pink sherry
‘TRIX LESTRANGE, THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT FOR SIX NIGHTS ONLY — WITH GUEST APPEARANCE OF SYBILL, THE MIND READER WHO WILL REVEAL YOUR MOST DEBAUCHEROUS SECRETS!’ read a torn poster on the walls of a small music hall, showcasing the hand drawn image of a woman wrapped in a silky black dress that did nothing to hide the charms of her womanhood, holding around her neck and entwined around her arms, a red snake whose forked tongue seemed to dance on her flirty grin.
Willocks Square was, for lack of the more finer adjectives, an ill-defined corner of London packed to the brim with shady establishments that swore they'd remedy your cancers, bars crowded with drunkard bastards, and run-down flats repurposed to shelter the filth of its brothels. Not forgetting Remus’s dear friend B.J’s Indian restaurant.
At this time of the night, Remus traipsed through the cobbled streets mixed with all sorts of lecherous characters. By the surly look of their faces, one didn't have to guess that these people were true creatures of the night. It sent a chill down his back as he avoided stepping on the shattered glass that lined the pavements, knowing that if he didn't pull through with his writing he could have very well ended up like one of them. He almost tripped over a limp dog as he reminded himself that he was still not in the clear.
He swore under his breath, looking at the haggard mutt on the ground. Its eyes were caked with dirt and oozing some yellow pus. By the looks of its fur it had some sort of skin affliction. Remus sneered, he was never good with caring for ill animals — he'd know after being raised on a Welsh farm with nothing but miles of sheep and the occasional hound dog for companionship. Feeling a twinge of remorse, he fished in his pockets for something, anything but as he expected, he'd come up with nothing.
He could hear, behind him, someone laughing.
“Spare some change for a sick bitch like me wontcha?”
Remus grit his teeth, he knew he was going to regret this later but he tightened his gloves around his hands, then unbuttoned his jumper and bent to wrap it around the dog. The laughter behind him reached a cacophonous crescendo. The dog whined as he picked it up, being careful not to hold it too close to his shirt.
He placed the dog in the alley between building 394 and a rundown bar. Sighing, he looked down at the pathetic dog again, wrapped in his only good jumper. A twinge of regret made his eye twitch but he convinced himself that if next week's story did as well as he foresaw then this shouldn't be a problem.
The main entrance of building 394 was the entrance to the Indian shop. It was a narrow door with chipped and peeling green paint. The glass of the door was so old it appeared almost opaque. He knocked, feeling a well of anxiety catch in his throat. It hurt to swallow it down and after some time of standing in the entrance way and looking over his shoulder to find him being stared at by the stragglers of the night, he hesitantly twisted the doorknob. The door opened, to his surprise. He shuffled in, clearing his throat. Remus looked around, the place appeared to be in the exact same condition since he'd last seen it. Months ago when he'd hightailed it after the second note.
The only difference was that it was dark, lighted only by thin lines of moonlight through the small windows and the presence of a large antique mirror resting against one of the walls. The wooden frame was carved with golden leaves and vines that seemed to wrap around the glass, the glass which seemed to be warped and glazed. Remus couldn't quite see his reflection in it, even when he'd walked closer, nose almost touching the glass. The glass emitted a cool vapour that tickled his nostrils and he frowned, bringing his finger to touch it.
He hissed, the glass was so cold that it felt as though it singed his fingertip.
“Señor Lupin.”
Remus jerked away from the mirror at the sound of the deep, hollow voice. He'd never been called ‘señor’ before in his life and the foreign honorific caught him by surprise. He whipped around to a dark figure by the door frame behind the counter of the restaurant. He squinted his eyes to see better but all he could make out was the white glint of the shadow’s eyes in the slivers of moonlight.
“Me?”
“Only you. Follow me.”
The shadow disappeared through the door frame and Remus rushed to follow it, skirting around the corner of the counter. The doorway led to a long staircase, walls on either side painted a deep red. He paused, watching the shadow ascend. Its dark cloak made it seem like it was gliding up. Slower this time, he climbed the stairs, debating whether it would be a good idea to cut his losses and scarper but by the time he reached the landing, face prickling with cold anxiety, he was met by the heady scent of perfume and a middle aged woman dressed in white cotton.
She smiled warmly at Remus who tore his eyes away from her, licking his dry lips.
