Harry arrived early at Gringotts wearing dark, formal robes and a boutonnière fashioned from newly-opened alstroemeria flowers. He'd told his florist he preferred smaller boutonnières, so he no longer had to reject any for being too gaudy or bridal-looking.
'Good morning, Mr Potter,' said the goblin at the front entrance. 'Do you need assistance prior to your meeting this morning?'
'Yes, I'm going to Paris later today, and I need travel documents and French currency.'
'Trapskin will be glad to help you,' said the goblin, and he directed Harry to the banker he'd met six weeks prior, when his account was unfrozen.
'Good morning, Trapskin,' said Harry. 'It's good to see you again.'
Trapskin nodded. 'Likewise, Mr Potter. You've exceeded my expectations,' he said simply, as they walked to an office.
Harry recalled Trapskin's previous attitude, which had conveyed strong disapproval. 'I've come to appreciate goblin directness and efficiency,' said Harry. 'I always know where I stand with goblins, and that's seldom the case with wizards.'
'Indeed. And yet you're representing the Ministry later this morning.'
'Yes, at Director Ragnok's request. Otherwise I'm no longer affiliated with the Ministry of Magic. It was never a good fit, to be honest.'
'I imagine not.' They reached the office and Trapskin said, 'Have a seat, Mr Potter. I can provide travel documentation and French currency. Do you want both wizarding and Muggle currency.'
'Yes, please. Do I need to withdraw the full amount of wizarding currency to pay for my hotel, or can I just authorise the expense as I can in England?'
'The latter,' said Trapskin. 'Gringotts is as fully enmeshed in France as it is in Britain. More so, in fact.'
'Really? How do you mean?'
'Goblins aren't nearly as restricted in France as in Britain. In France, goblins can own property outside Gringotts, for example.'
'Interesting. Are there goblin villages and such?'
'Yes, and there have been for centuries. British wizards insist on confining goblins, citing the International Statute of Secrecy, but it's never been a problem in France. Goblins are perfectly capable of keeping our presence a secret—it's only wizards who constantly require Obliviators and the rest.'
He opened a large volume on the desk and pulled a seal from his waistcoat. Holding a quill, he asked, 'Which name would you like on your documentation?'
'Do you mean Potter or Black?' Trapskin nodded, and Harry asked, 'Is it hard to change later?'
Trapskin raised an eyebrow. 'No, you'll only need to pay the fee again.'
'That's fine. For now just say Harry Potter, or Harry James Potter if you need my full name.'
After inscribing Harry's name, Trapskin pressed his seal to the book, which glowed temporarily. A small parchment also appeared, featuring Harry's name and likeness.
'Did you just take a photograph without a camera?' asked Harry, impressed.
'Goblins have no need for cameras,' scoffed Trapskin. 'Our magic alone is sufficient for capturing a likeness.'
Harry looked more closely at his picture. It wasn't actually a photograph—it was more like an engraving, comprised entirely of etched black lines. Only his head was visible, but it moved and blinked just like a wizarding photograph. 'Am I likely to disappear from the frame at the wrong moment?' he asked. It wouldn't do for his image to disappear when the portkey agent was inspecting his travel papers.
'No. That's why it only shows your head. You can't move without the rest of your body.'
Trapskin led Harry to a counter, and the clerk gave him a sheaf of French francs, including a variety of coins. He also provided plenty of Bezant coins, the French wizarding currency. After leaving the counter, Harry inspected the franc notes with interest—they were much more varied than British currency, all of which depicted the Queen and an assortment of stodgy old men. The fifty-franc note was particularly charming, with an old-fashioned aeroplane and a world map with little drawings over it.
After finishing at Gringotts, he walked to the travel agent Laetitia had recommended. The front window was covered with travel posters, and according to the timetable there was a portkey to Paris at half past eleven. He entered, and even though he was the only customer he had to wait for the two young witches chatting behind the counter to offer him assistance.
'Oh my goodness, you're Harry Potter,' one of them exclaimed. 'Sorry to keep you waiting—what can I help you with?'
'I'd like to travel to Paris today. Is there still space on this morning's portkey?'
'Yes, of course. How many spots will you need?'
'One, please.'
'Really?' said the other witch. 'You're not bringing anyone with you?'
'No, just me.'
'Then surely you're meeting someone there. You can't possibly be going to Paris alone,' she persisted.
'Er, I'm travelling with friends, but they've arranged separate transport.'
'And when would you like to return?' asked the first witch.
'Sunday evening. What times do you have available?'
She showed him the timetable, and he reserved a spot on the nine o'clock portkey, which would give him time to eat dinner there. He was extremely fond of Kreacher's cooking, but French cuisine was legendary and he was keen to sample a wide array.
The witch verified that he had the correct travel documents, and she advised him about luggage. 'You can't carry a suitcase during portkey travel, but for a small surcharge we can transport it for you simultaneously.'
'I don't even own a suitcase, but I can purchase one this morning. Can you recommend a shop?'
'It's not in Diagon Alley, but you'll find excellent luggage at Strauss Leather Goods in Northampton,' she said, handing him a card with a Floo address.
Helena's family, he thought. 'Er ... is there a shop in Diagon Alley instead?'
The second witch elbowed her colleague and said, 'Of course, yes. Try Portmanteau's, about a quarter mile down, on the left. I believe they open at ten o'clock.'
