reconnue
"Don't I know you from somewhere?"
This happened far more than she liked. When she'd arrived in London, she'd been anonymous, just the way she preferred it. Within a week of starting her job, she'd found she couldn't go anywhere in Diagon Alley, not even the most reputable of establishments, without someone glancing her way, the light of recognition dawning on their face.
Oh, they thought. It's you.
Perhaps they thought the filles des fleurs never left the premises. Perhaps they assumed that, once out of sight, they just shimmered into nothingness until the time came for them to sell themselves once more. Most likely, they didn't give it any thought at all, and so it was a surprise when the gaze of someone they paid to fuck found theirs over a drink at The Leaky Cauldron, or browsing the paperbacks in Flourish and Blotts, or descending the steps from Gringotts.
Today, it was a café, tucked away near Knockturn; a quaint little place, wrought iron tables outside on the cobblestones in fine weather, and just about the only place she'd found in wizarding London that did half-decent pain au chocolat. She didn't go often—she could hardly justify spending her pay check on fripperies like this, usually. But that morning, the flat she called home had been freezing; a letter was on the doormat from her sister, short and to the point, which she didn't even need to read to know it would upset her; and all that was left in the cupboards was a sad tin of chicken and mushroom soup, and the dregs of a jar of instant coffee.
There was no way that would be enough to get her through the day. Not when she knew what Montgomery had planned for her.
And so, she had bundled up against the rain, hoping that the hood of her cloak might help disguise the distinctive red curls that fell around her face, and hurried to the café just a few doors away, spending the few coins she had left on a steaming pot of tea and a pastry the size of her palm. She'd sat there in the warmth, half-listening to the chatter of the other customers, and peeled away at the delicacy, layer by layer. She knew how to make things last, even if it meant that no one mouthful was as satisfying as it could be. It was at that point, nearly finished with the pastry and wishing she had the sickles for another, when the question came.
She looked up, finding a man staring back at her; at his side, a well-dressed young woman waited, a look of mild discomfort drifting like a cloud across her pretty face.
What she wanted to say, but never would allow herself to: yes, you know me. The half-truth: yes, you know me as Rosalie. The bald truth: yes, you know me; you cried when you came in my mouth only a few months ago. But what was the point? It would only serve to lose clients from the club, something that Montgomery would not tolerate, and it wasn't as if these people were capable of anything much like shame anyway.
No wonder the man's companion struggled to meet her gaze. She was well aware of the connection.
"I don't think so," she replied pleasantly. The man's eyes drifted down to her décolletage, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes, or shift her cloak closer around her. "I'm sure I'd remember."
He squinted, his gaze now lingering on her lips, but he nodded, nonetheless. "My mistake," he said, turning back to his partner. "Madeleine, let's go…"
The couple left the café, allowing some of the biting breeze to ease through the door as they went, and she returned her focus to the table: from the pocket of her cloak, she pulled out the letter from her sister, carefully easing the envelope open. A single piece of paper fell out, folded sharply in half, and she wondered for a moment if she had the wherewithal to read this letter now, to keep her wits and feelings about her when she knew she was due at the club in an hour, and to look anything other than calm and emotionless was to have utterly failed, in Anne's eyes.
But she was stronger than this. She had experienced worse things than whatever was written in this missive. She would be fine.
She opened it, and began to read.
Dear Lily…
les choses qu'on se dit
It was a strange sort of place, headquarters. Each part of the cottage looked as if it had been lost to nature a century ago and had only just been recovered. Even there, in the surprisingly spacious living room, James could see what looked like ivy creeping up the opposite wall, curling itself accommodatingly around a framed portrait of a bickering family before it resumed its route to the ceiling—a ceiling that blossomed with a damp stain spreading like tendrils towards the centre of the room. There was something about it all that sang with neglect, and yet these elements sat alongside the well-polished silver on the sideboard, or the way that every cushion on the sofa was always plumped and ready.
Still, finding somewhere to be headquarters had been challenging; he could hardly blame Dumbledore for going with this place, even if it did seem to be a living, breathing contradiction.
