bona fide
Remus wouldn't dare claim that this did not unnerve him even slightly. The way this S had managed to find him for the second time and knew that he'd be in B.J.’s sorry excuse for an Indian restaurant (he couldn't get through a quarter of that butter chicken) spooked him more than he was happy to admit.
For weeks, Remus kept to himself to an almost unhealthy extent, guarding his plans and movements. It was easy, considering Remus had a preference for solitude and cherished his independence. However, S’s intrusion left him feeling exposed and somewhat humiliated, especially considering that his secret admirer appeared to be wealthy enough to emboss envelopes and seal them with custom wax stamps.
When these letters had abruptly stopped after the second cryptic instalment, Remus's curiosity became frustrating, knowing now that he'd most likely never find out what S had been going on about. It was pathetic how he'd moped about it. It was almost as if… he missed that eerily intellectual ‘intruder’ and that sickened him. For all he knew, it could be a madman who wanted to skin him alive or fucking sodomise him in his sleep.
Regardless, he didn't think he'd be able to bring S back with those exceptionally boring pieces on the current stock market shortcomings and whatever other economic horrors that were decent under the sun he now wrote for Gryffindor Press. It was like an attack to his vivacious ego that he was set back so far in his writing career. So far that he was shoved to a single column somewhere in page 5.
That was something he tried not to dwell on too much, made increasingly more difficult by the letters he had received from his father. Those letters were riddled with spite and malice, scrawled in his father's messy Welsh dialect.
One of which were blotched with a fiery “I fucking told you so.”
Those few weeks were the most embarrassing and humbling of his entire life. It seemed the world was prepared to ridicule him at every moment.
Just before closing time, on the night of Remus’s nineteenth birthday, which he intended to spend at home chain-smoking his poetic blues away, deputy editor Fleamont Potter had pulled him aside as Remus was preparing to leave.
Remus was ushered into Potter's dark office, which he noted with some distaste, was overflowing with all sorts of paperwork. It seemed to seep out of Potter's walls. For a second, he bit back a sneeze, his nose having picked up the heady scent of whatever imported cigars Potter was all-too partial with. In the corner of the office, a record player sang a piano and saxophone jazz piece.
“Right, Lupin.” Potter said gruffly, though timidly as he sat, clasping his hands on his desk.
“Take a seat.”
Remus slid quietly into one of the chairs against the office walls, pulling his tie nervously.
Under Potter's gaze, Remus felt awfully scrutinised. Not only was there the obvious class difference between them; Remus in his too-big coat, trouser legs still shorter than his legs (he remembered then only the promise he'd made himself to buy a new pair, he cursed himself stupidly) and Potter, clad in a lily white button up and charcoal black, pinstriped trousers, shoes shining spotlessly in the dim light of the office, but there was also that screaming voice at the back of Remus's skull telling him that he'd failed at keeping things under the radar.
A tinge of nausea caused Remus’s stomach to flip.
Potter sighed, reclining backwards in his chair. Remus wondered how Potter was seeing without his glasses, considering he never saw him without them until today.
“Your behaviour has improved since your…” he looked at Remus askance, “abrupt madness. Do you recall?”
Remus opened his mouth, a little ridiculously, then closed it. Potter gave him another skew look.
“Yes, yes, sir. I remember that. Yes.”
There was a moment of awkward, stuffy silence in the office, then Potter pulled a cigar out from one of his drawers and lit it, offering it to Remus.
“No, no thanks, sir.”
Potter took a drag, eyes falling on Remus’s fiddling fingers and when Remus noticed that he quickly shoved his hands into the sides of his chair.
“Lupin. You're a writer, yes?”
Remus, again, struggled to form proper sentences as he opened his mouth.
“Uh, yes, sir. Mystery and crime and, uh…”
Potter gave Remus a look that he can only describe as ‘lacking any enthusiasm whatsoever, in fact, rather disappointed’.
“Lupin, I sure as hell hope you write better than you speak.”
“Wha— Sir, what—”
“Ferox has told me that the things you write stand out. Are…” he sighed deeply, again, “intriguing for someone of your age. Given the competition in such an industry, that doesn't mean much but, still. If Ferox says so, it must then be true.”
