before him like a massive white mountain, and he shuddered. He didn't even know if it was open. Surely the bank was closed now, in the middle of the night?

Something stirred inside the alley, an intangible movement in the darkness, and sending a nervous glance into the shadows he moved back on to the Diagon and walked up the steps to the bank. He tried to push the door but to no avail. He knocked, but nothing happened. Then a sound came from within the alley next to him, a rustling sound as if someone, covered by rubbish and paper, rose from the ground and came towards him. Panicking, he started beating the door. "Open up!"

After a while, he stopped to lean against the door, and, grabbing his wand hard, he prepared himself to face the monster in the alley. The sound of someone walking became louder, and the cracking sound of sand under the other man's feet seemed to make echoes in his head. He closed his eyes for a second, praying to whatever deity who might be listening to spare him this time.

Then his whole world turned upside down as a goblin opened the door, and Redondo fell flat on his back against the dusty floor. The goblin scrutinised him for a moment, then walked out on the stairs. As Redondo picked himself up, he heard the goblin's strange voice: "Haven't I told you people not to bother our customers? If I see you here again, I'll send the dragon after you!" The door was closed with a thud that sent echoes all through the enormous dark hall.

"You are aware that we closed five hours ago?" the goblin asked in a cold voice.

"No, I mean... I'm sorry about this. It's an emergency."

"It cannot possibly wait until tomorrow...?"

"No!" Redondo barked the word out, but then composed himself. "I'm sorry, but no. I know myself; if I wait, it will not be done, I will change my mind. And this must be done. It's the only solution."

"Well, if you're finished discussing the matter with yourself," the goblin said and picked up the oil lamp from the floor. "Then we might get to work. This may come as a surprise to you, but even goblins enjoy a good night's sleep." Without looking at Redondo, he found his place behind the counter and put on his glasses. "I remember you, you were here about a month ago with a rather large sum of money."

Redondo approached the counter, feeling very small in the void of this great hall. The room was completely dark except for the goblin's little oil lamp, but every little sound seemed to be magnified; when Redondo coughed, it sounded like an avalanche.

"Name?"

"Michael Redondo Vance."

"And what can I help you with?" The goblin peered at him over his glasses.

"Well, thing is..." Redondo started, but stopped again. "I owe some money to Gregory Lovegood, and I'd like to pay it back."

"That can be arranged," the goblin said as he picked out some scrolls from beneath the counter. "How much?"

"Well, that's just it," Redondo muttered. "I don't know." Most of all he wanted to sink through the floor. "You see, I want to pay for his expedition to Congo. He took up a loan here in Gringotts - I know because he told me so, and...now I'm paying it back."

The goblin stared at him in astonishment, and Redondo started to get impatient. "Well, what's the matter? Don't my funds cover it?"

The goblin left his place and started rummaging through a cupboard behind him, where he found a scroll. He read through it, and brought it back to Redondo. "Yes, it does, but..."

"No buts," Redondo barked back. "Cannot a man help out a friend?"

"Of course, sir," the goblin replied. "But truth be told, there won't be much left to you."

"Do it anyway," Redondo muttered. "Before I change my mind."

"As you wish." The goblin scribbled down something on both scrolls, before tying them together and putting them aside. "It is done." He watched Redondo with a curious expression as he wiped his glasses with a handkerchief.

"Well, that's good. I suppose." Redondo already felt the regret tugging at him, but still he was calmer than he had been. At least he'd done the right thing. "Er... May I enquire as to how much money is left...?"

"Seven Galleons," the goblin stated, thoroughly killing the good feeling that had started to settle in Redondo's chest.

"Seven...?" Suddenly, he got the urge to cry. "I'd like to take them with me then. If you could exchange it to Muggle pounds..."

Ten minutes later he walked out of the bank, restless and broke save for the pounds in his pocket. He didn't want to go back to Mr Lovegood's flat; somehow it didn't feel like home anymore and the thought of staying there was simply unappealing - how could he find any rest, knowing the office beneath was destroyed, wrecked like it had come in the way of a cyclone?