They were a small group, yet to grow in numbers beyond the heady heights of fifteen, and often even fewer than that. Some had difficulty believing that dark magic was on the rise in Britain; many would rather not believe it altogether. And until the group that followed Riddle—hardly a particularly ferocious sounding name, James thought—stepped up their actions and became more direct, the Order would continue to struggle to recruit.
James and his friends had the benefit, if you could call it that, of seeing the birth of the movement at Hogwarts. Rumblings had started, as they embarked on their final year, rumblings that spoke of dissatisfaction among purebloods of "the way society was going"; those rumblings had grown into something stronger, with many of their peers in Slytherin actively campaigning on behalf of Tom Riddle—"he wants a return to the time when blood status meant something", Mulciber had said, trying to appeal to James and Sirius' pure lineage, forgetting entirely that Sirius hated every inch of the dogma his parents espoused, and James had always been of the opinion that blood status meant absolutely fuck all to anyone who had even half a braincell. Alas, they could not be recruited, and if anything they had just been pushed into the open arms of the Order of the Phoenix instead.
While still students, being in the Order had largely meant keeping an eye on those that had been swayed by Riddle, reporting back any concerning behaviour to Dumbledore. James and Sirius had both had high hopes on leaving school that the work would become a bit more flashy, a bit more exciting, even if it would have to be done around James' burgeoning career in the DMLE and Sirius' pointed acquisition of a job working in a muggle record store.
Such high hopes, of course, could only lead to disappointment: so far, two years out of school, and all they had done for the Order was more of the same—keeping an eye on Riddle's followers. That was how they'd found themselves spending most of their free time lately sitting around outside Mulciber's country manor, waiting for him to do something interesting. They'd both said, only a week ago, how they longed for a bit more action. Now, he couldn't help but feel the time had come, if not in exactly the way he thought it would.
"James." Albus Dumbledore's voice was calm, quiet; his fingers were steepled in front of him as a cup of tea hovered lazily in the air nearby, stirring itself as two sugar cubes plopped in, one at a time. The headmaster had always made even the most mundane magic look like something closer to art. "You say you have a suggestion, a way into the underworld Riddle's followers have sunk into?"
James was aware of Sirius and Remus both looking his way: he hadn't discussed his thoughts with them yet. He knew what their reaction would be—knew they would probably just laugh at him—and he felt that was less likely to happen if they first heard it in a meeting, instead. It wasn't impossible, but less likely was better than nothing.
"I do," he confirmed, straightening his posture automatically; he felt rather like he was Head Boy again, sitting across from the headmaster in his office, with all the self-importance and confidence that position imbued him with. "This club that Mulciber has become a member of—"
"The French one?" Alastor Moody looked unimpressed. "I knew William Montgomery's father. That boy's no more been to France than I have two of my own legs."
Moody liked to remind them all, whenever he could, that he had lost one of his legs in the line of duty the year before. James didn't need reminding. He had been there, part of the Auror squad going in for a raid: he could still hear the sound of blood whipping against the wall, the clean cut of a spell even Moody hadn't been able to block.
"Les Filles des Fleurs, yes," James confirmed, not wanting to linger on that image if he could avoid it. "From what I can tell, the place has become a hotspot for the pureblood crowd. The ones who want to see muggleborns put in their place."
"And pay a significant premium for firewhiskey," Sirius added.
"If we can get an in with even one of the women who work there…" James worked hard now not to look in Sirius' direction. "There's no way those blokes aren't spilling their secrets in the—um, the heat of the moment, shall we say…"
Dumbledore didn't react to the imagery (unlike Moody, who let out a snort of laughter) but merely nodded his head. "You may be right."
"And this is a cause that affects them," James continued. "If Riddle continues to rise in power, they will find themselves even more subjugated, in even more danger… I don't think it will take much persuasion to get someone on board."
Sirius' voice was light when he spoke up; most others in the room might think he meant nothing of anything at all behind his words. "Did you have a particular woman in mind, Prongs?"
James shot him a swift glance. "No," he said, perhaps too quickly. "I think it'll be a matter of some reconnaissance, try to work out who would be amenable."
