GLADIATOR

gladiator

/ˈɡladɪeɪtə/

n.

an armed combatant who entertained audiences in the Roman Republic and Roman Empire through violent confrontations with other gladiators, wild animals, and condemned criminals.

PROLOGUE

Peter’s hands tremble around the slightly crumpled parchment in his hands. He is sat in a dimly lit hallway in the right-hand corner of the second floor of the Black family office building. There is an impersonal, dark, patterned wallpaper on the walls. The ceiling is painted a matching dark grey. The wooden floorboards are so dark one might think them charred to the bone. He is waiting on a rather uncomfortable black leather chair outside of a rather small office room. An intimidating black, wooden door blocks the office from his sight, and it opens in such a way that even when one person comes out and another goes in - freeing another chair in the hallway – he still cannot see past the sharp edges. So, he resigns himself to watching as the sleek, modern black clock on the wall beside him ticks on silently.

Eventually, he is the last one in the hallway. A stifling quiet invades and starts a restlessness in his muscles makes it hard to still. He tries anyway, for the sake of professionalism. A minute passes. Then two. Then three. Then the door opens, silver door handle turning without any hand aiding it.

Peter stands. Takes a breath. Closes the door behind him as he walks through.

Inside the room is an office. It is just as black as the hallway and somehow colder. Behind the door, a man sits at a sleek wooden desk. He holds a jet-black quill in pale, wrinkled hands. Small lips are set in straight line and pressed hard together in what looks to be disappointment.

“Peter... Pettigrew?” There was a hint of West Country in his accent shown by the ‘tt’ in his last name being dropped. Peter thinks that’s probably why he’s tucked away in this dingy old office.

“Yes, that’s me. I have my CV here for you.” He kept his voice even, soft but strong enough to make him seem reliable. Formal English but not to the point of sounding a priss.

The man took it from him roughly and began scanning it. Peter took the opportunity to continue scanning the room. Twin drawers stand on either side of the desk with a painting of a dark stormy night over a skyline between them. It is the only decoration in the room besides a clock on the right-hand corner of the desk and was clearly already on the wall when this man (Peter could see the name Avery written on a visible piece of paperwork) began occupying the office. There was no window, only a well-polished metal chandelier type ceiling light and an old-fashioned floor lamp on the other side of the small dark box.

After a few moments Avery put his CV down and gave him a scrutinising glare. Peter felt this wasn’t a look he was supposed to cower to, so squared his shoulders and maintained intense eye contact.

“Tell me why you want this job in one word.”

This question gave him pause. It was not one he prepared for, nor one he knew the answer to. He forced the fidgety hands in his lap to still and thought it through. When he first heard there was a place going here, in the Patronage department, he was elated. If utilised properly, the position could bring potential to further him. Blackmail, connections. Plus, if he could prove himself here, he would be indispensable in the future. A good reference to the Black company is a goldmine in this industry.

But how to sum that up in one word?

Avery began tapping his finger on the desk. Peter breathed out.

“Favours.”

Avery grinned. Peter grinned back.

__________________________

12 Grimmauld Place seemed to shake with the sheer volume of the arguing voices. Walburga Black’s voice shrieked, dominating the dining room. Regulus and Orion sat motionless at the table. Sirius was standing, voice thick with emotion as he tried to gain a footing. Him and his mother had had this argument many times before and he always lost, leading to more and more punishment. He would not lose this time.

“I refuse to become the heir to this fucking family! It blackens everything it touches and corrupts it, and I will not become another victim!” The words catch at the back of his throat and he almost growls at the anger there.

“You will watch your tongue when you’re speaking to me-”

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do huh? Hex me again? Curse me? Go on then! You think I’m afraid of you?!”

Walburga pulls out her wand and raises it. In a split second, Sirius is whipping his out from his pocket and casting a shield spell.

Whatever hex Walburga had casted deflects and hits the wall with a crack. The wallpaper sizzles and smokes. She sends another his way. He casts a protego again, this time parrying and sending one right back. Walburga blocks it. Two more charred spots on the wallpaper.

There is silence in the room for a moment. Walburga lowers her wand. Sirius does not lower his. She seems to think for a moment, pursing her lips to stifle the cold hard rage. He bites his tongue.

“Very well, if you’re so desperate to leave, I will let you.”

Sirius opens his mouth, scathing words tied around his tongue before he even processes the words. He double-takes. “What?”

She smirks – a cruel thing that lowers the temperature of the room by several degrees. “You heard me I’ll let you leave. On one condition.”

He glowers at this, sensing a trick or a scam. He knows better than to think the great Walburga Black will ever let her precious heir go free.

“Apply to our tournament this year. If you win, I’ll let you go.”

