Muse in Secret

Chapter One

James Potter knew he could never be an honest man, but he did his very best to be a good one. After all, he had taken all the right steps for a man of his status, and executed them with such precision it was as though he was a character in one of his own writings. Instead of touring Europe drunk on wine and loose women, he had applied himself to a rigorous course of study at Cambridge, and published four novels before the ink had even dried on his own diploma. He had gone to the country for a time after, and returned with a beautiful wife whose eyes shone like emeralds as she marveled the London streets. He had then situated her in a nice newly constructed home on the up and coming Arlington street overlooking the park.

"Why not Piccadilly? Westward from Devonshire house of course." One of her many friends had asked one day. It was a bold ask, given that her husband had purchased a flat for her on Bond Street of all places.

If James had been truthful, he would have explained that even his wallet could not stretch to accommodate the numbers such a residence would require, but instead he gave a gentle laugh. "I rescued my poor wife from Devonshire- I'm not about to make her live upon the same hill as it's Lords and Ladies. She is a London Lady now, my beautiful London Lily and I will only give her the best. You'll see in ten years time, Arlington street will outshine old Piccadilly and those who bought there will feel quite silly."

"Say James?" Lily asked, looking up at her husband with those beautiful emerald eyes. She was far better than him at derailing conversation so that it might remain polite. "Would it be alright if I went to Marlene's to have a dress made? They've just got in new fabric from Paris, and they're stunning."

James thought on that for a moment. The money of a dress was not an issue. She could have ten, twenty, even thirty dresses made and it would hardly be a footnote on their accounts. "Are they the best fabrics on the market?"

"In England, yes." Lily said.

Her friend cleared her throat in an obnoxious way. "Well surely James if you want the best for your darling London Lily you would know that English fashion is simply French leftovers from last year."

The wording irked him. Lovely London Lily, he wanted to correct- that was such a nicer alliteration of the name. "And where does France get their fashion from?" he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "If I am to shimmy down this rabbit hole I might as well know which tunnel brings me fresh air and what leads to the vermin's lair."

"Paris makes the fashion." She said plainly, as if it was a common known truth amongst men.

"Right." Said James, beaming down at his wife. "Then we go to Paris!"

And to Paris they went.

***

As it would turn out, Paris was not much different than London. Piss laden streets did not smell sweeter in a foreign tongue, nor did the sun drenching the land across the channel make the money hungry drunks more tolerable. Still, James sat fitfully through ever fitting as a good husband should, giving no limit to the amounts she might spend, and telling the dress makers to spare no expense on is wife. He didn't realize it then, but he was quite lucky. Despite never stepping a foot in France before that moment, he had quite aced his French language classes at Cambridge. Had he not spoken the language, not only would the dresses have been twice the cost, but they also would have had corners cut- fabric not lined up quite right, stitches dropped at the most peculiar points.

On one particularly warm morning, four days into their trip, James left his wife at the dressmaker. She had insisted that he was fussing entirely too much about her, and that he deserved to see the sights of the city beyond the insides of expensive shops. He had balked, as any good husband would, and then he had relented to her whims, promising to collect her in four hours time.