Sirius smirked back at him, and he had to look away, back towards Dumbledore. His cup of tea was no longer floating in the air, and he took a long sip now, looking contemplative. "I think it is worth pursuing," he decided at last, and James let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "But carefully. These women do not need anyone putting them in further discomfort or danger."
"Of course," James agreed.
"I imagine that younger men such as yourself will fit in better with the fleurs crowd," Dumbledore added. "The four of you, if you are comfortable, should pursue this line of enquiry."
"Great idea, James," Sirius spoke up again. "We're lucky to have this sort of cunning mind at work in the Order."
He sent his friend a look, one he hoped which read, fuck off.
His friend just grinned in return.
pas d'autre choix que de…
"Another busy one tonight." Mary sat in front of the mirror, carefully applying a deep cerise to her lips. It contrasted starkly with her dark hair, which she had already charmed into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. She was a dab hand at all the beautifying charms; when Lily had started at Les Filles, Mary had taken her under her wing, helping her play up her natural beauty, to put on a mask of kinds, something that one could hide behind. "You know how they get about the forest theme."
Lily shrugged off her cloak, hanging it up—she couldn't afford to replace it if she didn't treat it with care—before she moved to sit next to her friend. "Any excuse to charge extra."
Mary offered her a small but warm smile through the mirror, pausing with lip brush in hand. "Pen got someone kicked out last night," she said, and they shared a look. It took a lot to get booted out of the club; Montgomery generally seemed to be of the opinion that if they had the money, they could do what they wanted. "Some prick took her off to the Red Room and then wouldn't pay up front. Apparently he got…" She trailed off, and turned her attention back to her reflection; to most, she would seem calm, collected, but Lily could see the hint of a tremor in her hand. "Well. You know."
She did know. Luckily, the customers as interested in violence as they were in sex were few and far between, but over the last year and a half, there had been enough to stick in her memory. And Mary seemed to have had more than her share of bad luck in that area: only a month ago, she'd had to scream herself hoarse to get away from someone who had wanted to see if her blood "was as mucky as everyone says".
Lily had been amazed, frankly, that Mary had returned at all after that incident. But that was what needing money could do to a person.
She reached out, resting a hand briefly at her friend's shoulder. "We should speak to Anne again," she said; Mary managed a tight smile. They both knew that talking to Anne was akin to talking to a brick wall. "Get them to step up security."
"We can try," Mary agreed.
It was as Lily slowly, carefully painted her lips a vivid red that Montgomery appeared in the doorway. None of the dressing rooms had doors, to "allow the free flow of movement required"—or rather, as Lily suspected, because they didn't trust them. It had taken her a little while to rid herself of any notion of privacy; now she was used to seeing their boss' pale, pointed face, watching them as they prepared.
"He's here tonight." Once again, no niceties; Mary and Lily exchanged a brief look in the mirror. "In a booth, with a friend. Dark hair, white shirt, no tie. He's taken off his outer robes." Montgomery glanced impatiently at the pocket watch that dangled from his waistcoat: an ostentatious affectation, an attempt to be one of Them. "He looks like he bathes in galleons. You can't miss him."
"Alright," Lily agreed evenly. With a flick of her wand, she arranged her hair into cascading waves. "And you think he wants…?"
"He wants Rosalie," Montgomery confirmed. "I think he'll enjoy being told what to do, to some extent. Don't waste any time playing the sweetheart card with him. That's not what he's here for."
Another glance, however brief, exchanged with Mary. They both knew what that meant. This wouldn't be a rich pureblood who only wanted to show off what he could afford out in the club. "Alright."
Montgomery turned to go, but paused, looking back. "This could be the future of the club," he said. For once, his voice sounded almost sincere, as if he thought he was talking to a peer rather than someone below him. She wondered if this was what it was like to be respected by him. "If you net him for us, I will make sure you are rewarded accordingly. Understand?"
She turned away from the mirror, meeting his gaze. "I understand, sir."
"Good." The sincerity was long gone when he spoke again. "Wear the dark green. The plunging one. And don't talk too much."