He paid for his portkey reservations and went to Flourish and Blotts to purchase a guidebook. There were several to choose from, and he bought a deceptively slim book containing what seemed like heaps of information about Paris and everything he'd want to see and do there.
He returned to his usual alcove near Gringotts and started thumbing through his guidebook. As he'd learnt from the book about European wizarding enclaves, the magical district was on a secret island in the River Seine. Unlike the Île de la Cité—home to Notre Dame Cathedral—and the neighbouring Île Saint-Louis, the Îlot Gicale was completely hidden to Muggles and contained a thriving wizarding district. It was much larger than the width of the river would suggest, and boats were able to pass right through it.
L'Îlot Gicale was accessible by foot through one of the book stalls on the Quai Voltaire, but it was also connected to Paris's wizarding transport network, the Magipolitain. Like the Paris Métro and the London Underground, the réseau Magipolitain allowed rapid transit between a vast network of points, but unlike the Muggle systems there were no trains. Instead, the Magipolitain, which locals called the Magi (pronounced mah-zhee), allowed passengers to travel magically from one point to another. Every Métro station included a point Magi, but there were many other points as well.
The guidebook nevertheless recommended exploring Paris by foot. 'Avoid the temptation to travel exclusively by Magi. Paris is best experienced serendipitously, and the tourist who 'magies' from one attraction to another with maximum efficiency will miss the true magic of the City of Light. Consider taking the following public buses to identify districts worthy of exploration by foot.'
The guidebook listed a half dozen bus routes traversing historic districts, and it even provided a charm for turning a discarded Métro ticket into a reusable transit token. Surely I can buy tickets, thought Harry contemptuously. Wizards had enough advantages without shamelessly stealing public resources.
'Harry,' said Hermione, prompting him to look up from his guidebook. Her hair was tied back in a braid, and she looked very unlike Bellatrix Lestrange. But she was frowning and said, 'I told you to wear traditional robes.'
He looked down to confirm he was wearing what he'd intended. 'These are traditional robes. They're black, and I'm wearing dress shoes instead of my Doc Martens.'
She sighed heavily and said, 'I meant the robes you wore for our Order of Merlin ceremony. These robes are a bit too daring.'
'You mean because I can't fit someone in here with me?' retorted Harry. 'That's a lot more daring, if you think about it.'
Hermione looked at her wristwatch. 'There's still time for you to go home and change.'
'Hermione, I'm not going to change. These robes are fine—I was at Gringotts this morning and none of the goblins batted an eyelid. They're just robes.'
'Fine,' she said resignedly. 'Octavia and the rest of my colleagues will arrive presently, and they're bringing the treasure you'll offer to Ragnok.' She handed him a small card with text on it. 'Here's the speech you'll need to deliver. It's longer than it looks, but the words will scroll automatically as you read them aloud, and you can fit the card in the palm of your hand.'
'May I read it in advance? I'd rather not be surprised.'
'Yes, of course. Just run your finger up it and it'll advance automatically.' Before Harry could start reading, she said, 'You'll walk in behind Octavia and the other Ministry representatives, and they'll present you at the appropriate time. Then you'll use your wand to convey the treasure chariot and read your speech.'
'Treasure chariot?' he said incredulously.
'It's really just a wheeled platform, but that's what we've nicknamed it. You won't have to call it that.'
'That's good. It makes me sound like Julius Caesar or something.'
'Actually, that's basically who you are in this ceremony. The goblins see you as a mighty warrior, which seems to be central to why they respect you so much.'
'What a load of bollocks! You're more of a warrior than I am. All I had was my mother's protection, the Elder Wand, and a bloody Horcrux.'
'Be that as it may, that's how the goblins see you.' She looked over her shoulder and said, 'It looks like my colleagues are here. I should talk to them, and in a few minutes we'll walk in together.'
Hermione let him alone, and he read through the card she'd given him. This speech is awful, he thought. I can't read this. It was a bunch of pompous drivel about a momentous occasion on which two great races were setting aside old differences to forge an historic new fellowship. No, it's not, thought Harry. It's wizards bribing goblins to ignore the fact that they're cooped up in an underground warren, even though they could curse the shit out of us easier than breathing.
He looked guiltily at Hermione and her colleagues. They'd worked for weeks on this, but he was certain it was doomed to failure and would probably drag him down as well. I don't work for the bloody Ministry anymore, he thought savagely. But he cared about wizarding Britain, and he knew what he had to do.
Hermione returned several minutes later with her colleagues. 'Harry, this is Octavia Wind,' she said proudly. 'She's been a tremendous mentor, and she feels just as I do about improving relations with the other magical races. Octavia, this is Harry Potter.'
'Yes, of course,' said Octavia, extending her hand. 'Harry, thanks so much for your willingness to participate. I know you have better uses for your time than presiding over ceremonies, but this is crucially important to the future of wizard-goblin relations. You're probably aware we got off to a rocky start last month, but we're poised to get things back on track, with your help.'
'I'm glad to be of assistance,' he said sincerely. 'I have great respect for the Goblin Nation and would love to see our relationship improve.'
Hermione also introduced a middle-aged wizard named Augustus Larch. 'Mr Larch is the deputy director of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and he's been working for years on preserving peace between wizards and goblins.'
Larch looked at Harry's robes sceptically before saying, 'Good to meet you, Potter. I was asked to join the task force after last month's disaster, and I'm glad you're willing to help clean up the damage.'