Remus’s throat felt dry as he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice sounded thin and small.
“Ferox? Leo Ferox?”
Leo Ferox was a bona fide crime writer. The star of Gryffindor Press and the only reason why they didn't fail as astronomically bad as they should've after the story of the Hillcrest Strangler was released and debunked. He was the author of many of the works that inspired Remus to pursue a career in writing film noir-esque crime fiction and as the charioteer of Gryffindor Press, he made it certain that everyone knew that. He had the looks of a Roman bust and the manners of a Grecian philosopher. With his slicked back golden brown hair and impeccable velvet suits, he could pass as a modest man just by smiling if he wanted to.
He was a man who was comfortable in his own skin and had a laugh for every occasion. He belonged to an esteemed family whose forefathers had made their money's worth in the Americas through an ever growing sugar business and upon their return to the UK, had torn at a chunk of London's electricity grid.
Ferox lived comfortably knowing that if his weekly crime columns were to fall out (which were, in Remus’s opinion, the only thing worth reading these days) he wouldn't have to bother with the tedious playground matters of the London workforce. It clearly mattered very little to him, if at all, that the paper was losing as much money as swiftly as automobiles were roaring around the London streets. At that point, he was practically local nobility.
Remus felt a pit of warmth in his chest. The jazz number changed to a slower, more sultry crooning. Potter cringed at his own music taste.
“Ferox is a saint.” Potter said around his shortened cigar.
“He's been hounding me for weeks to give you your spot back and about how talented you are for a junior author. He knows and picks on me for being a softy for ragdoll-looking folks like you, but nevertheless he's assured me that assigning you this break will prove lucrative for us. If only barely.”
Potter chuckles, stubbing out his cigar and running his hands through his smoothed down hair. When he looked back up at Remus's face, hair falling messily on his forehead, he looked almost flushed.
“Remus, it's your birthday. Do yourself a favour and earn yourself ten pounds.”
It took Remus a minute to process what Potter had said to him just then, the acknowledgement of his birthday made him dizzy with an emotion he couldn't quite pinpoint. When the realisation that he was given a second chance struck, Remus gasped.
“I— Thank you so much Mr Potter. It's, I— thank you.” His knuckles were white around the armrests of the office chair. The record player stopped, and Potter got up to turn it over.
“Ferox also promised me a box of Cuban cigars and a bottle of Château Lafite. Do not disappoint me.”
The music continued, quieter than when they had first entered. This piece was more gentle and chaste than the first two.
Remus was going to be filling the back pages of the next Sunday edition, which under normal circumstances were reserved for travel features, short stories and essays. For the Sunday coming, the content was supposed to have been a scholarly article reviewing the newest translation of The Iliad by some American chap named Grant Chapman. Unfortunately, it didn't make the cut as the text had made reference to sexual immorality and deviance. Potter seemed uncomfortable bringing it up, and Remus, too, felt rather odd when he saw the article himself. Never did think he'd be picturing Achilles and Patroclus as historically homoromantic. Remus didn't have time to dwell on this as the paper had just less than seven hours to fill the empty spaces.
If the deadline was not made Gryffindor Press would be forced to publish the paper with a whole-page advertisement for cotton bonnets and, yet again, money will be spent and wasted on print. Potter was anxious and Remus had never felt more elated in his life.
“I hate to put this on you with such short and…” Potter ran his fingers through his hair again and he turned to face Remus.
“Show me what you're worth, lad. Show me that you're decent enough for ten pounds. Show me that you can make your readers happy, and if so, I'll go out of my way to get your name on paper. Not some lousy pseudonym.”
“Any specific instructions, sir?” Remus asked.
“Don't waste time, and give me something I've never read before.”
♰
Remus spent those seven hours he had in a daze of quarrelling expressions, phrases, images, words. Hell, every syllable he second guessed. He squeezed out every bit of intellectual juice he had in him, writing and rewriting and cursing at even the smallest misspelling.
The editorial room was dark, and it reminded him of that night The Angel was discontinued. It filled him with a bittersweet ache, but he quashed it down with his nose scrunched to stall the incessant wafting of cigar smoke from causing a sneezing fit. He only smoked menthols for a reason.