And then he was gone.
dans la forêt
"Don't you scrub up well."
James sighed, turning from where he had been staring up at the unassuming building to find Sirius, sauntering towards him. They had parted ways after the meeting to change and, in James' case, have a sandwich, before meeting back outside the club. The anti-apparition wards were tight around there: the closest James had been able to get was the corner off Diagon where it split apart, the cobblestones twisting away from the main thoroughfare; a dead-end side street without a name, a place so unenticing that many normal folk might just walk past it. A few days ago, James would have done so, too.
Not now, though.
His mind had allowed little else but thoughts of Rosalie since they'd left the club the night before. His dreams had been full of a bustling room, of a flash of red hair and porcelain skin; he had woken in a sweat, embarrassed and amazed that someone he had never even spoken to, someone he hadn't been within twenty feet of, could so enrapture him. It had forced him to apply his ingenuity and smarts to a plan which would mean he could find himself in her presence again, and thank Merlin Dumbledore had agreed to it, because going to the club night after night just in the name of following Mulciber was not a long-term solution, and James knew it. This way at least he could tell himself it was in the name of doing the right thing.
So, yes, he had smartened himself up, found the sort of crisp, clean tailoring that made his mother sigh about "how handsome" and "how grown up" he was. It was about fitting in, that was all.
Sirius had gone the same way, although with his usual sense of insouciance: shirt unbuttoned just a little more than was considered decent, and black jeans—with a rip in the knee—where James wore suit trousers that wouldn't have been out of place at a wedding. Or a funeral.
"Thanks," he replied, trying not to sound too annoyed. If he let on now just how irritating he found Sirius' jibes, then he was guaranteed to be on the receiving end of it all evening. He loved his best friend, loved him like a brother, but when Sirius knew something was getting to him, he was like a dog with a bone. Ironic.
"This is where you're supposed to say it back," Sirius told him, at last reaching his side. "In polite society, that's how compliments work."
"You look stunning," James replied with a roll of his eyes, gesturing to the building. "Shall we head in?"
"Someone's keen," Sirius noted, nonetheless falling into step with James as they approached the now-familiar heavy oak doors. "Desperate to be gouged for a glass of knock-off champagne, are we?"
"Shame the other two couldn't come." Remus had to take work where he could—it still infuriated James that arguably the cleverest of the four of them, the most diligent and hard-working, couldn't hold down a job due to the fears and prejudices of others—and so was working a shift as a typesetter at the Daily Prophet that evening. Pete had looked gutted when he admitted that he had arranged to visit his mother, and they all knew that it was not something he could back out of. Mrs Pettigrew was not to be trifled with. "I could've had some reasonable conversation."
"Harsh." Sirius led the way inside, stepping forward as he had done the day before to announce their arrival. The doors swung open, revealing a room only marginally less busy than it had been last night, although something seemed different. It took James a moment to realise what. "They change the theme every evening," Sirius told him, gesturing to the ceiling. What yesterday had been low, with timber beams and dappled lighting, now looked more like the Great Hall at Hogwarts: charmed to show a night sky dancing with stars. Having just been outside, in the cold and cloudy London night, James guessed that the main difference was that this ceiling was an idealised version rather than an accurate reflection. Made sense, given the setting.
As well as the ceiling, the bar now looked more like a mystical forest, vines laden with leaves stretching across every surface, interspersed with twinkling, golden lights. The bartenders today were shirtless, although it wasn't clear why, and the few filles they could see from their vantage point were dressed in leafy greens, burnt oranges, pale, seafoam blues.
He couldn't see Rosalie anywhere. Not that it was all he cared about.
"Booth?" he suggested, and Sirius nodded, leading the way through the crowd to a spot where they could sit. The other booths were full, and Sirius caught James' eye on seeing who was in the next one along: Jack Mulciber, knocking back champagne and chatting easily with Evan Rosier.
So this wasn't going to be a complete waste of time, then.
où tout a commence
As Lily stepped out onto the main club floor, she felt aware of several things.