Harry noticed Hermione's downcast expression, but he shook Larch's hand and exchanged greetings with the rest of the Ministry delegation. After the introductions, they formed a loose queue with Harry at the back, followed only by the treasure chariot and the witch in charge of it.
The wagon was roughly six feet long, and it was covered in velvet and laden with a dozen goblin-made artefacts. Each piece was lit by a charm, either from within or without depending on the nature of the object. Harry approved of the presentation, since it emphasised each item's exquisite craftsmanship.
At the appointed time they filed into Gringotts, where they were greeted by a pair of goblins. 'Come this way,' said the elder goblin, and they were led into a very grand room that was lit by chandeliers and lined with tall mirrors. Harry noticed that the witch behind him was using her wand to propel the wagon, and that the two goblins guarding the door exchanged glances as she passed. An old treaty forbade goblins from using wands, and Harry knew it was still a sore point.
Director Ragnok was presiding, and he nodded minutely at Harry, who nodded back. Hermione stood behind her colleagues, clearly not wishing to draw attention to herself after the fiasco a month earlier.
And then came the blather. It started with some obsequious yet arrogant prattle from the Ministry representatives, which was followed by formal yet contemptuous responses from Ragnok. This is nothing like how goblins address me, thought Harry. He hoped the difference was due to the formality of the occasion, but he suspected it was the goblin version of taking the piss.
Eventually it was Harry's turn, and he glanced again at the card in his palm. Hermione kept looking at him meaningfully, twitching her fingers to indicate it was time for him to pull out his wand. He subtly shook his head, thinking, There's no bloody way I'm going to insult goblins by flaunting my wand, when they're not permitted to use them.
Harry walked behind the wagon and pushed it manually through the vast room, until it was in front of Ragnok. Without consulting the card, he said, 'Please accept these goblin-made treasures on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, offered with deepest respect for the mighty Goblin Nation.'
From the corner of his eye he saw Hermione and the other Ministry wizards exchanging frantic glances. Ragnok stepped forward to inspect the offered items, and he didn't say anything right away. Harry took the silence as a good sign, but after about fifteen seconds Augustus Larch began to speak.
'Director Ragnok, please accept these treasures—goblin-made and wizard-owned—to commemorate this momentous occasion in which two great races are setting aside old differences to forge an historic new fellowship.'
Harry saw Ragnok stiffen at the words 'wizard-owned,' and he knew the meeting was going off the rails. 'Director Ragnok, I ask you to forgive the Ministry's appalling gaffe just now. These are goblin items which wizards have treasured for many generations. But we both know this is a bribe to get wizard-goblin relations onto better footing.'
Larch tried to speak again but Harry interrupted him. 'I should add that I'm not speaking for the Ministry, but as a private citizen who longs for a peaceful and prosperous future for all magical races, and for Muggles as well. Personally, I'd love to see what goblins could do if you were given the freedoms you deserve, assuming you don't wipe the rest of us off the map.'
Some of the goblins were smirking, either at what Harry had said or at the Ministry delegation's shocked expressions.
Ragnok looked directly at Harry and said, 'Harry Potter, I accept your return of these artefacts on behalf of their rightful owners.' He turned to the delegation and added, 'I invite the Ministry to consider Harry Potter's words, since he seems to understand goblins better than most wizards do. Though I suspect you'll never allow him to speak on your behalf ever again.'
Octavia stepped forward and said, 'On the contrary, I'd like for Mr Potter to continue to prod the Ministry to reevaluate all the laws regarding the Goblin Nation, and even to revisit the treaties that established the nonsensical and frankly shameful treatment of goblins within Great Britain. Like Mr Potter, I'm only speaking on my own behalf, but I hope that improved relations between our two races will yield a future that benefits us all.'
Ragnok nodded, which Harry knew was a sign of respect. 'The Goblin Nation would like that as well. Does this conclude today's business?'
'Yes, it does,' replied Octavia. 'Thank you for your time.'
Ragnok motioned to the guards who'd led them into the room and said, 'Please escort our guests to the lobby.' The two guards directed Harry and the Ministry delegation back to the main entrance, and they reassembled outside.
'That was a disaster!' cried Larch. 'Potter, are you trying to incite another goblin rebellion?'
'What, by suggesting they deserve equal rights?' retorted Harry.
Octavia said, 'I'm glad he said it. Britain is behind France and plenty of other countries when it comes to goblin rights, thanks to a bunch of old treaties that no longer make sense. We need to chuck everything and start from scratch, because this piecemeal approach isn't going to get us anywhere.'
'You'll need Wizengamot approval,' said Larch, 'and that's never going to happen. So now you've set up a disaster down the road.'
'The goblins don't want war,' said Harry. 'They want to make money off wizards, same as always. And we want their banks and wards, and their frankly brilliant magic. They'll never be able to fully subjugate wizards because they can't pass among humans and we can, so there's bound to be a way to make things work. The Ministry just needs to have some bloody imagination for once.'
Larch sniffed and said, 'If you want to convince the Wizengamot, be my guest.'
'I can't do it alone,' snapped Harry. 'Frankly, there are plenty of ways I'd rather spend my time than shouting at a bunch of geezers at the Wizengamot.'
'Yes, we all know how you like to spend your time.' said Larch.
'And why shouldn't I? I'm nineteen years old, and I had a seriously shitty life until recently. If British wizards want to move forward, I'll gladly help, but it's not my job to get them there singlehandedly.' Larch scowled and Harry added, 'Do you even realise how close you were to getting kicked out again? That speech I was given would have infuriated Ragnok, and you'd have been chucked outside and they'd have kept all those artefacts. I saved your arse in there, so quit complaining.'
