let there be light
Remus survived his sudden christening as a crime beat author. His literary debut was a success, as he'd expected and Mr Potter, true to his word, had given Remus the opportunity to publish a few more stories of a similar style. Much to his surprise, the public enjoyed his writing so much that, after an alarmingly large influx of fan mail, management decided that Remus would have his own weekly outlet as long as he continued to fulfil his roles in the editorial room for the same price. Remus couldn't argue with a deal like that, so naturally he'd taken it.
He was, in spite of all of his exhaustion, lapping the attention all up like a thirsty dog. Remus spent his days revising his colleagues' local, real life horror stories and other crime related reports so that he could spend his nights alone in the office writing his newest series and Remus was shameless in his sources. Citing Dostoevsky, Stoker, Shakespeare and even Ferox in his tale of vampiric serial killers, a farrago that read as a gothic Victorian soap opera. Remus slept very little, about three to four hours a night and, by appearance, looked as if he spent those nights confined in a cobwebbed sarcophagus.
Potter, who had never known and seen such a hunger that has nothing to do with the ravenous gnawing of the stomach, was reluctant to publish Remus’s works. He'd thought of it as a waste of Remus’s talent and that all of these macabre plots were feeding into the dubious tastes of troubled minds. Remus's ambition, too, moved Potter to worry for the boy. He was under the impression that all of this thinking and plotting and every hour spent in the darkness with nothing but a dim light was starting to eat away at his brain.
Remus thought it quite amusing, but he remained unmoved. The most amusing part, in Remus's opinion, was that Potter had told him that he'd be attending Remus's funeral before he even had a chance for a real debut.
Regardless, City of the Damned would be his magnum opus. He found it incredibly hard not to revert back to Raoul Lycan and his familiar, cheesy film-noir splendour, so he invented an all-together new character by the name of Bartemius Crouch Jr. The parallel to the unfortunate B.J. of the sorry Indian restaurant.
He was the dark prince of all vampiric creatures of the night. Intelligent as a whip and diabolical in the way he lured his prey in. Clad in leather coats, he was the last standing creature of the underworld in a world that refused to slow down. In a world that kept forgetting the ways of the past. He navigated his way through secret tunnels of the London underground and lived in a subterranean mansion, alone and angry. Surrounded by the Byzantine relics of his past.
Bartemius was created in the image of his father, Bartemius Senior, the lord of the underworld, and he was to be his accomplice. That all changed, however, when in his lust for power, he murdered his own father. The rusty taste of blood on his teeth imprinted a fiery thirst for bloodletting into his soul, and soon he became obsessed with the macabre art of killing. Ever since then, Bartemius Junior had in his guilt attempted to justify his actions by killing off the scum, the dregs of London. Unfortunately, it always ended with a new woman and fresh blood coating his satin sheets. A new fire in his sunken eyes. He fought with his code of honour. By day, sweeping up the dregs of society with a snap of poisoned teeth. He fed his greed on the lowlifes, he quenched his lust with sultry women of the night.
“You have more zeal than taste, Lupin. Your affliction is what I'd like to call obsession. It's eating you up. But you're not inclined to listen to me are you? Stubborn as an ass.”
“The readers love my stories.”
Potter scoffed around the rim of his wine glass, “Thank your colleagues. Their work is pathetic and meagre compared to what you produce. And not nearly as exciting for the women.”
Remus nodded stiffly, shoving away the condescending remark.
♰
The chagrin and dismal attitude of his colleagues became insufferable and unmistakable in the weeks that followed. After all, he was a junior at the office and within the span of a year, Remus had managed to make himself the official mascot of Gryffindor Press (after Ferox, of course), selling out more papers than the newspaper had sold in over five years.
It took Remus less than a week to realise that his bloated pride had started to affect his colleagues. They no longer greeted him, even going as far to ignore him. He felt their sharp looks on his back whenever he was in the editorial room or visiting Potter's office to update him on his private work. He had Ferox, too, to thank for this as it seemed since his first story from City of the Damned, Remus and Ferox could be seen together all the time.
It was largely due to the fact that he was so young and, in the eyes of his older colleagues, more naive when it came to entrusting the industry with his works. But jealousy is notorious for its reputation to explain itself as disdain for the ignorance and stupidity of successful people compared to those who can't seem to catch themselves a taste of glory. Remus believed that there was irrefutable proof of his skill in the way that his readers digested his work so swiftly.
This had absolutely no effect on Remus at all, however Ferox took this as an opportunity to get even closer to Remus. To an almost unnerving extent.
“I suspect my days here are numbered.” Remus said behind a grin, nursing a hot cup of coffee in his hands.