Always, first, she was aware of the exits. Montgomery had paid someone at the Ministry handsomely to ensure that no one could apparate in or out of the club, or indeed even on the street outside, so in order to get out, one had to do it the old-fashioned way: through a door. She hadn't yet had cause to make a break for it, but she didn't want to find herself uncertain if the time did come.
The second thing she was aware of was the amount of people looking in her direction. The dress Montgomery had requested—no, requested made it sound like she could have said no—was the kind of green she used to adore, knowing how it set off her eyes, but now only associated with being there in that place. The fabric was a rich velvet, and would've been quite warm if it didn't have a plunging neckline that cut most of the way down her torso, and a split in the skirt that nearly reached her thigh. With every step, attention was drawn to the pale skin in contrast to the deep, dark colours of her dress; and she knew that was the point, that she was there to be seen, to be coveted. But it was still something that she had to get used to each evening.
And then she was aware of the booths, opposite the bar. Most of them had large groups of revellers, drinking and already being entertained by filles. The two booths closest to her were almost empty: one, she couldn't quite see, the faces turned away from the room, huddled together in dark discussion; and the other…
Dark hair. White shirt. No tie. No outer robes. And he looked—well, maybe not quite like he bathed in galleons, but he looked comfortably off, his clothes clearly well made, tailored to his form. Most surprising of all, he was handsome.
She didn't expect anyone to be good looking. She didn't expect anything at all.
He was young, she noted, probably her age or thereabouts. He was talking animatedly with his companion, another young man who was trying to look less wealthy than he was. And then he looked up, and caught her gaze, and—
Montgomery had been right. This man wanted Rosalie.
She drew in a steadying breath before she moved through the crowd, towards the booth. Evan Rosier looked surprised to see her approach; was she about to meet the first modest client? A man with enough money to invest but who didn't expect every woman who worked there to fall to his feet?
"Gentlemen," she said, stopping in front of their table. Both men stared up at her; she gave the friend—Montgomery hadn't told her who he was, clearly not rich enough to matter—a brief, sweet smile before she returned her focus to her target. "Bonsoir."
"Oh," the man replied, adjusting his glasses. He seemed to be struggling for words. "Yes. Bonsoir, mademoiselle."
She reached out to gently brush her hand against his shoulder, as if removing some lint—a practised move, a way to instigate touch when the clients seemed a bit more nervy. It seemed to only serve to make his breath hitch in his chest. It was quite endearing, in a way. "I know why you're here."
His eyebrows raised, and he darted a quick look at his friend. "You do?"
"I do," she confirmed. She held out her hand. "Perhaps we could go somewhere more…private?"
He took her hand as if he barely realised he was moving at all, standing up instantly. "Oh. Yes—okay. Private. Good idea."
His friend watched on with barely concealed amusement. "I'll just wait here, shall I?"
There was a moment of silent communication between the two—she watched on, briefly allowing herself a second to be fascinated before she remembered that whatever these men had, it was none of her business, and to get attached or interested was only setting herself up to fail. But the moment passed, and the man looked back at her, squeezing her hand.
It was like something a boyfriend would do. Someone who cared. For a breath, that sensation froze in her chest, a strange, almost frightening sort of chasm that she usually kept carefully papered over.
But she swallowed it down; she always did. She gave him a smile. "Let's go."
la chambre rouge
James' heart thumped in his chest, and he was certain she must be able to hear it as she led him from the thrumming chaos of the main room, through one of the doors that lined the back of the club, and into an eerily quiet corridor. The floor was still tiled in glossy black and white, the walls lined with mirrors of different shapes and sizes: evidently, the clientele liked to look at themselves with their conquests as they moved around the place.
She didn't let go of his hand until she had taken him through a door a little way down the corridor, a door with 'la chambre rouge' carved elegantly into the wood. His limited French helped him translate the name, and sure enough…it was a room aggressively red in decor, from the heavy crimson wallpaper embroidered with gold detail, to the thick plush scarlet carpeting, to every furnishing: a large bed with dark ruby linens, a chaise longue in fiery vermilion velvet, and even an elegant bar cart, complete with magically chilled bottle of champagne, in a burnished red metal. It was if someone had decided to emulate the pulsing, violent flesh of a human heart. Not exactly what James considered erotic, but he supposed he wasn't exactly their prime customer.