'Harry, that's enough,' said Hermione. She turned towards Larch and said, 'Harry's right. Things were going poorly, and we couldn't see it. He stated clearly that he was speaking for himself and not for the Ministry, and it gave Octavia the perfect opening.'
'Yes, Harry, thank you,' said Octavia, who was clearly trying to defuse the situation. 'We've taken up enough of your time this morning, so don't let us keep you any longer. Hermione, you can meet us back at the office in ten minutes, and we'll discuss the next steps.'
Harry gave Octavia a friendly nod, and everyone but Hermione began Disapparating or walking towards the Leaky Cauldron to use the fireplace—or possibly get a drink, thought Harry. He turned towards her and said, 'I'm sorry, I hope I didn't create trouble for you.'
'No, but next time you go off script could you at least warn me?'
'There wasn't time for a debate. I could see at a glance that the goblins would hate it. Bloody hell, I couldn't just pull out my wand, when they're not permitted to use them. Or drone on about artefacts long held within wizarding manor houses when goblins aren't allowed to own property. I'm surprised you didn't see the problem yourself.'
'You're right,' she said. 'I'm starting to wonder whether I'm well matched to the Ministry. I feel like it's eroding my critical thinking skills.'
'Octavia seems sensible enough,' said Harry. 'But yeah, you never normally would have missed something like that.'
She sighed heavily. 'But I want to promote equal rights among magical races, and I have no idea how to accomplish that outside the system.'
'I don't know either, but surely you'll think of something. You always do.'
'You really are a devil,' said Hermione. 'Have you always been like this?'
'I couldn't say. I think I'm only beginning to find out who I am.'
'You were appalling, you know. The way you talked to Larch ... I wish Owen could have seen it.'
'Why, because I was an arrogant bastard?'
'Exactly. You should have called him "Riddle,"' she laughed.
'Just promise you'll tell me when I go too far. I'll admit, I'm enjoying spreading my wings like this, but I don't want to become insufferable.'
'I don't want that either, and you'll notice I stopped you back there.'
He smiled and said, 'If only I could drag you around, and you could give me a swift kick whenever I cross the line.'
'I reckon you'll learn for yourself eventually. So what are you going to do with your weekend off? More Muggles?' she asked mischievously.
'No, I'm actually off to Paris in an hour.'
'Really? Are you going with someone, or on your own?'
He told her about Laetitia's last-minute invitation, and that her friend Sophie was to show them around.
'Is that one of her model friends?'
'Yes, and she's a witch as well.'
'So much the better. But don't let me keep you—have a wonderful time.'
Harry walked to the luggage shop, and with the sales clerk's advice he selected something that resembled an old-fashioned leather suitcase but was charmed featherweight and extended into a travelling wardrobe. He knew it would be perfect for transporting robes and also Muggle clothes, and that there would be room for gifts and anything else he chose to bring back with him.
He returned with his suitcase to Grimmauld Place and very gently told Kreacher he'd be away for three whole days. The ancient house-elf was heartbroken and began to wail. 'Master has spurned Kreacher! Master no longer thinks Kreacher is able to serve him.'
Listening to Kreacher's lamentations, Harry had a flash of inspiration. 'Kreacher, you're an excellent house-elf, and of course you're still able to serve me. But you tend to go overboard sometimes, as you did with that meal you served at Madam Puddifoot's, and I think you need punishment.'
'Punishment?' asked Kreacher hopefully. 'What does Master have in mind?'
'I should have made it clearer. I'm leaving for three days. That's your punishment.'
'That is a severe punishment indeed,' said Kreacher with satisfaction. 'Kreacher will need to think about his bad behaviour. And perhaps find other ways to punish himself.'
'No, there you go again, taking matters into your own hands. You are not to punish yourself in any other way. I'm your master and I choose the punishments. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Master. Master will be away for three long days. Perhaps Kreacher will repair the peeling wallpaper in the entrance hall.'
'If you insist, but don't go overboard. I rather like the house as it is.'
Once Kreacher was sorted, Harry went to his bedroom to pack, and he changed into a smart Muggle outfit and his trusty Doc Martens. It was always disappointing to change out of wizarding robes, but perhaps he'd find new sartorial inspiration in Paris. The French were reputedly very stylish.
He travelled by Floo to the portkey station and was directed to a series of counters and turnstiles leading to what Harry assumed were the terminals. Each of the counters had a mechanical sign on top, similar to signs he'd seen in train stations, and he found the one that said 'Paris - 11:30.'
Harry walked up to the counter and pulled out his travel document. 'Good morning, I have a reservation for the portkey to Paris.'
'Yes, Mr Potter,' said the agent, who gave Harry's document a cursory glance. 'I see you've paid to transport one suitcase—you can hand it to the porter and then wait over there.'
Harry gave his suitcase to the porter and passed through the turnstile. He sat down where the agent had indicated and pulled out his Paris guidebook.
Less than a minute later a wizard sat next to him and started talking. 'Going to Paris?'
Isn't it obvious? thought Harry, but he only said, 'Yes,' and kept reading.
'You won't learn anything from that guidebook,' continued the wizard. 'You need someone to show you around. I've spent heaps of time in Paris, and I lived there during the war.'