Looking over his shoulder for whoever might have been hiding in the alley, he turned his steps toward the Leaky Cauldron. It was closed, of course, nothing but the dark windows met him, but the gateway to Muggle London was open at all hours. A narrow gateway and a battered old door, and he was outside -the whole of London, stretched out before him like a dark mirror picture of the city that met him when he first got here. His beloved Muggle London.

It felt different though, walking the dark streets in the night, knowing he didn't have anywhere to go. That was an exaggeration, of course, as he had both Mr Lovegood's flat and Richard's house, but the mere thought of returning made his stomach churn. He could always Apparate to Edwina's house in Kent, she would only be glad to see him, but he didn't know what to say to her, what explanation to give for arriving in the middle of the night. No, he would wait - tomorrow.

But the feeling didn't disappear; the city seemed strange, reproachful even, as if she watched him with stern eyes through the black windows. "Well, I said I was sorry," he muttered back to her like a sullen child standing in front of its mother. "I have paid back now; what more do you want?" She didn't answer - of course not. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head and snorting at his own ideas. Indecisive, he stood outside the pub for a while, not certain which way to turn, but in the end he started walking towards the docklands.

He took a long time, walking slowly and stopping to look at buildings and shop windows. After a while the unease gave away to a strange feeling of freedom. It was as if he saw himself from the outside, through the city's eyes, a young man walking alone in the streets of London. He stood for a while admiring St. Paul's cathedral and wished for a brief moment that he smoked - lighting a cigarette or a pipe seemed fitting at this hour.

The Tower of London rose up before him, and he contemplated for a moment going closer and look for the ghost of Anne Boelyn but soon shook the idea off. This wasn't the right time to go sightseeing. Then again, he didn't really have a destination either, he just walked. Walking kept his mind busy, if he dared to rest, all the unpleasant thoughts would return. Though he'd been awake for almost twenty-four hours, and his feet were getting tired and his mouth dry. A pint would do him good.

The docks had pubs that never closed, and he made his way down to the West India Docks. He'd been there before, though only in daytime. As the buildings around him turned shabbier, weather-beaten from the wind and the rain, he heard a clock strike six behind him. The night had been quiet, but now the Muggles seemed to swarm out from nowhere, passing him on the street without giving him more than quick glances. Even though his clothes were old, they were clean and well kept - Edwina had seen to that. He assumed he looked like some Muggle official, standing beside these tired men on their way to work.

Slowly, he followed them toward the docks, drowning in the crowd. It was a strange experience; it soothed his nerves to pretend he was one of them, but unnerved his mind when he looked upon their worn faces. So he kept his eyes on the ground and just continued forward. A sign in a window made him stop. "Room to let." He walked over and knocked on the door beside it, and a grumpy-faced woman peered outside.

"It's about the room," he said. The woman gave him a calculating look, but showed him the room. Then again, why should she not? Redondo looked very proper in his well-kept clothes, and his manners had always been pleasant. About time he got something back for it, he thought. The room wasn't as bad as he feared, a large bed, a table with two chairs and an oven in the corner, a narrow wardrobe in the other corner and a door facing the street. He'd seen worse - or so he told himself, though he couldn't remember when or where. The woman stared at him with big eyes as he paid three months rent in advance. Obviously she wasn't accustomed to seeing larger sums of money.

Not that it was that much anymore; the rent had taken a big bite of his savings, as he saw when he emptied his pocket and put the rest of the money on the table. Doing his best not to think, he unpacked his things and threw a heating spell on the room. Sitting down by the table and picking up his last bottle of Firewhisky, he allowed his mind to start working again.

He was still alive, wasn't he? Surely the death of his brother-in-law was merely a coincidence; Richard had been a big man with an unhealthy fondness of the bottle. As for Mr Lovegood's office, it had been a most unfortunate accident, but accidents do happen and Redondo was hardly to blame for the weak construction in the floor. Now, as he stared into his glass, he found he regretted paying the Muggle for this room - folly, that's what it was, but he couldn't go back and ask for the money back. He was a gentleman, after all.