“Ah, but jealousy is the most mediocre of religions.” Ferox had a way of waxing poetic unprompted, “It comforts their dreary souls and allows them to feel that for once they are worth something. Oh, don't laugh, Remus, humour me.”
“Amen, amen.”
“These rotten folk decay even further, would you believe me? The justification of their meanness and their greed in lieu of admitting their vehement distaste for people who actually have the courage to face their greatest opponent.”
Remus scoffed, “Critiques? The masses?”
Ferox laughed, patting Remus on the shoulder, “The fools may be right that you're naïve. I was talking about our dear Monty, but I suppose you are correct.”
“You can joke about that all you'd like,” Remus protested, “but the one they can't stand to look at is me.”
For a moment, Ferox went quiet and his mischievous grin fell. Remus almost missed it as Ferox had given another warm smile.
“Curséd is the boy whom the fools bark, for they know his soul would never belong to him.”
♰
Despite giving himself the airs of a renowned writer, his salary only improved enough to allow him one new suit, to buy himself more books than he had time to read, and by some glorious stroke of luck, he managed to scrounge up enough of his pittance to move into one of the larger flats on the top floor (one of the only downsides to pursuing a career in literature that actually bothered Remus was that the ascension to wealth was almost nonexistent, it pained his materialistic heart).
Alas, the sad truth was that the flat wasn't much larger and still only had one bedroom that he decided he'd use as an office space. Again. Other improvements included there being at least two less mould-stained walls and a functional bathroom. Water damage and dinginess remained an issue. The windows had a film of grime that proved exceptionally stubborn and Remus, who was just as stubborn, refused Ferox’s offer to hire a cleaning service after complaining about it for most of the day.
In that flat, Remus had learnt that he'd rather be found dead in a slimy alcove than in that miserable hovel.
On one particularly dull Saturday, Remus heard a knock on his door. Briefly, he remembered the night the first letter from S had appeared and he ignored it, proceeding to bury himself further into his writing.
The knocking persisted and he groaned, dropping his pen and rubbing his face in his hands. After it seemed the knocking wouldn't stop, Remus got up, steeling himself for another surprise from S.
He flung the door open, ready to curse at the door opposite him, but instead he was met with the pink flushed face of Leo Ferox, the most unlikely of visitors in this miserable home, clad in an impeccable velvet suit and a leather panache slung over his shoulder.
“And God said; ‘Let there be light!’” he said, and slipped past a gawking Remus without waiting for any invitation to enter, “And there was light…”
Remus turned to face Ferox after closing the door to find him standing in the middle of his living-sleeping-entertainment-meeting room, brows raised in contempt.
“Home?”
Remus hummed in agreement.
“Beautiful,” he sighed with what could be described as disgust. “Do you have a room?”
Remus couldn't help but laugh, “You're looking at it, mate. I use the other room as a study.”
Ferox let out another heavy sigh — you'd think he was the one who had to live everyday in a hovel with the sheer weight of it. Whatever insecurities Remus had for his living conditions doubled ten-fold.
“Such a lively, homely home.”
“Presidential suite, actually. What do you think?” he said, ignoring the very obvious sarcastic jibes and throwing himself into his armchair, assuming his usual stretched out position.
“You live in a dungeon. I suggest you move out.” Ferox stood awkwardly by the street facing window. He made to touch it but pulled away most likely not wanting to get his leather gloves dirty.
“Can't afford to.”
“I could settle a place for you. Or move in with me. I'd pay anything for you to move somewhere that doesn't leave the taste of sulphur and piss in your mouth.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
Another painful sigh.
“He died of asphyxiation and stubbornness. A free epitaph, how about that?”
Remus refused to respond and opted to watch Ferox glance around his flat, inspecting the walls, his meagre wardrobe and the mouldy spots on the swollen walls.
Ferox flicked the light switch and Remus felt his face flush when the light flickered until it couldn't produce anymore energy.
Remus cleared his throat, “What the fuck are you even doing here? The manor too pretty for you?”
“I actually come from the Press.”
“What for? Unless you're telling me they're cutting my story, again, I don't see what's so important that you'd have to track me down.”
“Well, now I know why you haven't bothered sharing your address with anyone.”
Remus felt his blush darken, he grumbled something crude about Ferox’s mother under his breath and the older man grinned.
“Aren't you a lovely boy? Anyway, I've brought you something. Thought I should give it to you myself.”
He pulled out a white envelope from his panache and handed it to Remus whose heart jumped.
Remus grabbed it, rushing to tear it open.
“Who sent this?” he demanded, fingers struggling around the purple wax seal.