Why weren't you fighting? thought Harry. 'Yes, I understand a lot of people fled back then,' he said, with only a slight edge to his voice.
'Exactly, there was a huge expat community there. It was the only sensible thing to do, of course.'
'I wish I'd known,' said Harry. 'It would have saved me a lot of trouble.'
The wizard frowned. 'Surely You-Know-Who would have found you there, if there was a prophecy. It's better for all of us you stayed at home and finished the job.'
'Yes, that's what we concluded as well. Are you Muggle-born?'
'No, but I lived through the first wizarding war and that was quite enough for me. I came home last year, and so did a lot of expats. There's lots of business opportunities in a society rebuilding from war.'
Harry nodded without looking up from his guidebook, but the wizard persisted. 'There's still money to be made, even a year on. I'm travelling to Paris to meet with a commercial baker, to see about importing French bread and pastries on a daily basis.'
'Yes, my house-elf makes French pastries,' said Harry. 'I imagine there's a market for them.'
'I doubt a house-elf could make proper French pastries, or even a decent croissant,' scoffed the wizard. 'Have you ever had the real thing?'
'If you're asking whether I've been to France, the answer is no. I never had the opportunity to leave Britain until recently.'
'You won't believe the difference,' said the wizard, who seemed impervious to Harry's not-so-subtle digs. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Harry. 'I'm certain you'll agree there's a tremendous business opportunity. We're still looking for investors. My name's Clive, by the way.'
Harry groaned. 'You realise the Prophet greatly exaggerated my assets, right?'
'Perhaps, but you're hardly poor. And I'm certain you'll want to put something away for when you're no longer earning a Seeker's salary.'
Not to worry, thought Harry. I'll sell autographs and drive the Knight Bus. 'Thanks,' he replied tersely, placing the card in a pocket.
'Do you need a tour guide, then?' asked Clive hopefully.
'No, thanks. I'm meeting friends there, one of whom is French.'
Clive lowered his voice and asked, 'A French woman?'
'A witch, yes.' And she's a model who's dying to meet me, thought Harry with satisfaction.
'They're different from English women. Less uptight. That's what they think of us Anglo-Saxons, you know.'
I must be part French, thought Harry.
'There's no beating about the bush with French women,' Clive continued. 'If they want to sleep with you, they'll do it the same day they meet you.'
That's been my experience with English women, thought Harry. But then I didn't flee during the war. 'Cheers, I'll keep that in mind.'
'If your friend doesn't work out, I know some girls,' said Clive helpfully.
Harry couldn't hide his disbelief, and Clive laughed. 'Just leave me a note at the front desk of the Hôtel Gicale—I check my messages regularly. How long are you in Paris anyway?'
'I'm leaving Sunday night.'
'Oh, I'll be there all next week,' said Clive. He was about to say more but he was interrupted by an announcement from the ticket agent.
'Paris passengers, please take your places around the portkey.' Eight or nine people rose and walked around the pedestal in the middle of the terminal, which was thickly carpeted. On top of the pedestal was a metal wheel with twelve spokes, and there was a ball at the end of each spoke, about three inches in diameter. The agent said, 'Grasp one of the balls, and I'll count down when it's time to leave.'
Harry contrived to stand next to people other than Clive and took hold of one of the metal balls. The rest of the travellers looked at him with interest, and a little girl said, 'Look Mum, it's Harry Potter.'
'Yes, dear,' said her mother. 'Now hold onto the ball, and to my hand as well. And whatever you do, don't let go.'
The agent counted down, and the dreadful pulling sensation began. Ugh, portkeys, thought Harry as they swirled together in the howling wind. He dimly perceived the English Channel below him, followed by countryside and then increasingly dense suburbs, until they slammed onto another carpeted floor.
Harry was shaken but didn't fall down. 'Bienvenue à Paris. Il est douze heures trente, heure locale. Welcome to Paris. Local time is twelve thirty,' announced a voice.
Did that take an hour? thought Harry, before he recalled that Paris was an hour ahead of London. Smiling, he thought, I've never been in a different time zone before.
After letting go of the portkey he adjusted his pocket watch and stood in a short queue to have his travel documents inspected. 'Vos papiers, s'il vous plaît. Your documents, please.'
Harry handed his travel papers to the agent, who hadn't looked up. 'Merde alors!' he exclaimed, raising his eyes—first to Harry's face and then to his scar. He quickly regained his composure and said, 'Welcome to Paris, Monsieur Potter.'
'Thank you,' said Harry. 'Er, merci beaucoup.' He'd have sworn the agent stifled a smirk, but he simply touched his wand to the travel document and waved it in front of Harry, presumably to confirm his identity.
'I wish you a pleasant stay, Monsieur Potter. À bientôt.'
'Au revoir,' said Harry. And now I've nearly exhausted my French, he thought nervously.
He retrieved his suitcase and found himself in the lobby of what looked like an elegant train station, only it was round and didn't have any trains. The sign behind him said 'Arrival Londres - 12H30'—he supposed Londres was the French name for London, and he made a mental note so he wouldn't miss his portkey home.
Harry just stood and looked around at first. The station was crowded with people speaking French, and all the signs were in French as well. 'Are you sure I can't help you get around?' asked Clive, who'd somehow found him again.
'No, thank you. If you'll just point me to the exit I'll be on my way. My friends are waiting for me,' he added, a trifle dishonestly.