Her hair was coiled and white, and fell around her face like a ghostly halo. She ushered Remus in, soft hands pulling off his coat. Remus tried to protest but she hushed him, hanging on a coat hanger behind the door.
The room was spacious — and round, oddly enough. The walls were painted the same dark red as the staircase’s walls, and dimly lit by lamps that were nailed to them. The ceiling was of a deep brown wood from which hung a glass chandelier. In the centre of the room, beneath the chandelier, was a round table holding an enormous gramophone singing its operatic aria.
“Wine? Tea?”
“Uh, water. Please.”
The white haired lady smiled, head cocked to the side. She didn't blink once as she said, “Perhaps the gentleman should favour a glass of champagne?”
Remus shrugged, face growing hot. Admitting that his palate was not accustomed to anything other than the vintage rust of tap water and shitty office coffee would be awfully embarrassing in a setting like that.
“You choose.”
The lady nodded, unblinkingly and pointed to an armchair behind Remus. It looked very much like the one in his home, except the green velvet appeared brighter and more soft.
“If you care to sit, Señor Crouch will be with you shortly.”
Remus choked.
“Crouch?”
She ignored him, leaving him in the room as she disappeared behind a crystal beaded curtain. Remus's nerves reached an alarming height, he paced the room attempting to evade the trembling of panicked cold shivers. The room was silent, save for the low hum of the gramophone and Remus's quickened heartbeat. He walked along the round walls, counting six crystal beaded curtains that each led to dark hallways ending at closed white double doors.
The women returned, speaking airily; “Sit, please.”
“What do you mean by ‘Señor Crouch’?” he croaked, yet again she ignored him.
In her hands she held a gold tray carrying a glass of champagne and Remus accepted it, watching her disappear once more behind a different set of crystal beads.
Remus gulped down the champagne, feeling lightheaded and anxious. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was some prank by Ferox, loosening his shirt’s collar. He was almost entirely certain that this was Ferox's way of teaching him a lesson — and he wouldn't put it past him to do something like this. It was a long standing rumour at Gryffindor Press that Ferox was the reason for Peter Pettigrew's failed engagement with Mary McDonald, a florist in the town centre.
The only reason that the rumour had been as popular and intriguing as it was (as Ferox was notorious for his reputation as a thief and conqueror of women) is because of their mentor-student relationship and the widely known fact that he was the Press’s matchmaker, having set the pair up to meet in the first place. He'd claimed that he was infatuated with her poetic understanding of flora and that, paired with Pettigrew's amicable personality and boyish charm, they would have made an adoring couple. The couple had courted for almost a year until their engagement was announced and Pettigrew's catapult into his literature career. In the short time that Remus had been in the Press, he had been distraught by the fact that such bland writing was being celebrated but, and because at that time he was not accustomed to the culture of standing up to one's beliefs, he kept his mouth sealed. Preferring, rather, to seethe with jealousy and to curse Pettigrew in the hours he spent alone — twisting tales he knew no-one cared to read anyway.
On the eve of Pettigrew's bachelor party, it was said that Ferox had tipped the naïve journalist off on an enquiry to be met at none other than the burnt down Foxtrot Inn. The boy was found later that night by his lover, intoxicated on the steps of the local chapel with eyes bloodshot and bruised and clothes thick with the scent of another woman. They parted that same evening in a mess of tearful, blubbery screaming. Remus felt sick in the joy that was aroused upon discovering that Pettigrew had not only left his woman but the desk overlooking the entire office and city skyline without the promise of return. And return he did not, for Remus now sat at that very desk.
Remus was torn from his musings by the woman with white hair clearing her throat to get his attention. He looked at her, a little startled and she smiled sweetly, beckoning towards one of the hallways.
She had led him to the white double doors, gesturing to it wordlessly. Remus reached to open it, the handle felt cool in his palm and the door opened with a whine. He took a few hesitant steps into the room, which unlike the main room was submerged in complete darkness. He strained his eyes and looked back at the white haired woman. Her smile was different, wider and more toothy. His skin prickled under her gaze and only then did he notice that one of her eyes were false — it wasn't looking directly at him.
Remus opened his mouth to ask her why he'd been led there but before he could get a sound out the door slammed in front of him and the lock clicked with an echo. He was in total darkness. He stood there for what felt like an hour without moving, stunned. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he could almost make out the outline of the furniture — which the room was apparently cluttered with. Half of it was draped in black silk and red cotton sheets and it smelt musty, like an old wardrobe. On one side of the room, there was a collection of rather odd looking objects that Remus couldn't decide if they were sinister or tempting to behold.