Ferox shrugged his shoulders, “Admirer, admires. I guess. Wouldn't be your first.” He eyed Remus suspiciously, because it really was not the first time Remus had received fanmail. His feverish response to this particular one was enough to cause a little alarm.
When Remus finally managed to tear out the letter, the familiar handwriting read:
My dear Lupin,
I'm writing to congratulate you in regards to your newest success, though I say this with bitterness in my heart, as I do miss our friend Raoul dearly, but as a reader, a lover of good literature and your most ardent fan, it is my duty to inform you that you have not lost your splendorous touch. In fact, this new voice of yours is incredibly intriguing and lovely, providing me with hours of pleasurable reading.
As a token of my sincere gratitude, I'd like to invite you to a very special surprise which I do hope you'll enjoy tonight at midnight (do not be late) at the building number 394 at the Willocks Square. It's not too far from where you live and work so it shouldn't be too out of your comfort zone.
You are expected.
S.O.B.
Ferox, who had been peering over Remus’s shoulder raised his brows, intrigued.
“That is certainly…interesting,” he murmured.
“Hm, what do you mean?” Remus asked. “And I vaguely remember this place. If I'm not mistaken it's the Indian restaurant I went to a while ago.”
“Yes, yes the reedy boy you based Barty off.”
Ferox pulled a cigar out of a silver case.
“Please don't.” Remus warned him weakly, but Ferox had already lit it, holding it between his teeth.
“Why? Does it ruin your piss cologne from the poor drainage system?” he blew out his purple smoke with thrice the enjoyment, as one does when told their actions are forbidden.
“Remus, have you ever known a woman?”
Remus blinked stupidly, not getting the question at first, then struggling to form a coherent sentence.
“Eh, uh. Well, yeah. I know… loads of women.” he muttered, laughing nervously.
“Hmm, I mean in the biblical sense, Lupin.”
“Church?”
Ferox sighed, bringing the stool from Remus's kitchen and sitting down on it. Remus watched him smoke.
“As in bed.”
“Ah.”
“Oh, Lupin if you could see your face. Have you?”
The short answer was no. Remus had nothing to boast of to Ferox where girls are regarded. Not only that but it felt awkward admitting that his romantic adventures had a considerably sad lack of originality. Nothing in his brief portfolio of stolen kisses, playful pinches and cuddling his best friend in the dark would be considered ‘the biblical sense’ of ‘knowing a woman’.
“What does this have to do with anything,” Remus grumbled, flustered and burying himself further into his chair.
Ferox adopted a condescending air and threw himself into another one of his melodramatic tangents.
“When I was a young lad, around your age, this sort of thing was a custom. Almost a rite of passage in the industry. A young lady, infatuated by your novel mystique (see what I did there) would write to you, gushing about how your writing inspired a pit in her abdomen. She'd name a place and expect you to be there, all stoic and everything like your stone-faced characters and then—” Ferox beamed, amused by whatever face it was that Remus was making “—when she discovers you're nothing but a jumper clad boy she would be forced to delight you in her mystique.”
Ferox chuckled, “Assuming she has any.”
Remus snorted, feigning amusement to hide the discomfort this conversation brought him. He'd never really looked at a woman in the way his peers described them, which for some time was a sore topic for him to discuss. For the most part, he'd forgotten about his lack of experience until just then, when Ferox's blue eyes bored into Remus's, glinting slyly.
“It's probably a trick. I'm not going.”
Ferox’s smile fell, “You're missing out on some fun, you know? Maybe she likes jumper-clad men.”
Remus sighed, “No.”
“Ah, but the opportunity to create more little Remus Lupins is tempting, no? Joining flesh in a sacrilegious affair. Be careful to not let the Holy Spirit peer at your premarital sins.”
Remus sputtered over an embarrassed laugh, “I refuse to believe you just said that.”
“And yet, I have.”
Ferox's smile grew back, “Consider that, and throw aside your lack of superstition and faith in fate, this moment may never come again. Leave it to chance, let it carry you. Maybe you won't find love in this woman — that you may never find love, ever. That you may end up like me. Greying at forty-seven and realising that you are no longer young, and mysterious. Your name plastered everywhere and your wrinkling face advertised for the world to see, oh don't laugh you childish thing, relish in this moment. One day you will no longer have your choir of angels and their lyres, your flock of cupids surrounding you with an arrow aimed at every woman. Ugly or kind.”
“Oh, please.”
“Hush, child.” Ferox said defiantly, “You will grow old, longing to avenge younger Remus for the night of passion his sensibility stole from himself just to… to what, Remus? What do you have planned for tonight that is more exciting than a midnight tryst with a woman as lonely as your modest heart? So, the pleasure is fleeting and evaporates faster than morning dew but this is your first race at finding true, real beauty in this piss stinking world—”
“What is it with you and piss, Leo?”