He decided to Apparate to Kent the same evening and discuss it with Edwina. Suddenly he missed his older sister's company, her carefully worded comments and her easy demeanour. He even missed her fussing, her collection of potions and her stiff upper lip when he'd said something she regarded as inappropriate.

Yes, he would Apparate to Kent, and before that he would write Mr Lovegood a nice, long letter, explaining the circumstances and tell him how sorry he was. He even contemplated walking into the office of the owner of Gambol and Japes and tell him off for not securing the floors properly. "Yes," Redondo muttered to himself and, comforted by these thoughts, he walked over to the bed and sat down. His body was so tired it almost hurt to move, and with a deep sigh he stretched out his back. As a clock somewhere on the outside struck nine, he fell asleep.

When he woke up it was beginning to darken again outside his curtainless window. With a muttered curse he jerked up from the bed, and was rewarded by a hurting back. He scratched his arm casually, but the tickling itch didn't stop, it seemed to move around to his back, and his legs. He looked closer at his arm and saw tiny little red dots all over his forearm. "Bedbugs," he spat, and for a second he thought he was going to be sick; it was revolting, and with his wand clenched in his hand he killed each little insect with a wave and a cleansing charm. He gave his clothes the same treatment, but still the tickling sensation bothered him. He felt filthy.

Still upset from the unpleasant experience, he postponed the trip to the next day. Instead he picked up his coat, grabbed some money from the table and opened the door, wanting to find the nearest pub. For a moment he looked at the key the Muggle woman had given him. Then he walked inside and left it on the table, and used a sealing charm to close.

The nearest pub was in the next street, and he stopped in the doorway and looked out over the crowd. The clientele was the same that lived and worked here, serious men with stern faces, jokers with shifty eyes, working girls who took a break from the cold outside to have a cup of warm tea, and young boys lurking around them. The room smelled of sweat and smoke and sour ale, and Redondo took a deep breath, taking it all in. He felt at home here, in a way he'd never done in the fine salons.

*

By midnight, he was so drunk he couldn't remember where he lived. He staggered up the street, trying to find the gate into his backyard, but all doors looked the same - grey and dusty. In the end he collapsed in an alley, and after a half-hearted attempt at getting back up, he leaned back with a deep sigh. He'd been in such a splendid mood when he left the pub; now reality reared its ugly head to stare him in the eye. With a groan, he pushed all thoughts aside and tried to fall asleep sitting. It was remarkably easy.

He dreamt of his mother, standing over him with her spoon and her potion. "Open up, Red, be a good boy," she said in that gentle voice of hers. Her picture blurred away and was replaced by a fox, a fox with a cigarette in its mouth and a golden necklace between its paws. "Pure gold, Mister," it said. "Straight from the treasure chamber of the queen of Sheba. I'll tie it around your paw so you don't lose it." With a wry grin the fox disappeared to be replaced by the face of a woman he couldn't recognise.

And Redondo slept the heavy sleep only alcohol could provide. He didn't wake until a sharp pain hit his leg. "Get up, you berk. You'll freeze to death." Slowly, still struggling with the alcohol in his blood, he opened his eyes and stared into the face of an angry girl. She was about ten years old, and her red hair was pulled back into an unkempt braid. She stared back defiantly. "What you do, lying around here for?"

Redondo hadn't even noticed that he'd slipped down on the cold ground, and with a deep sigh he sat up. "Well, I'm awfully sorry," he muttered. "I didn't know it was your alley."

"It's all right," she said, wiped her nose and continued looking at him. Precocious little brat.

"What are you looking at?" Redondo asked in a cold voice. "Never seen a sleeping man before?"

She simply snorted in reply. "If you don't have anywhere to live you can talk to Mr Ramsey."

