angel of death
Gryffindor Press, London.
For a winter's night, the office was awfully stuffy. Despite, also, the building being near empty, Remus felt the need to discard his coat and loosen his tie. It was almost as if the hot breath of his colleagues still permeated the air late after hours. Like ghosts.
He sat by his desk, the dim light of a single oil lamp illuminated the pages furiously scribbled with what Remus hoped to be next week's short story title.
The Angel of Death was a series of short stories that Remus dreamed that one day he would be able to turn into a fully fledged novella series. The main character, Raoul Lycan was meant to be an interpretation of what he believed to be the ideal version of Remus John Lupin.
Raoul was everything Remus is not; successful, charming, witty, a casanova. A detective with an incredibly unrealistic yet, in the context of the series, very real success rate. Men feared him, women adored him, felons dreaded the day they would face him, and as embarrassing as it was to admit that Raoul was very much a self-insert, Remus grew incredibly proud, fond almost, of his creation. To watch him fail, become rejected by his superiors, would be most devastating.
The Angel of Death would be his Mona Lisa.
The sharp clicking of a lighter startled him.
“Mr. Potter! I didn't know you were still in.” he jerked in his chair, looking up to find the broad, parka clad silhouette of Fleamont Potter.
“Likewise, Lupin. Go home. It's late.” Potter said around the end of his cigar. It smelt putrid, Remus tried not to gag.
“I— sir, I'm not quite ready to leave. I still have a few—”
“I'm cutting The Angel.”
Remus balked, standing quickly to meet Potter's dark eyes. He accidentally knocked his chair over in the process.
“Mr Potter, sir, with all due respect,” he laughed nervously, fingers fiddling with the buttons of his shirt cuffs, “I can't…I need it to be released.”
He struggled to keep eye contact, the building shame burning his face, he was sure it glowed brighter than the dim oil lamp. Potter cleared his throat.
“We haven't got the appropriate funding.” he spoke softly, into the collar of his jacket.
Remus blinked, dazed and slightly confused, “That's not possible, just last week we had a major break with that story of the Hillcrest Strangler?”
Remus was right, Potter's pinched face only proved the humiliation of Gryffindor Press floundering immediately after their biggest success story.
“The Hillcrest Strangler was a woman.” Potter sighed and Remus scoffed, standing taller to see Potter better.
“That's preposterous. The Carrows investigated that case themselves!? They were in liaison with the police h-how could they—” Remus struggled to finish, sputtering over his words like a broken faucet.
In the dim light, Remus could make out the red hue of Mr Potter's cheeks, the kind of red hue paired with utter embarrassment and discomfort.
“They may have been in liaison, but that didn't mean they told the whole truth. Listen, Remus, kid, go home. Take a day off or something.”
Remus opened his mouth to retort but all that came out were half formed vowels.
Potter sighed again, head bowed to hide the obvious disappointment in his face, “I'm trying to fix things, but unfortunately cuts need to be made. This is final, Remus. Go.”
Remus stood stock still, stubbornly waiting for Fleamont to look at him. He wanted, no — he needed The Angel to be printed and if he couldn't have that then what the fuck else was left for him to do? He'd be stuck doing whatever those godawful, good for fucking nothing journalists catch on upstairs.
Potter gave him one last piteous look, then reached over to pat him on the shoulder. Awfully father-like and with an air of dejectedness that it seemed he hoped to infect Remus with.
Potter turned to leave, the leather soles of his shoes muffled by the ugly blue carpet that had been installed after Christmas the previous year.
Whatever it was that Potter hoped to achieve, Remus mused, was pointless. All this confrontation did was urge Remus to pick up his chair and sit back down with huff and a newfound, yet childish, determination.
He picked up his fountain pen, glaring at his chicken scratched pages of far-fetched mythbusting and for the first time in his writing career, did he consider that maybe he really wasn't cut out for this.
This being sitting behind a fucking desk for eight hours everyday, brainstorming fairytales about chiseled men in trenchcoats, solving crime and wooing damsels in distress. The only problem was that, well, Remus could never imagine a life without Raoul Lycan. The determination fizzled out, replaced by his now bloated self-pity.
His Angel of Death.
He stared at the pages, jaw clenched.
“I'm cutting The Angel.”
Remus seethed, grinding his teeth harder. He pulled open his drawers, throwing every single scrap of paper he could find into his little tin bin. Journals, diaries, notepads, everything that could possibly contain any evidence of The Angel of Death, even random fountain pens and broken pencils he found strewn across his belongings. He barely resisted flipping over his desk as he stood furiously clenching his final draft of the newest instalment to the series.
One rarely realises the impact of what a few, short but sweet words mean to young and aspiring authors. It's like a drop of poisonous praise into his bloodstream, igniting a flicker of vanity and pride, though short-lived is so overwhelming, Remus would consider it the gateway drug to the literature industry.