“— where everything is rotten and falling apart. You begin with sultry beauty and end with a memory of loveless passion.”
“Why would I want a loveless memory?” Remus groused and Ferox sighed, shaking his head.
“A passionate memory, loveless or not, is still one worth remembering.”
Remus rolled his eyes, “You're not subtle at all, Ferox. That line is from Murder in Hotel Blackthorne.”
He smiled smugly, having caught Ferox red-handed.
“My only failure. Poor Estelle will never see the light of glory that is the bestsellers’ table.”
“It was my favourite.”
“Please don't embarrass yourself trying to comfort me, Remus. It's already sad enough that your colleagues think you're licking my —”
“If you say something about piss again, I'm kicking you out.”
“— my ass. Jesus, can a man not have a sense of humour?”
Ferox got up from his stool and stalked over to the window, placing a handkerchief down to sit on the windowsill.
“Such distaste for my humble abode.”
“I'm well within my rights to detest this building which so mocks basic human rights.”
Remus joined him at the windowsill, looking out to see Ferox's Hispano-Suiza parked on the corner of his street. His heart panged with jealousy, but he swallowed it, remembering what Ferox had said about the fools who bark like dogs. It was easy, considering that immediately after that he saw the chauffeur, Maurice Evans, polishing the chrome with a rag.
Remus had only spoken with Maurice on one occasion. He'd reminded Remus of a kinder, Scottish version of his father. Face wrinkled with the misfortune of his generation’s past but with eyes that, unlike Lyall Lupin, held friendliness and selflessness. It shocked Remus a little.
“He's a good man, Maurice. He suffered incredibly to put his wife and daughters through school.”
Remus glanced at Ferox whose eyes were on Evans’s back, “Really?”
Ferox hummed, “He is rather uneducated. Went to war and came back extremely troubled. He spent some time behind bars because of some illegal work, his defence being that he wanted his girls to succeed. I heard of his story through a friend of mine who worked in the local courthouse. I decided that if I were to be worth anything real and good, I'd give this man and his family a chance at life.”
He looked at Remus who realised that he'd been staring. His face turned pink and he looked away to see Maurice still polishing the car.
“He's a chauffeur. That's not much of a second chance.”
Ferox chuckled.
“I didn't say second. Don't put words in my mouth.”
Something about that made Remus's stomach twist and he nodded slowly, “What about his wife? And girls?”
“His wife died not long after I took them in. Heart disease. His eldest daughter married young into a new money family. They make tools and other such hardware, I can't remember. Lily lives with me, she's pursuing a career in the medical field. Smart as a whip, that one. Hey, you've got that look about you. That wickedly brooding look of yours when you think of some new macabre plot. What are you scheming, old boy?”
“Nothing. I'm just admiring your kindness, Leo.”
“You're cynical. Go on and say hello to Maurice. He's always asking out for you.”
Remus looked out the window again, feeling that unease start to climb its way up his back again. The driver saw him this time, and smiled as he waved up at Remus. He returned the greeting, not wanting to appear rude. He noticed then, that a redheaded woman was sitting in the passenger seat. She was a creature of milk white skin, appearing to be a little older than Remus. He remembered clearly the first time he saw her weeks before. She was arguing with James Potter, Fleamont’s son. He thanked the Lord, for the first time in his life, that the windows were as dingy as they were for neither of the people could see his red face.
“If you stare so hard, you might break her.” Ferox’s voice tickled his ear and he flinched, turning to face his idol's blue eyes, closer than they'd ever been. Remus gulped, “I have no clue what you're talking about.”
The older man grinned, stepping back, “So are you going tonight? And calm down, I only wanted to see how long it took for you to know I was standing behind you.”
Remus read the note again, hesitating, “I'm not sure.”
“I haven't had to pay for a woman since I was seventeen. Then again, it was my father who paid me out of that trouble.” Ferox shrugged, “Don't look a gift horse in its rotten jowls.”
“You and your adjectives…”
“So, you're going?”
“I don't know. Maybe.”
“Of course you know. And there are no maybes, so long as you're not Hamlet.”
Ferox patted him on the back, throwing him one last warm smile. Remus’s stomach churned.
“You still have several hours to burn before midnight so rest up. You'll need it.”
Remus looked out the window and watched the street. He knew that Lily was trying to look at him properly through the grime of the window and he cowered away, falling into his armchair again.
The note had not left his hand since he had opened it, it felt oddly cold in his palm.
S.O.B.
That was the first time a full set of initials were written and he knew they belonged to S.
“Son. Of. A. Bitch.”