The Man Who Won November

Chapter 5

In a haze, Redondo climbed into the carriage, something that took the last he had of reserves. Inside, he collapsed on the seat, and the last thing he remembered was the wrinkly old face staring at him with what he could only describe as...melancholia?

*

Again the dreams, always dreams - images floating around in a deep, warm, fog, impossible to reach. Nameless faces looking into his own from above, like angels. He tried to talk with them, tell them to stay, but they disappeared before he'd found strength to speak. Images of his parents, of a little girl who stared at him with reproach on her face. Sometimes a hand would touch him, tilt his head up and pour a vile potion in his mouth and, coughing, he'd drifted back to a soft darkness. If this was death, he didn't mind.

Slowly his body grew stronger, and the fog lifted to reveal three young ladies, giving him everything he needed. Two of them kept their distance, leaving him alone when he wasn't in direct need of them, but the youngest always fluffed his pillow, stopped by to check up on him, or sat in one corner of his room, sewing, shrouded in silence. Annie rarely spoke, but her shy smiles and the light in her eyes when she looked at him... She radiated a calmness that rubbed off on him, and he found comfort in her presence.

She was beautiful, peaceful like someone who had searched for a long time and finally found home.

One morning, Rosalie came to him, along with Annie who brought his breakfast. It was the first time he'd seen her since he came here. She stood by the footboard of his bed, watching him, for once without the smile. "I hear you're getting better, Mr. Vance."

He was sitting in bed, still weak, but feeling better than he had for weeks. "Yes, I am," he replied, knowing in his heart what words would follow. "You want me to leave, don't you?"

She stared back with a blank face. "Yes," she answered. "You were not supposed to be here at all."

"Then why did you help me?" He sounded whiny, but he couldn't help it. For once in so long he'd felt safe, protected, and the thought of what awaited him on the outside filled him with dread.

"Because things have changed," she said, and turned to leave without explaining further. "I want you out of here. You have one hour." Her expression was unreadable as she sent him one last glance before she closed the door.

He stared at it, and then looked at Annie, still holding the tray in her hands. After hesitating for a moment, she put it down on his bedside table and sat down on the bed. He looked at her in surprise; she'd never done anything like this during his stay, she'd always kept a decent amount of space between them. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again and looked down. Her warm hand found his, and with careful fingers she placed his hand on her belly, and leaned forward to give him a soft kiss. Before he knew it, she'd pressed something into his hand and got up. Without looking at him, she too closed the door and was gone.

He looked down into his hand and saw a small leather pouch. He opened it, and ten glittering Galleons and ten pounds fell out onto his blanket. He was so relieved he could cry. Slowly, he got dressed, and found his Muggle clothes newly washed and meticulously mended. Still, they felt tacky and inappropriate in these surroundings.

He entered the corridor outside, looking for Annie - he wanted to thank her for this wonderful gift. He turned the opposite way than the last time he left, but as he rounded a corner he found nothing but the stairs, the stairs that should have been placed in the other end of the house. They didn't want him to find them.

Desolate, he walked down the stairs and exited the building, the old portraits following him with stern eyes as he left. He saw a group of children playing down the alley, and without thinking more about them he turned to leave. What had Rosalie meant when she said things had changed?

And Annie's kiss... His hand on her belly - suddenly he understood, and stopped dead. He had no idea what to do; the urge to run away was strong, only to be replaced by the desire to beat Rosalie to bloody pulp. He stood there on the same spot for a long time, fighting his anger, before going back. The door was locked, and he pounded it with his fists. "Let me in! I want to talk to you!"

No one came, and after a minute he stopped. The children had spotted him and closed in on him, and shuddering, he watched them with horror; their filthy clothes hanging in rags around them, the predatory looks on their faces. He couldn't stand it any longer and fled up to Diagon Alley.

He stopped for a cup of tea at the Leaky Cauldron, but restlessness had grabbed him and he left within half an hour. Muggle London continued its everyday life around him: carriages, people going about their business, noble ladies with fur coats and children with exactly the same predatory expressions as the ones in Knockturn Alley. He couldn't stand watching them either, and kept his eyes on the pavement.

For hours he walked, until he recognised his own neighbourhood. His feet had led him here without him even realising it, and once again he stood there without being able to tell his own building from the others. They were all grey, shabby and beaten by weather and rain, and no features at all distinguished one from the other.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see the little brat standing there. She returned his gaze with her own defiant blue eyes, as though she expected him to start shouting. For a long time they just looked at each other, then he cleared his throat. "I can't find it," he said, his voice quiet. "Perhaps you can guide me?"