Clive pointed out a sign labeled 'Sortie' and said, 'It was a pleasure to meet you, Potter. And don't hesitate to find me if I can help you with anything.'
'Cheers,' said Harry, making haste for the sortie. He pulled out his guidebook and unfolded the detailed map of the Îlot Gicale, where he knew he'd landed. Laetitia had recommended two hotels, but one was the hotel where Clive was staying, and he'd just as soon avoid him.
It was only a short walk to the Hôtel des Lauriers, but his senses were overwhelmed the entire way. Harry couldn't believe he was only a few hundred miles from London, because Paris felt completely different. The buildings weren't any older than in parts of Britain, but they were mostly made from large pale stones or smooth stucco, and the wrought iron balconies were more ornate than their English counterparts.
There were awning-covered cafés on every street, and where the pavement was too narrow the seats faced outwards, allowing the occupants to watch passers-by. Nobody appeared to recognise him as they would have in Britain, since he no longer wore eyeglasses and wasn't expected to be walking around Paris. But then he turned a corner and heard his name.
'Potter! What are you doing here?'
'Krum!' exclaimed Harry, extending his hand. 'What a nice surprise! I just arrived for a long weekend.'
Viktor Krum rose from his seat at a café, where he was accompanied by three wizards Harry assumed were his teammates. 'What about your Quidditch team? Don't you have a match tomorrow?'
'No, we played last night, so this is my chance to get away. Are you here for Quidditch or on holiday?'
'A bit of both,' replied Krum. 'The Eastern European league is taking a break this month, and the Bulgarian national team is playing exhibition matches across Europe.'
'Will you be coming to England, then?'
'No, the United Kingdom doesn't participate.'
'Classic,' said Harry, before looking cheerfully at Krum again. 'I need to check into a hotel and meet my friends, but are you free sometime this weekend?'
'Do you have a hotel reservation? I think every place is full.'
'Er, no,' he admitted. 'I just have a few recommendations—I was about to check at the Hotel des Lauriers.'
'They're definitely full,' said Krum. 'I'm staying there, and so are my teammates. But you can stay with me if you like.'
'Really? I hate to impose.'
'It is no problem. We can go there now, and I'll ask them to add a portable bed.'
That sounds worse than a futon, thought Harry. 'Thanks, that would be great.'
They walked to the hotel, just a few doors down, and Krum explained to the clerk in English that he'd require an extra bed until Sunday. Harry was amused to hear both of them speaking heavily accented English, and he felt lucky his native language was widely understood.
'Monsieur Potter,' said the clerk, 'I'm sorry that we don't have a room available. If we had known in advance, it would have been our pleasure to accommodate you.'
'It's fine,' said Harry. 'I didn't know until last night I was coming to Paris. I'm just lucky I ran into a friend who's willing to put me up.'
The clerk looked as if he didn't quite understand everything Harry had said, but he nodded agreeably and handed him a comically large key. 'Here is your room key, monsieur. It is number 27, on the third floor. There is a lift, but with your suitcase you may find the stairs more comfortable.'
Krum didn't show Harry to the room, since his food was likely to arrive at any moment, but they agreed to meet for breakfast the next morning at half eight. Harry walked up to the room and could see why the clerk had talked him out of using the lift—it was nestled in the middle of the stairwell and only big enough for two people at most.
The room was small but tidy, and he assumed the staff would cram a single bed into the open space in front of the window. It's not Claridge's, he thought, but it certainly beats staying with Clive.
He tucked his suitcase out of the way and went back downstairs. He was to meet Laetitia and Eric at their hotel at two o'clock, which gave him an hour to explore and figure out how to get there. Harry didn't think it would be hard, looking at the instructions she'd provided; he just needed to take the Magipolitain to Bastille and walk a short distance from there.
The Bastille! he thought with excitement. Even I've heard of the Storming of the Bastille! He looked forward to seeing the old prison and other monuments he might recognise from French history.
Using his guidebook, he identified the nearest point Magi and started walking towards it. He was surprised by how many French words he recognised, at least in context—boulangerie, patisserie, and charcuterie, for example. He looked into the window of the charcuterie but was alarmed by the items he saw there. Do they actually eat that bit? he wondered upon seeing a disturbingly complete hind section of a pig, which was cleaned and laid out for display.
In spite of what he'd just seen, he was hungry and considered going to a café, but he was intimidated by the menu posted outside. Each item had three separate prices: one for bar, table, and terrasse, which he assumed meant the front terrace. To complicate matters, prices were listed in both francs and Bezants, whose value he hadn't yet worked out.
He decided a boulangerie was probably safer, since it appeared you purchased your food at the counter and then left. There were several, but one appeared to be more popular with people who looked like locals, as opposed to bewildered tourists like himself.
The only place he'd seen such a wide array of pastries was at Harrods the week before, but these were much less fussy-looking and somehow more appealing. He could hardly decide what to order, so he chose to keep things simple and try a chocolate croissant, to see how it compared with the ones Kreacher made.
He managed to purchase it by pointing and saying 's'il vous plaît' a lot. He said 'merci beaucoup' at the end, and the clerk didn't even hide her laughter. Clearly I'm pronouncing it wrong, he thought.
There was a small park across the street and the ground was dry, so he decided to sit down to eat his croissant. But he'd only eaten a single bite when an elderly witch admonished him and said, 'Vous ne pouvez pas vous asseoir sur l'herbe. Levez-vous! Vite!'