Eye twitching, he remembered his first ever positive review by a small newsletter covering the works of local authors.
“The Angel of Death, Alea iacta est, is a robust short story purring along in its amorous ivy-covered, gothic narrative… a literary mystery by a new, spellbounding anonymous author. We hope to see him again.”
Alea iacta est was his second instalment after Lux Aeterna. It told a story of young Raoul Lycan investigating the death of the beautiful Madame Catalina's father. The story took him less than a day to write. It was exciting, full of beguiling twists and an erotic romance, punctuated with the thrilling chase towards the truth behind Señor Márquez’s horrific murder. God, it was the greatest story he had ever written, and will remain the peak of Remus's career as an author.
His chest ached, bittersweet was the memory.
“I deserve better.”
The fire started before Remus could stop himself. The hot orange flames licking the sides of the small dirt can. His heart thundered in his chest, deafening him to the popping explosion of old fountain pens.
♰
Home, to Remus John Lupin, was a small, one bedroom apartment with rusty faucets and a cold steel bathtub. It was one wall spotted with a concerningly dark coloured mould, and cabinets and doors swollen with water damage. A futon shoved into the metal bathtub, the only thing he was sure that remained untouched by The Filth of Percival Heights.
His landlord, Albus Percival Wolfric…Something Something, while very eager to receive his monthly rent instalments, has since his purchasing of the building neglected to actually use that money to upkeep the place. Home is where the cancerous heart is, whatever.
On his way home, it had started to rain. It wasn't that hard, a light drizzle against his shoulders, damping his hair. He ran his fingers through it, little droplets of water falling to the wooden floorboards. He sniffs, shrugging his coat off, dropping it against his sagging armchair.
With a huff, he sits, long legs stretched out. His legs were so long, in fact, that when he looked down he saw more socks than he saw trousers. He made a mental note to save up for a new pair. Preferably one that actually covered the length of his legs. He kicked his shoes off, exposing his thin socks to the cold apartment and shoving the shoes beneath the coffee table.
He didn't bother lighting a candle when he entered. There's no point wasting what little he had only for him to sit and mope about on his melodramatic arse.
Remus hadn't paid his utilities that month either way. It would've been for nothing considering that Albus turned off his water. He scowled to himself, eyes finding the stack of letters and whatever nonsense papers on his coffee table.
He knew that at least five of them would be from his mother wondering why he never wrote back anymore. Probably moaning about the fact that she thinks he's dead. Remus scowled harder, brows furrowing, pouting like a stupid little child. He knew that his father was probably feeding his batshit crazy mother all those lunatic tales of Remus becoming some jagoff communist. Remus scoffed to himself.
With her condition, he wouldn't have been surprised if she believed it, and with his father's control freak complex he wouldn't be shocked to find that neither of them have attempted to leave the house since he emancipated himself.
“Stupid cunt, are you, Lyall?” Remus grumbled, fingers picking at the loose fabric of the armchair.
“Telling Mother all your good-for-nothing conspiracy theories. What next, spiders on Mars?” he chuckled, “Oh, that's a good ‘un”
This, sitting and moping in the dark, had become somewhat of a routine for Remus. Unlike most people, he dreads the time he needs to go to bed. Sleeping on a thin futon in a cramped bathtub really wasn't ideal for someone of his proportions. Not only that, but it's rather cold there during the winter, and during the summer, his apartment had this awful habit of containing all of the stupid heat. Now that it's raining, he's sure he's going to wake up to about four different puddles of water on his poor wooden floor. And as per routine, Remus sat.
Flicking the loose string of his armchair’s armrest. His thoughts trailed from just about any topic worthy of his sad moping.
“As a taxpayer, I believe it's highly unfair— in fact I'd consider it an injustice— to be subject to such precarious living conditions.” to something like “If there were spiders on Mars, I suppose scientists would be inclined to withhold information like that from the general public. It would surely cause mass hysteria, right?”
It usually ended with Remus pouting, sitting sideways with his legs thrown over the armrest. Probably half asleep. Except his thoughts (‘Would I be in a financially stable situation if I were employed by His Majesty?’) were so rudely interrupted by rather frantic knocking on his door.
He groaned, burrowing himself further into his armchair, curling up like a wounded dog.
“Go away.” he mumbled into his elbow.
The knocking proceeded louder, more urgently.
“Oh, for fucking heaven— I'm coming!” with a groan he threw himself out of his armchair, dragging his lanky body to his door. The knocking persisted.
He fumbled around the keys, purposely stalling, mumbling to himself something about decking the teeth out of whoever's knocking on his bloody door’s skull.
The knocking only stopped when he turned the key in the lock, and when he opened it he was more than just a little surprised to see that no one was there.
“What the fuck?”