"About time you learned," she replied, but nodded and walked down the street. He followed her, watching her thin body and her torn dress, and found it difficult to know what to think anymore.

Soon he was sitting on his bed, taking in the room that had been deserted for so long. It was icy cold, and steam rose to the roof when he breathed. He glanced over to the girl, who was leaning toward the doorframe, not bothering to close the door since there was no heat to lose. "It's cold," he said, rather redundantly. "You'd better go and get some coal for the oven." He found the pouch, and threw her a penny - not much, but it would give them a few warm days anyway. She grabbed it in the air.

"What's your name?" he asked when she turned around to leave.

"Mary," she answered. "Mary Fletcher."

"Well, Mary, where do you live? Do you have any parents?" His voice was impatient, and he tried to compose himself, sound less irritated. The girl didn't seem to expect anything else, though.

"I sleep in the back of Mr. Johnson's bakery," she replied, avoiding the other question. "It's warmer there." With those words, she turned and left, leaving the door open. He opened his mouth, wanting to shout after her to lock it, but closed it again without saying anything.

After closing the door, he transfigured one of the chairs into a turn-up bedstead. One never knew; it could come in handy, though he couldn't quite explain to himself who would be using it. He didn't know anyone in this town, after all. Another flick of his wand, and the temperature in the room got bearable. As he sat down on the bed once more, he found the tiredness overwhelming; no wonder, he had just marched for hours in his weak state. But it was a different tiredness than earlier - this one would have him wake fresh and rested.

*

When he woke up it was dark. And warm; the heat in the room was almost unpleasant - the combination of a heating spell and an oven filled with burning coal. Sweating, he walked over to the door and opened it for a minute to let the cold night air inside. The street outside was calm, a single nighttime wanderer striding past him, humming a song to himself as he headed toward the pub town the street. Redondo gave him a little smile, but the man didn't notice him and continued on his way. Redondo closed the door and returned to the room inside.

He stopped when he saw the girl sleeping in the turn-up bedstead, buried beneath blankets and on top of this she had placed his robes. His finest robes; obviously she had been looking through his suitcase. She had been looking through more than that - his pouch lay on the table, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a knife and some apples beside it. Growling for a second, he sat down beside the table, picked the bread up and cut off a piece with the knife.

It tasted good. To his surprise he found that he was hungry, and from his suitcase he picked up a bottle of red wine he'd taken from Mr. Lovegood's flat. Eating his bread and drinking his wine, he let his eyes linger on the girl. She looked tired and alone, and something stirred inside him. He would be a father soon. Would he ever see it? Would it think of him and wonder where he was, who he was? And most importantly: would it blame him and hate him, or would it understand that this was not his fault?

From his suitcase he found an old copy of the Daily Prophet, and with a muttered spell he changed it into a scroll. A transfigured apple did the duty as a quill, as he slowly wrote down the words on the scroll:

It was hard at first, but soon the words flowed from the quill - like blood from his own heart, onto the page. It was as though this imaginary child was sitting in this very room, listening to his words and watching him from a place Redondo couldn't see. It was a boy; he knew it in his heart, with the same dark eyes as his, the same dark hair and dreamy expression. All of a sudden he felt an ache in his chest unlike anything he'd ever felt before, and he wondered for a second whether he was about to become ill again.

The story continued to grow; the story of a young boy, brought up by women, wandering through the streets of the nation's capitol and looking for signs of recognition in every face he saw. Sometimes he had to take breaks to calm himself down, but as daylight crept in through the window he had three tightly written scrolls of parchment in front of him. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks he felt calm. The child's soft breath soothed him, and he sent her a little smile before walking over to the bed where he lay down. Soon, he slept a heavy sleep without dreams.

*

"You can't keep taking money from my pouch, you ungrateful little tyke!"

His angry voice didn't seem to impress her. "Well, we do need food, you know," she replied, her hands at her sides; she looked like a very displeased miniature housewife.

She had a good point, even Redondo had to admit that. It was incredible how fast the money had dwindled into nothing. He struggled with the desire to Apparate to Kent, where Edwina would be waiting for him - she would gladly borrow him everything he needed, even offer him a room in her house. Edwina's heart was big, and even though she would protest, she would accept the Muggle girl in the end. Then why was he so reluctant to go?