Rosalie had kicked off her heels—a move that should not have been as sexy as it was—and moved to the bar cart, holding up a champagne flute. "A drink, perhaps?"
He'd downed a firewhiskey back at the table in a bid to calm his nerves; he wasn't sure it had really helped. Maybe the better approach was to try to keep a clear head, especially given that all she had to do was look at him and he felt like his brain was melting out of his ears. There was something so disarming about her gaze, about those bright green eyes. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, yes; but more than anything, he wanted to meet her. Not this performative version of herself, this front she put on for the club. Whoever lay underneath that cover was someone he felt sure was even more fascinating. "Oh, um—no, thank you. You go ahead."
She looked momentarily surprised, but soon schooled her expression back into something more neutral. "Maybe after, then," she suggested, setting the glass back down and sidling towards him. He could smell her perfume: something citrusy, fresh, almost at odds with the heavy, cloying atmosphere of the room.
He was so distracted by it that it took him a moment to even realise what she'd said. "After—?"
She brushed her hair over her shoulder, exposing the slender column of her neck—another thing to distract him. "You don't need to hide why you're here," she murmured, her hand moving to toy with the top button of his shirt. "Where do you want to start?"
"Start?" he asked, the word catching in his throat as she moved even closer, the warmth of her body pressed to his.
She smiled, a soft, sweet thing, a smile that could open doors, that could turn whole worlds upside down. "Start," she confirmed. "You look a little flushed, why don't we lie down…?"
Oh, fuck, that was not a good idea. Well, it was, a very good idea, but not what he was here to do. He was fairly sure he'd have a hard time convincing Dumbledore that recruiting for a revolution had needed to be done horizontally. "Oh, ha, no, I'm fine," he said, taking a quick step back. Casting his gaze around for a place of safety, he took refuge on the chaise longue, not that it lasted that way: before he could blink, gather his wits again, she had crossed the room too and slid into his lap as if it were nothing, straddling his hips in a way which uncovered yet more of the creamy skin of her thigh. He tried not to audibly gulp. "Perhaps we should—um, talk?"
"You want to talk?" she asked, her fingers sinking into the wilds of his hair; her nails scratched delicately across his scalp, and it was all he could do to bite back a moan. "What would you like me to say…?"
Sweet Merlin, he'd lost all power of speech. Her lips were now so close to his that he could almost taste her every softly spoken word; his hands took root at her hips, and she shifted in his lap, a silent encouragement that sent shivers down his spine. "Whatever you'd like…"
Her smile was intoxicating, and maybe he was biased, but it seemed genuine—he wanted to believe that it was, that he brought out that smile in her. Another inch and her lips would finally be on his. "How lucky we are," she murmured, edging closer with each word, "to have such an engaged investor…"
"Investor?" he mumbled, eyes already closing in anticipation of the kiss fast approaching. "I'm not an investor…"
She lurched back, her face somehow more pale than it even had been before. "What do you mean you're not—" She dropped her hands from his hair as if she'd been burned. "What's your name?"
He blinked in confusion. "James—James Potter."
Rosalie was up and out of his lap as quickly as she'd sat down, and it might have been amusing but for the look of sheer terror on her face. "Oh, fuck," she said, gaze darting to the door. "Fuck, fuck!"
He stood up too, concern growing with each passing second. He hated to see anyone look this scared; she turned away from him, moving to grab her heels again and slip them back on. "Are you—"
"I have to go," she said, not meeting his gaze. "Shit. I'm sorry, I thought—I'm sorry. You—you won't have to pay."
James frowned. "I don't care about that," he said, perhaps the wrong thing to say given the way she visibly flinched at his words. "I mean, it's fine. Are you okay?"
She finally looked around, briefly held his gaze before she made her way to the door. "My boss wanted me to…" She trailed off, pausing with her fingers on the handle. "I need to go. My apologies."
"Rosalie, wait—"
She stopped, halfway out of the door, and met his gaze for only a moment. "That's not my name."
And then she was gone.