He noticed, too, that the room was not round like the main room as there was a large bed tucked in the corner of the room resting against a headboard with snakes carved onto the edges. Two candles, both of black wax burnt to illuminate it and on one side of the bed, stood a latticework screen with a sinuous design and a small round table, placed on top was a gold teapot and a bottle of pink sherry.
Remus shuddered, clenching his eyes closed. The room was identical to the one he'd imagined for his vampiric casanova. He bit his lip, forcing his breathing to steady and when he couldn't achieve that he whipped around, his hands closing around the icy door handle but as he made to force it open he froze. A deep chuckle ran his blood cold.
He looked around the room, two shiny eyes peered at him through the latticework. Remus swallowed hard. A dark silhouette came out from behind it.
“Bartemius?” Remus whispered hoarsely.
It was him, made flesh and bone and dressed in a dark silk shirt, unbuttoned around his chest and rolled up to his elbows, his neatly pressed black and gold pinstriped trousers. Bartemius stood taller than Remus with the same pale skin he wrote of; almost translucent and his lips, his lips were dark like the colour of fresh blood. He grinned at Remus, all teeth, running his slender fingers through his brown hair that was already slicked back. His dark green eyes raked Remus's body.
Remus was unable to breathe.
♰
Remus watched him approach slowly, eyes glued to the bone white collar bones peeking out from Bartemius's black silk shirt which probably cost more than he earned in a year. He'd never seen a creature as tauntingly alluring in his entire life as the one in front of him and as it approached his vision started to blur around the corners, again he opened his mouth to speak for the man to silence him. A cool hand wrapped around his wrist and he laughed softly.
“Wait, my eyes—”
“Shhh. Have you had a drink yet, Remus?”
Remus tried to speak for maybe the fourth time that night, mouth opening and closing like a startled fish but with Bartemius’s sharp face pressed to his cheek he could only manage a strangled whisper. Something of an affirmation.
“Would you like some sherry? Tea?” Bartemius nipped his ear.
Remus nodded slowly, letting himself be led towards the bed, those icy long fingers still wrapped around his wrist.
“Sit, boy.” Bartemius let go of him and Remus sat, bringing his hand to touch the wrist previously held. The sheets were a deep purple, almost black and were so soft that Remus barely resisted the urge to lay back onto them. He swallowed dryly as he watched Bartemius pop the bottle of potently pink sherry open.
The vampire offered Remus the bottle who took it, feeling feverish. For a minute Remus looked at him, breathing through his mouth opened slightly — he thought that if he closed it he'd vomit. Now that he was seated on the bed, the musty scent of the room became drowned out by the waxy perfume of the black candles. It reminded him, almost, of the perfume his mother used to wear. The smell was so sharp it felt as though he was being stabbed in the skull.
“Drink.” Bartemius said, voice low. He tapped the bottle in Remus's hand.
Remus looked at it, then back up at Bartemius. His creation. The creature's shining eyes were surrounded by the dusty halo of shadows but Remus could tell that they were watching him intently.
With an air of caution, Remus sipped, then cringed at the explosion of flavour on his tongue. Before he could comprehend what was happening, Bartemius wrapped a hand around his chin, leaning Remus backwards onto the bed.
“More.” Bartemius’s eye twitched. He licked the corner of his lips, and Remus drank until his throat protested.
He coughed, leaning sideways on the bed and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Bartemius gently pried the bottle from his hand, placing it back on the round table.
It seemed that whenever Remus attempted to say something, something else was prepared to shut him up as Bartemius's hand came to his chin once more, urging him to sit up straight. Remus teetered on the edge of the bed, vision cloudy and chest heavy.
“Barty,” another hoarse whisper, “what—”
Bony hands grasped at Remus's shoulders and the boy groaned, gritting his teeth. His skin started to burn. Remus looked up at Bartemius whose eyes shine with something dark, he leaned down pressing his lips to Remus’s sweat soaked forehead. For a moment, Remus closed his eyes and clenched his fists on his knees in an attempt to calm his quickened heartbeat but as he did so Bartemius began to remove his clothes. Piece by piece.
Remus shuddered, scrabbling at Bartemius's hands. The vampire laughed, leaning down to nip at Remus's shoulder.
“Quiet boy.”
