Meeting with Mr Tremly

The Leaky Cauldron's solid door swung open, leaking in morning light and the sound of automobiles whirring in the distance. The crucible of London was bubbling away once again, for both muggle society and the magical one; the figure who now seeped from the first to the latter was none other than Mr Lutillius Lace, head of the Wirrick - Lace Production Company. Once partnered with a Mr Waldo Wirrick, now deceased without legacy, Mr Lace came to be sole proprietor of the production company, which prides itself on providing the funds necessary for the fabrication of books such as 'Cursed Terse Verse', a commentary on 60s minimalist, mischief poetry, which hexes anyone that reads it; music such as the popular 'Four Hundred Harp Rhapsody' by Gapt Tingldwarp, who played all four hundred harps simultaneously; and the play which Mr Lace had come to The Leaky Cauldron with the intention of procuring production rights for.
Normally he would make a case of refusing to linger in such establishment, but considering his lack of wealth of late, the potential of the play and the fact that it meant escaping the grip of Gustaph Pelegrim, his boisterous benefactor, self-appointed editor and talentless screenwriter, he thought it well worth the trip. After the war with Voldemort had subsided, many businesses found themselves lacking in the assets, personnel or guidance needed to recover. Wirrick was one of the many killed and without him the company lost financial backing and would have been unable to get back on track had Gustaph Pelegrim, wealthy son of Eimrich Pelegrim, not possessed a sweet spot for the entertainment industry. The man was obnoxious in character, clothing and corpus; the only thing larger than he himself was his ego.
Lace crossed the flagstones, sweeping to a corner table while waving away the greetings and inquiries of the bartender as he passed. Lace was a tall man, silvered but not by any means old. He bore a midnight blue robe which he folded about himself as he sat down to wait for the arrival of the man with whom he was to meet, a Mr Tockery Tremly. He did not have to wait long.

'Ah, Mr Lutillius Lace I presume?' a voice asked over the bustling hubbub of the pub.

Lace looked up and saw a sharply dressed figure slice through the crowded space, gliding towards him. The man boasted long jet locks, each strand unravelling itself and twisting, adder-like, along with the rest of its family to rework the hair into a variety of styles in the space of a few seconds. He smiled a handsome smile as he stepped into handshake range, taking up Lace's presented hand in warm gesture.

'Mr Tremly.' Lace smiled.

'Tockery, please.' was the cordial reply.

'You must do me the honour of calling me Lutillius then.'

'I shall endeavour to do so;' Tremly said, taking the seat offered by Lace, 'right, let us not waste any time, it's one of my pet peeves. Down to brass tacks as the muggles say?'

The amiable conversation was swiftly cut short by several yells and curses that had travelled from the back door of The Leaky Cauldron, escorted (or rather caused) by none other than Mr Gustaph Pelegrim. The man was wider than the tables and almost as round as a Snitch, though no doubt he would be much easier to catch. He lurched towards them from the noisy throng, an absurdly long violet cape dragging behind him, and near collapsed into the spare chair at Lace and Tremly's table. It was a miracle the chair itself didn't collapse.

'Lutillius,' he rasped, sweating into a golden handkerchief, 'I asked your secretary and she told me you had gone for a meeting at The Cauldron, I thought it safest I come along to make sure the deal is wise and perhaps make any changes to Mr Tremly's script as no doubt required. I am experienced in these things after all. Gustaph Pelegrim to make your acquaintance Mr Tremly. It is the Potter script we are reviewing today is it not?'

Lace muttered something distasteful, shaking his head and looking down at the table, it was Tremly who smiled brightly at the smug intruder.

'Well Mr Pelegrim, Gustaph if I may, you are indeed correct. I head the Geldrith Theatre Company and we have decided to capitalise on the recent events of which you have no doubt heard. The fact is, the epic clash between Mr Harry Potter and the late Voldemort would make an excellent opera show.'

Pelegrim winced at the use of the name but then evolved his expression into sneering astonishment.

'An opera?!" he scoffed, "Merlins beard, you can't be serious!'

'A dull cliché, are you quite certain you're a screenwriter?'

Pelegrim swelled with all the fire of a Ridgeback; the frightening contortion of his face may very well have found him employment as a boggart had it not been for his fat, horned nose and bulging face that produced a look not too dissimilar from an Erumpent, one that would most likely have trouble finding a mate.

'How dare you sir.' he borderline bellowed, 'My father was awarded the Order of Merlin class three for his screenwriting; I learned from the best in the business.'

His chest puffed out, the buttons of his robes straining to contain the writhing mass it imprisoned. Surely those buttons were enchanted.

'Well,' began Tremly, feigning concern at his transgression, "I must beseech your forgiveness sir, had I known the Wizengamot deemed your father such an extraordinary screenwriter I would have asked him to come instead of you."

Red bruised to purple.

"I don't have to take this from such an insufferable wretch as yourself," Pelegrim thundered. "My business in this dreadful place is already done."

With that said he hoisted himself up from the poor chair, which gasped in creaky relief, and stormed past the various witches and wizards, who stood stupefied by the sudden outburst. The last they saw was a swirl of tempestuous violet cape which gathered behind its owner as he stormed out of the door. It would have been an almost impressive exit had the cape not become caught in the door as it shut behind Pelegrim and torn, leaving a single lonely cloud hanging from the doorframe.

'I think he would make a wonderful actor.' Tremly grinned.

Lace chuckled, his silver moustache curls dancing up and down, tickling his cheekbones.

'An opera, you were joking of course?'

'Lutillius,' Tremly said with mock hurt, 'who do you think I am, of course I'm not going to make an opera, I just needed Mr Pelegrim gone. He was rather annoying.'

'You have no idea.' Lace replied, rolling his eyes.

'Solemnly here's what I'm thinking; danger, romance, live dragons, Harry's story has it all, and therefore so do we. Here's the script.'

Tremly's eyes had lit up, the orange tones almost dazzling in childish zest. He took up a thick manuscript and passed it to Lace who grinned and glanced through the pages. It was terrific stuff.

'I'll have to read through it a bit more thoroughly, but it looks perfect. So long as it's not an opera, I think you've got yourself a producer.'

'I think this is going to work out rather well.' Tremly beamed, 'A pleasure doing business with you.'