A little frightened, he looked at her blankly and said the phrase he'd memorised. 'Désolé, je ne parle pas français. Parlez-vous anglais?'
'You cannot sit on the grass!' she said in heavily accented English. 'Get up.'
'Oh, dear, I'm sorry,' he said as he hastily stood up and stepped back onto the pavement.
'Zut alors, c'est bien Harry Potter!' she exclaimed. 'You are Harry Potter?'
'Er, yes. Oui.'
'Mais que faites-vous en France? Why are you in France?'
'I'm visiting?' he said uncertainly.
'Mais oui, évidemment.' She turned to another witch and called, 'Alice, c'est Harry Potter!'
Heads turned from all directions, and people started to gather. Harry heard his name being repeated in a French accent—Arry Potteur—and he felt himself turning red. The elderly witch's friend, presumably Alice, wore thick eyeglasses and was leaning close to get a better look at his scar.
'Ta cicatrice, tu l'as toujours?' she said, squinting. 'Your scar, you still have it?'
Harry was torn between irritation at the colossal invasion of privacy and compassion for someone with poor eyesight. He moved his fringe out of the way and bent down so she could see his scar more easily.
'Oui, c'est ça! Voldemort.' It struck him that Voldemort's name sounded different in a French accent—softer and more poetic.
The onlookers all craned to get a closer look, and to his horror somebody snapped a photograph. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'Er, excusez-moi. I need to leave now.' He tried extricating himself from the group that had formed around him.
'Vous cherchez quelque chose?' asked a middle-aged witch. 'Do you need help finding anything?'
'Er, no, just the point Magi.'
Six different hands all pointed in the same direction, but the middle-aged witch took his arm and pulled him from the crowd. 'I will show you.'
He ate the rest of his croissant as they walked, unsure when he'd have a better opportunity. Clive was right, he thought grudgingly. This is better than what Kreacher makes.
'You buy a ticket here,' explained the witch when they arrived. 'You can buy a carnet with ten tickets, or a pass for three or seven days.'
'I should buy a three-day pass,' he said, and she led him to the counter and helped him with his purchase. The clerk gave him a token, similar in size to a Galleon, which he paid for using Bezants.
'You will hold the token here,' she said, indicating a metal plate next to a large map. 'And then you press your finger to the point Magi you wish to travel to. Where are you going?'
'The Bastille,' he replied, still astonished that a stranger was bossing him around so helpfully. This is like a country full of Hermiones, he thought.
'Oui, Bastille,' she repeated. 'Right here.'
Before pressing his finger to the point on the map, he said, 'Thank you, I'm very grateful. I only just arrived in Paris.'
'Je vous en prie—you are welcome. Amusez-vous bien!'
He held the token to the plate and pressed his finger to the spot labelled Bastille, and then he felt himself pulled as through a hidden subway system. There was momentary pause in the middle, and then a sharp turn as if he'd switched to a different rail line. And after that he found himself standing before a large sign that said Bastille. The entire trip lasted perhaps ten seconds.
Not bad, he thought. Definitely better than the Floo network, and infinitely better than a portkey.
He looked and saw a sign marked Sortie, so he followed it and exited into what looked like a Muggle subway station, also marked Bastille. He found another exit and emerged onto a huge circular intersection that reminded him of Trafalgar Square.
He looked around and was immediately puzzled. Where's the prison? he thought. There was a large circular building at the far side of the plaza, but it was new and seemed to be an opera house. He opened his guidebook and found 'Bastille, Place de la' in the index.
'The Place de la Bastille is the former site of the notorious Bastille Prison, which was demolished in the aftermath of the famed 1789 storming,' read the guidebook. Harry was disappointed the prison was gone, but apparently it was ghastly so he could hardly lament it.
He looked at his map and saw that he'd need to travel partway around the plaza to reach the street leading towards Laetitia's hotel. Waiting at the stoplight, he was unnerved by a sense that something was off. He was downright uncomfortable for a minute, and his fingers were itching to hold his wand, when he realised the problem. The cars are on the wrong side of the road! He felt silly for not figuring it out sooner, but then he'd never left Britain before.
Once he found the correct street, he was able to explore nearby, knowing he was unlikely to be late. He was in the eleventh arrondisement, whatever that meant, and it wasn't as quaint as the Îlot Gicale, but it still felt nothing like England. The main street wasn't very interesting, but a side street called Rue de Lappe looked promising, with lots of bars and restaurants.
Harry arrived at the hotel at the appointed time and found Eric waiting in the lobby. 'Laetitia will be down in a minute,' he said. 'She's just arranging where we'll meet Sophie.'
'Have you been to Paris before?'
'Yes, several times, and once before with Laetitia. But this will be the first time since I learnt she was a witch, so I'll get to see l'Îlot Gicale and other parts that are new to me.'
'Leelo-zheecal?' repeated Harry.
'Yes, that's the French pronunciation for the hidden island. The T is silent.'
'Oh dear, I wonder what else I've mangled since I arrived.'
Laetitia emerged from the stairwell wearing a sundress and with her hair back in its usual cloud. 'You made it! Were you able to get a hotel room? I realised last night that everything may be full this time of year.'
'It is, but I ran into an acquaintance and he's letting me share his room.'
'Remarkable,' said Eric. 'Is the wizarding world so small that you'd ordinarily run into someone you know?'
'No, it really was quite a coincidence. Though I had a fallback,' said Harry, and he told them about Clive.