When Bartemius had finished, he stood back and his eyes dragged over Remus once more. He licked his lips.
“Your turn. Undress me.”
Remus stood fast, reaching for Bartemius's throat, knees feeling weak under the weight of his shaking body. The vampire laughed, grabbing Remus firmly, who gasped at the sharp pain of nails digging into his wrists, and pressed him into the bed. The bed rocked slightly, headboards thudding dully into the velvet walls.
“I ask you of one thing. Just one.”
It was impossible to make a sound, the waxy scent of black candles clogged his throat and nose and the aftermath of drinking more than a quarter of a potently pink sherry was starting to turn his stomach into a sloshing pit of glass shards and concrete. Remus bucked under Bartemius's weight but the monster was in no hurry to aid Remus's struggle, instead, he lifted Remus by his armpits to lay properly on the bed. He covered Remus's body with his own, dragging frozen lips over sweaty skin.
“You made me this way.” Bartemius whispered into the crook of Remus's neck, “I am the way you intended. Do you fear me yet?”
Remus swallowed, throat dry as sandpaper. Bartemius was right, and he knew it in the way the vampire's teeth nipped at his chest, hands still firmly pinning Remus down. Bartemius was and would always be a monster and Remus was foolish to think that S would've been a real person awaiting him, let alone a woman who delighted to see him. Teeth grazed just below his navel and he choked out a protesting whisper, “Enough.”
It was weak but Remus knew that Bartemius could hear it, he should've heard it as the only noises in that room were the obscene sounds of the creature marking his body and Remus's panicked heartbeat. They reverberated in his ears, ricocheted in his skull. They clamoured like ghouls within the walls and only Remus could hear them. Or so he hoped, Bartemius thrived off fear and in such a helpless state, Remus clenched his eyes shut almost praying that it wouldn't hear him.
It — a monster. Manmade, a conjuring from the mind that meant to bide between the thin lines of ink on parchment yet held him there in a feverish stupor. Remus’s blood rushed to his head, every pore was on fire. He couldn't cry out when teeth sunk into the flesh of his waist, almost piercing his hip bones. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. He was responsible for this, no matter how he decided to look at it.
A gentle, warm fluttering of air danced across his lips and he felt his heart claw at his chest desperately. His head was heavy, he could not lift it to see if it was the kiss of a phantom or his imagination swindling him.
Remus wasn't sure how long he'd lain there, arms limp at his sides, before his head cleared of the muffled buzzing, only that the vampire was confident, and not in the least bit modest in the languid movements atop Remus.
Despite his first rough touches and nails digging into wrists, he was otherwise gentle with Remus, lips tenderly caressing the bruises he'd left.
♰
Bartemius sat on the end of the bed, appearing sated.
The creature's skin was flushed and almost humanly pink, no longer sickly translucent. He was looking down at his forearms, tracing the lines of his veins in wonder and awe.
“What a treat. The blood of a virgin. You know, the beautiful part of being what I am — who I am— is that blood holds no prejudice. A boy like you would be just as good as any woman.”
Glinting green eyes caught Remus's and Bartemius pouted childishly, “Such absence in your beautiful eyes. Talk to me, tesoro.”
Remus scoffed, sitting up on his quaking shoulders. He feigned distaste in the hope that Bartemius would not see his face twisted with pain, “I did not survive my childhood for a success like this. Not for this moment.”
His voice sounded like shoes scraping on gravel and he winced, reaching over the bed to gather his clothes dumped so unceremoniously on the floor. Bartemius's eyes watched him gather himself, and when the vampire spoke his voice was thick with something like remorse, “It is not my fault.”
Remus ignored him, and by the time he was fully dressed, he was out of breath. He sat hunched over, skin threatening to break between thin lines left by the monster's teeth. He held his face in his hands, feeling the dried tears on his cheeks — he wanted to claw at them. Rip his entire fucking face off.
He licked his lips, tasting the sharpness of the sherry again and he barely kept himself from gagging. Was sherry even meant to taste that sharp? He wouldn't know.
The room was still, and he looked up to isolation. And darkness. The candles burnt to small stubs that Bartemius had blown out. The table was caked in the wax that had pooled and dried onto it, the sherry bottle was still there but the teapot was gone.
Remus's stomach still felt like concrete and the sight of the bottle only made it worse but as he made to look away a thought flickered through his mind. He paused, glancing at the bottle again.
It was stupid. So fucking stupid.