A moment. Orion sits up at this, finally deciding to put his 10 pence in. “Walburga, we have not discussed this.” His voice is dark and thick with whiskey.

“Be quiet, Orion. This is the obvious answer to our problems. Once Sirius loses, he will have no choice to submit to us. Unless you think he will win?” Orion glowers at her. His eyes are a storm that foreshadow another argument later, when the sons are out of the way. “No? Well then, Sirius, what do you think? Will you take on the challenge? Will you fight for your freedom?”

Walburga smirks again. Sirius bares his teeth.

__________________________

His mother’s hand feels impossibly cold. It is only the brief fluttering of her chest and the half empty glass of water on the bedside table that dissuade him from presuming she had passed away since he’d last ventured upstairs to her room. The grip on her hand tightens as if to keep her tethered to the earth. To stop her from drifting away.

Remus knows that is a pipe dream.

He sighs and stands, grunting softly at the pain that dances across his hip and back. The time on her bedside clock reads 4:32 pm. The clock is an antique family heirloom from her mother’s side of the family. The painting on the wall behind the bed is from her father, whose brother was a relatively famous painter in Cardiff where she grew up. There is nothing from his father. Or from his family. Not in the entire cottage.

It will be time for her afternoon medication soon. He shakes the bottle on the bedside gently, listening for a quiet rattle that never comes. Not even a whisper. Remus signs again. Time to go to the pharmacy. Again.

His mother’s cottage is in a little hamlet on the outskirts of Cardiff. Creigiau is a quaint place with two florists, an inn, a church, a primary school (with a school of motoring a mere 15-minute walk south), a masonry contractor, a scout group, a Tesco Express and a duck pond. Conveniently for him, there’s also a pharmacy on the north side of the village. The man who runs the pharmacy is an old friend of his mother’s – as everyone is in a village as small as this – and knows about her illness so gives him the medication at a discount. If it wasn’t for that, Remus wouldn’t be able to afford them. Being in and out of work means a steady income is a privilege.

At least his mother’s illness has given him a semi-permanent roof over his head. He sleeps on the couch in the living room to keep an eye on her.

The rough concrete pulls at the tears in the sole of the second-hand shoes he bought at a charity shop in London. They were in good nick when he originally bought them, but they have truly served their time. He will have to save up for a new pair. The glares of the villagers seem to burn through the threadbare jumper pulled across his back. The fate of the outsider: the wayward son only returned with his mother on her deathbed. He’s sure they’re familiar with whatever censored story his mum told them.

The pharmacy door isn’t automatic. A bell rings as he pushes the stiff, metal hinges.

“Be there in just moment!”

Remus walks the familiar route to back of the shop where the perfectly polished white plastic counter sits. There is a faint rustling behind the door to the storage and computer room. After a few moments a grey, portly gentleman with a kind smile walks out.

“Hello, how can I help- oh. Remus, it’s just you.” The smile sours and he turns to busy himself with paperwork behind the counter. “I suppose you’re here for a refill?”

Remus nods, struggling to find his voice. The man finds the piece of paper he was looking for and places it in front of him along with a ratty, chewed up pen. Remus picks it up in shaking fingers while the man trudges off – he presumes to get the medication. He signs it quickly before putting the mangled pen back on the desk. Then, the bottle is placed on the counter with a distinct rattle.

“That’ll be 15 pounds.”

Remus pauses the journey his hand was making to get money out. “15? You normally sell them to me for 10?”

The man scoffs as though he is speaking to an imbecile. “Yes, but the price for this prescription is £17.50. It’s an expensive medication Remus, you know this.”

Every part of him stutters. He doesn’t have 15 pounds; he barely even has the 10 – he’s pretty sure he literally pulled it from nowhere. “Please, I only have 10. My mother needs this medication.”

“Believe me I feel for your mother, but I can’t afford to keep discounting you so heavily. If you can’t afford the medication then apply for an exemption certificate.” There was little pity in his voice. Clearly their care for his mother only goes so far.

“They won’t give her one, I’ve applied 4 times already. Please Gordon-” his voice is desperate, pleading.

“Then get a job.” His words are final.

The front bell goes off as someone walks in just as Remus stumbles back slightly, trying to figure out where he’s going to get the extra money from. His cupboards are already bare, barring some bread, butter and old tea bags. Plus, his mother’s favourite fruit tea, kept separate in its own air-tight jar.

The new customer and Gordon have a quick chat, exchanging a box of pain medication and money before Gordon goes back to the storage room.

The new customer walks up to him. A dark hood is pulled up over what looks like dreadlocks or box braids (Remus can’t tell the difference). His eyes are dark as well, like two voids. Two jagged scars travelling from the right-hand corner of his mouth down his neck. They look like claw marks.