Every now and then he'd pause, looking towards the gloomy windows and he'd watch the clouds roll over the city, submerging the already dark streets into further darkness. He'd then close his eyes, fighting to conjure an image of anything. He saw a man, cloaked and drenched by the heavy rains. He walked with blood on his shirt and hands. A quiet terror flickering in his eyes. He was fleeing something, and Remus couldn't tell you who he was or what the man was running from but he knew with certainty, this man was to become his best friend for the next seven hours.
The large clock on the wall, like a ghost, counting down the seconds left till dawn.
♰
Exactly a half hour before six o’clock in the morning, Remus scratched his pen against paper one last time. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion and his brain buzzed like an angry hornet. He closed his eyes, head resting on the back of the chair.
‘My asshole hurts…’
The muffled, heavy footsteps of Mr Potter brought him out of his stupor and he gathered up the pages, checking only to see if he'd numbered them correctly. Wordlessly, Potter took them from him and sat at the desk to the right of him, turning on the lamp.
Remus's heart jumped as he watched Potter perusing the text, eyes betraying no emotion. Then he sighs. Forehead resting in his hand, he reads out the first line;
“‘The whole of London stretched out at my feet and I wanted to believe that, when I opened those windows, it's streets would whisper it's secrets to me and I could capture them all.’”
Potter looked at Remus out of the corner of his eye, and Remus, the cocky bastard, looked away, fighting to keep his grin out of sight. Without speaking, Potter got up and left for his office. Remus sat there, blood going cold. He was petrified. Minutes later Potter returned, pulling a chair to sit by Remus's desk.
He tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat felt dry.
“This will be a real big hit with the ladies.” Potter said, letting out a chuckle as he shuffled the pages, giving them back to Remus.
Remus laughed a little bit louder than he intended to, he blamed it on the relief. He copied Potter, running a hand through his hair and, without beating a smile this time he asked, “So, is it alright?”
Potter hummed, nodding to the drafts, “Take it down to the composing room, have them set it and take the week off.”
Remus gawked, “Week? Uh, the whole wee— uh— the whole week?”
Potter hummed again and, for the first time Remus noticed the dark circles around Potter's eyes. His stomach growled. Potter chuckled and Remus's face flushed something awful.
“Here,” Mr Potter pulled his wallet out of his pocket and counted ten pounds, “if this story sells as good as it reads, expect you'll be earning more than just that. Sleep in today. Eat something warm. Get drunk or something.”
Remus nodded profusely, standing up quickly as Potter did the same.
“Or maybe buy yourself a new suit. You've worn this same one for the last… Jesus, how long have you been here? Pay a visit to my friend Ollivander, Diagon Alley. Tell him I sent you. He'll discount you good.”
“Thank you, sir. Really. I'll do that.”
“Right. And while you're on break, use that brain to give me more stories. Before you go, we need to work on a lower word count. Keep it short to not bore anyone just yet. It's hard enough keeping them gripped to non-fictional rubbish these days.”
“Yes, of course.”
Deputy Editor Fleamont Potter nodded, reaching to pat Remus on the shoulder.
“Don't let me down, Lupin. Next Monday, when you return I want you at Pettigrew’s desk. I'm putting you on the crime beat.”
“I won't disappoint you, Mr Potter.”
“I have faith that you won't. Soon enough, you might not even need me. You don't have the zeal for journalism, but you're not quite ready for being a novelist either. Once you've figured this out, you'll be out of my hands and in someone else's pocket.”
In that moment, Remus was so enamoured with his feeling of gratitude that his mind completely passed over Potter's last few words. Potter gave Remus a stern look, “Please don't.”
Remus hugged him anyway.
♰
The next Monday, Remus had sat at his new desk for the first time, right in the view of Mr Potter's office.
He came clad in a new suit. Just as Potter had said, Ollivander was generous to discount Remus almost to pennies. He felt like a new man and as he peered at the window on Potter's oak office door, Remus could see the blue smoke of Cuban cigars spiralling in the air.
He grinned.
He opened his drawers, ready to fill it with his personal belongings. There he noticed a framed copy of his story and his smile only widened as he pulled it out, turning it over.
‘Marvellous work, Lupin! This is the start of a bona fide novelist career. Your friend and colleague, Leo Ferox.’