He hadn't heard from his sister since the day she'd left Mr. Lovegood's flat, but that same night an owl was waiting for him when he came home. He'd sat in the pub for an hour, staring into a mug of ale and then decided to go home. Wherever home was; the too-small room, now occupied by a guest he hadn't asked for could hardly be called home. Redondo was used to large rooms with air and atmosphere, not claustrophobic little broom closets like this. He was used to expensive furniture and fine dinners - not stale bread and cheap wine. But at the same time it was his own; his first...home. He tasted the word, rolled it on his tongue and tried to sort out his confused thoughts.

That's when he saw the owl. Stern and quiet, it sat on the roof of the building; a small tawny owl belonging to Edwina - he would recognise it anywhere because of its dark colour. With a feeling of unease he watched it unfold its wings and glide down to him. Luckily the street was quiet, but he glanced around him, removed the letter, and sent the bird on its way as quickly as he could. With an expression of reproach the owl disappeared over the roofs of the houses.

He went inside where Mary was still sleeping, and let the letter slip into the suitcase that still stood by the wall. Then he found more paper and sat down by the table to write.

*

He sold one of his stories to a Muggle newspaper. It felt unreal, accepting the money from the bookkeeper in the office beside the composing room - five pounds, he got for it. Not much, but it would get them through Christmas anyway. He had brought one more with him when he came to collect the money, but he had forgotten to deliver it. That couldn't spoil his joy; he would have to return the following day instead.

He'd published a story. He couldn't believe it; nineteen years old and he would be a published writer. The world was waiting for him - he would show them, he would write the most amazing stories, making people cry and laugh and shiver with fear! Redondo was walking on air, shining like the pale December sun above his head. On the way home he bought a ham for Christmas dinner, and a new shawl for Mary. She was always cold, poor thing.

As he turned the corner to his street, he saw a black carriage standing outside his house. His heart jumped, but as he took a closer look at the horse he saw that this was a different animal. Still, he approached the carriage with slow steps. Who was it, and what were they doing outside his house? It could of course be that the guest had come for another of the tenants. Yes, that would have to be the explanation. Relieved, he approached his door.

"Redondo!"

His hand stopped an inch from the doorknob, frozen in mid air. That voice...firm, self-assured and unyielding. Everything Redondo was not - even into the most remote part of hell, this voice would stand out to him. He turned to look at the older man in the carriage. The greying beard was well groomed as ever, and the dark eyes mirrored Redondo's own.

"Father," he replied, the good feeling gone. He lowered his eyes and felt his face burn with shame for letting his father see him like this; clothes dirty and unkempt and his hair hanging loose. But as he lifted his head again, he didn't see contempt in the old man's eyes, just...humour.

"Get your things," Ephraim Vance said in a quiet voice.

"What?"

"I've come to take you home. The Christmas dinner should be waiting when we get there."

Redondo simply stared at him, emotions and thoughts rummaging through his head without purpose or direction. "I..." He couldn't let the words out. "I have to put this down..." He gestured at the wrapped up piece of ham he was carrying and his father nodded, as if to give his blessing, something that made Redondo furious. With an irritated movement he opened the door and almost dropped the shawl in the process. Where did it come from, this anger?

Mary looked up at him as he entered the room. She sat by the table with her paper and books, practising what he tried to teach her; writing. She looked surprised, but took her eyes off him right away, trying to make herself as small as possible. Redondo watched her for a minute while his emotions calmed down. And he made up his mind.

He walked back out and gave the man in the carriage a disarming smile. "I'm sorry, but I think I'll stay."

Old Vance stared at him in disbelief. "What are you talking about? Of course you'll be coming with me; didn't you hear - your mother is preparing the turkey as we speak. Point taken, Redondo, I know you can look after yourself. That was what you tried to prove with all this, wasn't it?" His face turned unyielding again, the familiar expression when he considered matters closed. "Your sister is waiting as well. Why haven't you returned her letters? You know how upset she gets."

"Everything upsets Edwina," Redondo replied, rather coldly. "Give her my love and may you all have a pleasant holiday." With a nod to his father, he turned to go back inside.

"You'll come back when you get hungry," he heard him say. "When you get hungry and lonely, you'll come back. I know you, Redondo, don't forget that."

Then the carriage started rolling, and Redondo gritted his teeth as he watched it turn the corner and disappear. "No, Father," he muttered. "I won't forget."

He walked back inside, and sat down beside the table. Mary glanced up at him, an unspoken question on her face. Redondo smiled back at her. "It's all right. You continue now."