“You’re a werewolf, right?” The question puts him on immediate red alert. Remus gets ready to bolt. He had thought he was safe here: the only wizard in the entire village.

“Wait. Don’t run. I’m one too.” The man pulls up the hem of his hoodie, revealing a particularly vicious looking bite mark across his abdomen. “You’re struggling with money, right?”

Remus nods, still regarding him as untrustworthy. Being a werewolf doesn’t immediately make someone a friend just because he’s one. Merlin knows there are plenty of monstrous werewolves out there.

The werewolf leans closer to him, looking around hesitantly. “I heard that if you win the Black Tournament, they’ll give you whatever your heart desires. I don’t know about you, but I know what I’d be asking for.”

And then the man leaves, quicker than he came. Just like that, Remus knows what he needs to do next.

He immediately packs, leaving a note on his mother’s desk just in case she wakes up before he’s back. It’s time for him to win his fortune.

__________________________

The bar is full of wild, raucous energy. It’s inevitable, really, after a match like that.

James is sitting at the bar with a pint, head thrown back in fiendish laughter as the man beside him recounts a horrible play from their opponents.

“Honestly Frank, you’d think from the way they were playing they didn’t know the ball from their own arsecrack. Did you see how many of them got handsy with it?”

The laugh that comes from Frank sends a shiver up James’ spine. It is free and open and truly joyful and entirely because of him. Well, maybe with a little help from shit football players.

“Yeah like you could do any better. Quidditch? Definitely. But football? I recon’ you’d be fallin’ over your own feet.”

James scoffs playfully, shaking his head and taking another swig of his drink. Frank follows. By this point in the night, both of them have had enough to drink to bring a healthy flush to their cheeks or a slightly manic glint to their grins.

“Hey, James,” he takes another swig of his drink, glugging more down, “since I have your attention, how’s the family doing? I heard your dad’s business has been struggling at the minute.”

James falters and fights the fall of his smile. A choked sounding laugh forces its way through his lips even as he tries desperately to silence it with another gulp. A glint enters Frank’s eyes that looks almost like pity, and it makes his blood start to boil beneath his skin.

“I don’t know where you heard that, but you should know better than to believe idle gossip. We’re doing fine.”

It’s Frank’s turn to falter this time. “Are you sure? I mean, I know his competitors are starting to pull ahead and-”

The words fade into the background of screaming in James’ head: he doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him.

He doesn’t believe him.

He doesn’t believe him.

He doesn’t believe me.

Everything is suddenly so loud and so faded at the same time like he’s seeing everything from the perspective of a narrator and his breathing starts to hitch in the back of his throat-

“Everything’s fine!” He slams his glass on the bar to try a quell the shaking in his hands. The whole bar turns, staring at his outburst.

He breathes in. He breathes out, pushing it through his front teeth to feel the grit of the vibrations.

“Everything’s fine, Frank. Stop pushing.” And he goes back to drinking.

The rest of the night runs smoothly. Frank doesn’t bring any of it up again – not the business, not his reaction, not the harsh dismissal. It’s only at the end of the night, when the bar is starting to empty and the two men have finished off their last drink, that the same look infiltrates his friends face.

“Hey, James. I know you don’t want me to talk about it,” James entire body stops in place, “but I just wanted to let you know. I heard about this thing, this underground tournament run by the Black family. I don’t know much about it, but I know where you can sign up.”

Frank looks around and leans slightly closer, slipping a piece of paper into James’ pocket.

“And I heard that, whoever the winner is, they get to ask for whatever they want, and it must be granted.”

With that Frank leaves with a swift goodbye, depositing a new plan directly into James’ hands. Reclaiming his family’s fame. It’s so close he can almost taste the glory sinking into his gums. He will get back what him and his parents rightly deserve, one way or another.

The sign-up sheet is, for all it means, just a sheet of paper. All you have to do is write your full name down on the paper, along with what you wish for more than anything. The ink seeps into the pages once you’ve finished, and then you leave. He watches many others do it before him. A pale, sickly looked brunette with scars across his face. A clearly rich boy around his age with jet black shoulder length hair and an unexpected number of piercings. A red-headed girl laughing with two others – they leave together.

When he steps up to the parchment, he already knows what to expect. The man behind the counter hands him the inkless quill. He tries his damn hardest to keep the shake in his hand to a minimal. The letters come out only slightly more legible than normal.

He writes his name. James Potter.

He shifts to the area underneath. Writes very simply, fame.

The man smiles, a toothless, unsettling thing, as he hands the quill back. James feels as though that was something of a welcome to him.