"I have a place to live," Redondo retorted. "You go home to your Mum." He had to try twice before he managed to get back on his feet; his body was frozen stiff and he started shaking from the cold. His throat was sore, and coughing, he understood he had a fever. "I just can't find it," he added, and could hear how whiny his voice sounded.

The girl looked at him with interest. "You can't remember? Did you hurt your head?"

He coughed again. "Sort of... All these streets look the same to me." He tried to remember. "My landlady is small and skinny and looks like she just drank a bottle of vinegar."

The girl seemed to ponder the information. "Black hair?" she asked.

"No, brownish." Redondo shook his head, but the only result was an increasing headache. He rubbed his eyes with his hand. "I don't remember. But I have to find it." He started walking out of the alley, with small, careful steps. He was definitely sick - the last thing he needed right now.

"Could be Mrs. Poole," she said, and walked past him. "Come, I'll take you there."

He watched her for a second, then followed. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do anyway. He couldn't Apparate to either Kent or Oxfordshire the way he looked now. Besides, he risked splinching himself if he wasn't careful. No, he was in no condition to Apparate, and pushed the thought aside and let his steps take him wherever the girl was going.

After only ten minutes, he stood outside his door. With a muttered spell the door unlocked, and he staggered in and landed on top of his bed, shaking from the cold. He was surprised to see the girl standing in the doorway, looking at him with a thoughtful expression on her face. "See there, on the table?" he said. "Take one of those coins and buy yourself something to eat...you're thin as a stick, girl."

She tiptoed inside and looked at the money with big eyes. "Are you rich?" she asked. "There's five pounds here!"

Five pounds? He groaned into his pillow. He would have to Apparate later this evening, then. To Edwina, she would welcome him and loan him a galleon or five. If his parents saw him now...what a shame it would be. Seeing their disappointed faces in his mind, he felt nothing but irritation for this scrawny brat standing in the middle of the room, staring at the money with a greedy expression on her face. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he barked. "Take the money and go!" Quick as a ferret, she snatched one of the coins and was gone.

The room was so cold it was painful to take his clothes off. A heating spell made it better, but a simple spell didn't last long. He needed coal for the oven if he was going to get better. He buried himself under the thick blanket, but it was not thick enough and he conjured yet another from his bag; still it didn't warm his freezing body. His teeth started chattering, and his head hurt so much it made him whimper. After awhile he drifted into an unsteady sleep.

The dreams came and went in a feverish haze; the fox appeared several times, selling him the most beautiful items, all of them gathered in the moonlight by savages in the ancient queen's treasury. His father came to stand over him with an old book in his hands, and with a grave voice he read from the wizarding law book. Richard and Edwina were there, and the old woman Rosalie showed herself to him; smiling, she bent over him and whispered in his ear. "I promised you everything, and everything was exactly what you got. Now that you wish to die, who am I to deny you your last wish?"

But that was not true, Redondo mused; he didn't want to die. Besides, it was December now, that much he remembered, she couldn't reach him anymore. It was against the rules, his fever-dulled mind told him so, though he couldn't say where than notion had come from.

When he woke up it was dark; dark and...warm? With a muttered curse he made an attempt to sit up, but soon fell back on his pillow, exhausted merely from trying. He grabbed for his wand beside the pillow, but his hand didn't touch anything but the fabric of his sheets. Panicking, he searched the side of the bed, and took a relieved breath when he found it on the chair beside the bed, safely placed on top of his clothes. "Lumos."

The light spread out across the room, and illuminated a bundle of rags in the corner beside the oven. A pair of blue eyes peered back at him, seemingly annoyed by the light. "Go back to sleep, it's the middle of the night," a sleepy voice said, and the heap started moving. The girl sat up, rubbing her eyes before she took a closer look at the man in bed. "Where does the light come from?" she asked, frowning.

"What are you doing here?" he growled back, too tired to make it sound like a real threat.

"Sleeping," she stated and rolled her eyes as if she was talking to an idiot. "What does it look like?"