He glanced at his neighbour’s door. It was closed, there's no noise. Maggi must be asleep.
He looked towards the staircase, no one there either.
Remus sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Fuckin’ dickhead children.”
He slammed his door shut so hard the latch fell off the door frame. He cursed himself under his breath as he reached to lock the door, kicking aside the broken latch pieces. That haggard landlord would riot.
He made his way back to the living room, almost tripping over the coffee table. He cursed himself again but as he did so, he could've sworn he heard a laugh, airy but rich sounding. He paused, looking towards the fireplace. For a second, he watched it, until he told himself that it was most likely just the wind.
He threw himself back into the armchair, which creaked in protest.
“Shut up,” he grumbled, kicking up his feet to rest on the sad coffee table, knocking off the letters and papers while he's at it.
He groaned, shifting his body to find a comfortable position.
“I fuckin’ hate this couch.” he breathed deeply, arms limp at his sides.
“I'm sleeping here tonight. Fuck that stupid bathroom.” he noticed only then how eerily dark it was. Squinting his eyes, he could barely make out the shape of the bathroom door, or the frames of his kitchen cupboards. He clicked his tongue, dismissing it as “Probably the storm or something.”
Except, now that he'd noticed that, discomfort started to creep under his skin like an unscratchable itch. He shifted, bringing his legs up into the armchair to curl up and face the fireplace.
“He could've at least given me the fuckin’ back pages…” he bemoaned, again twisting at the loose strings.
He lay there, curled uncomfortably in that armchair with a prickly feeling that someone stood watching him from his bathroom door. He cursed himself mentally for being so childish.
“There are no such things as ghouls and demons, Remus.” he chided.
Despite the attempt at reassuring himself, he held his arms tighter around his body.
The darkness was almost suffocating now, the presence felt as if it were looming behind him, its sharp claws wrapping themselves around his face. He realised that he could no longer make out the fireplace.
A cool whisper of air tickled the nape of his neck and he jolted upwards in his seat instinctively. The sudden chill felt as though he had been doused with a bucket of ice cold water, leaving him gasping as he leant forward.
“The bloody—” he paused, breathing heavily. By his feet was a thick parchment envelope. One he didn't recognise and one that he doubted would be sent to him purposefully. It was a creamy sort of ivory, embossed around the corners with a reflective purple ink. It looked delicate and out of place against his spoiled wooden floorboards, in front of his near see through grey socks.
The most striking part of it all was the wax seal. Purple, just like the embossing but with an awfully intricate crest.
‘Toujours Pur’
Remus curled his lip in confusion.
“I don't know any Frenchies.” he said, utterly baffled. As he sat up with the delicate envelope in his hands, he realised that he could see again and the uncomfortable itch under his skin was no longer there. He snorted, shaking his head.
“You blithering idiot.” There's no such thing as ghosts and ghouls.
He sat back, envelope resting on his knees. The rain is louder outside, he could hear it pounding against the window behind him.
He sunk into his chair once more, long fingers toying with the edges of the envelope. He turned it over, hoping to find an address or some sort but there's nothing. Not even a return address. Remus scowled, well, it wouldn't hurt to open it, would it?
The seal was tough, and for a moment Remus worried that he may break the envelope. Being as poor as he was, he wouldn't just stumble across an expensive artefact as this by pure chance. No, Remus was going to savour this.
Within the envelope lie what Remus assumed was a neatly folded newspaper clipping and a short letter.
Dear Remus,
I would like to take this moment out to enthusiastically congratulate you on this brand new stage of your career as an author. I'm positively beaming with pride as I pen this.
I have greatly enjoyed your writing, especially your newer pieces. In return for my adoration, I hope this gift reaches you well and that you may appreciate its splendour!
Please accept my affectionate greetings, from your most ardent fan and avid reader of all things mysterious and alluring,
S
Remus clicked his tongue, turning the small note over to find nothing on the other side of the crisp ivory. This was surely some prank from James, right? He's never known anyone named Toujours pur. He shuddered to think that it may come from one Severus Snape.
He grimaced. Too much of a reach. The greasy bloke hardly left his flat anyway and was poorer than Remus. He could never afford to pull such an extravagant hoax as this, anyway.
It's probably a prank from James, he thought to himself as he picked out the newspaper clipping. He couldn't say he was the least bit shocked when he opened it.
He laughed, head thrown back against the armchair.
“What in the bloody fuckery is this?” he chuckled to his mildewed ceiling. The date on the newspaper clipping read a week before that day. Remus stayed like that, immersed in fits of giggles, eyes squeezed shut. None of this made sense.
Raoul Lycan was, and always had been penned anonymously.
♰
MIDDAY BLAZE SETS GRYFFINDOR PRESS ALIGHT
TWO CASUALTIES, ONE BADLY INJURED
Regulus Black