With a sigh he leaned back. "I don't have enough energy to throw you out, so I'll do that tomorrow," he muttered.

She snorted loudly. "You aren't very grateful, are you?"

"What the hell do I have to be grateful about?" he muttered as he pulled the blanket up, turning away from her with closed eyes. "I don't have any money left, the few friends I had are scattered all over the British Isles, I live in a dump, and if I show my face at home they'll laugh at me. I don't know what's happening in my life, I don't know where I'm going - what do I have to feel grateful about?"

"Yeah, feeling sorry for yourself makes everything better, right?" He heard her rearranging the rags before lying down on the floor. "I promise I won't save your life again. Besides, there's no money left."

"Save my life," he muttered. "As if... What did you say?" He managed to sit up in bed, and was rewarded with a splitting headache. Rubbing his temples with a feeble hand, he stared at her in disbelief. "You spent all my money...?"

She sat up again, throwing the rags off with an impatient sigh. "I had to buy coal, didn't I? You'd have frozen to death if I hadn't; besides we needed food. Perhaps you wanted to die - then it wouldn't matter if I spent it all, would it?"

"It wouldn't matter...?" Her impertinent little face made him so angry he threw the blanket off and hauled himself up in a sitting position. "You filthy little Muggle... Did I ever say you could stay here? Did I ever invite you in? Get the hell out of here, before I throw you out!"

He managed to get up on his feet and reached out his hand to grab for her, but she slunk away from him like a fish in water, and the fast movement made him lose his balance. Heavily he dumped back on the bed, and the girl stopped by the door to look back at him. She laughed at him, and furious with anger he grabbed the first thing he could find - his shoe, and threw it after her. In his weak state, the shoe fell to the floor and landed a few inches from the girl's feet. Coolly, she looked at it, before turning her face back at him. "You, sir, are no gentleman," she said as she opened the door. Then the door slammed shut and she was gone.

Soon after, Redondo drifted into an easy sleep.

*

When he woke up it was noon, and he sat up in the bed, still feeling like he could keel over any minute. Staggering, he walked over to the table where he sat down, exhausted from walking the two yards from the bed. With a worried frown, he searched through his pocket and found a few Pence, enough to get him a coach to Charing Cross Road.

He didn't have a choice anymore. He had to talk to Edwina; she could get him a potion for his illness and a few Galleons to help him survive another week. Maybe he could get a job - yes, that was what he'd do, get himself a well paid job and buy himself a flat in Diagon Alley. Everything would be fine as long as he spoke with her. She would tell him what to do; she always knew.

Putting on his finest robes, he hauled himself up on his feet and managed to go outside. The freezing cold made him shiver, and with a slightly desperate feeling he realised he wouldn't even manage to crawl out from this godforsaken neighbourhood. No coaches bothered to come down here and drive around the narrow alleys of the slum - the coaches went where money could be made, and where the chances of armed robbery were slim to none. They came down here on occasion, dropped off the customer, and fled back to the respectable side of London.

It wouldn't be far to go, not on an ordinary day. But now... He'd end up face down in the street, he'd freeze to death on a street corner and no one would find him. He'd end up in an unmarked Muggle grave, cold and stiff, and when spring came, worms and insects would feed on his flesh. He could almost see them. Leaning against a grey wall, Redondo gave up. He didn't want to walk anymore, just sit down right here and close his eyes, pretend to be dead. He would be soon anyway; he might as well embrace it. Show dignity in death, since he'd shown so little of it in life.

"And exactly what is so dignified about lying stiff in an alley, Mr Vance?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, and he opened his eyes to look into an old face. Rosalie wore the same annoying grin she had the last time he'd seen her. With a groan, he closed them again, trying to shut her out. To no avail, he felt a bony hand grab hold of his wrist and drag him up. She was amazingly strong for her age.

"You're coming with me," she said, and he heard a carriage approaching. Soon the old nag stood before him again, and he caught a glance of the horse's black eye as it lowered its head and shook its long mane. "Come on, Mr. Vance."