Laetitia laughed and said, 'I'm glad your other friend turned up. But you might also have stayed with Sophie in a pinch. And speaking of Sophie, we're to meet her nearby—let's go.'
They walked about a quarter mile to a café on a side street, and a young woman approached and greeted Laetitia, kissing her once on each cheek. She did the same with Eric, and then Laetitia said, 'Sophie, this is Harry Potter. Harry, this is Sophie Tavernier.'
Sophie surprised him by kissing him on either cheek, though it was really more of an air kiss with their cheeks touching. 'It's very nice to meet you, Harry,' she said, in charmingly accented English.
She was shorter than Laetitia, but perhaps an inch taller than Harry. She had brown hair and eyes, and her heart-shaped face reminded him of Tonks. Definitely a model, he thought admiringly. She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Laetitia, but she had an impish quality and casual elegance he suspected were very French.
'It's lovely to meet you, Sophie,' he said, deliberately turning on the charm. 'I hope it's not a problem I turned up at the last minute.'
'No, of course not. Any friend of Laetitia is my friend as well. Is this your first time in France?'
'Yes, I've never left Britain before.'
'Never? C'est dommage! But now you have done it.'
'I have, and it's brilliant so far. I've already had the best chocolate croissant of my life.'
'And it was probably average by French standards,' said Laetitia. 'But we'll get you sorted this weekend.'
They sat down and Sophie helped Harry with the menu. After ordering for him, she said, 'You could have ordered in English, but you'll get better service in French, particularly this time of year. It's all tourists in August.'
'Myself included,' said Harry. 'But perhaps you can help me with my French. I think I'm pronouncing something wrong: merci beaucoup.'
Sophie laughed. 'Yes, that wasn't quite right. The problem was the beaucoup. It's supposed to have an 'ooh' sound, but you said it with an 'u' sound, and that changes the meaning.'
'Oh dear, what did I say?'
'Beaucoup means "very much," but you said "beau cul," which means "nice ass."'
'Are you serious?' he exclaimed, horrified.
'Do not worry, I'm sure nobody misunderstood you. But it is funny.'
'So how do I say it correctly?'
She showed him the difference between the two sounds, and he was slightly distracted watching her lips form the 'oo' shape. And when he tried it he had the impression she was similarly distracted.
'That's good enough,' she said. 'But you will have to practice if you want to really sound French.'
'I don't think that's likely, but I'll make the most of my three days here.'
'Where shall we visit?' asked Laetitia.
'I haven't seen anything, other than the former Bastille and parts of l'Îlot Gicale,' said Harry, trying to pronounce it as Eric had done. 'But I don't want to force you to visit things you've already seen—I can explore on my own if you prefer.'
'Nonsense,' said Laetitia. 'I'm certain we can make it work for everyone.'
'I've been told to visit the Musée d'Orsay,' said Harry. 'That's the one in the old railway station, right?'
'Yes, and it is merveilleux. Better than the Louvre in some ways,' said Sophie.
'And I'd also like to see some cathedrals. It looks like Notre Dame is fairly close to l'Îlot Gicale.'
'It is, but there's also the Sainte Chapelle, which has the most beautiful stained glass. We should visit in the morning, when the sun touches it.'
Harry felt a little embarrassed, but he added, 'I'd also like to see the Eiffel Tower, although I'm sure you've all seen it already. But really, I don't mind going on my own.'
'Actually, there is a good way to see the Tour Eiffel,' said Sophie, 'and many other sights. We will take a flying carpet tour.'
'Really? How does that work, with the Statute of Secrecy?'
'It is necessary to go through the bureau touristique. They have special carpets charmed invisible to Muggles, and you must wear an Invisibility Cloak. And it's only at night.'
'That sounds brilliant. Is it too late for me to get a spot?'
'Normally, yes,' said Sophie. 'I reserved our places weeks ago. But I spoke to them this morning and was able to persuade them to allow one more. You will forgive me, Harry, but I told them your name.'
'That's fine. Normally I don't like jumping the queue, but I won't turn down a flying tour of Paris.'
They spent the meal getting to know one another. Harry learnt that Eric was a computer programmer of some kind, which he hadn't expected.
'Forgive me, but I assumed you'd be in banking or something similar.'
Eric and Laetitia both laughed. 'Because Laetitia's a model?' he asked. 'Yes, that's the usual pairing, but fortunately she discovered they weren't actually her type.'
Laetitia smiled affectionately at Eric. 'It took me a while, but I eventually caught on. And Eric was definitely worth the wait.'
'Eric, what was it like discovering she was a witch?' asked Harry.
'It hardly came as a surprise, to be honest. She was already the most amazing person I'd ever met, both inside and out, so to learn she could perform magic was just a minor detail.' He looked at her fondly before continuing. 'The real surprise was learning about the wizarding world, and particularly that there were two major wars recently. I knew someone who died in a bridge collapse several years ago, and it was upsetting to learn that it had been caused deliberately by wizards.'
Harry nodded. 'That's the horrible thing about magic. One person can do so much damage.'
'Yes, but one person can make an enormous difference as well,' said Laetitia. 'Harry's proof of that.'
'It wasn't just me. I had help—lots of it.'
'Even so, the war ended the minute you killed Voldemort,' she said.
Harry felt his usual discomfort with the verb she'd chosen. He normally let it pass, but that afternoon he was inclined to speak up. 'To be honest, I don't like when people say I killed Voldemort. I know it's a fine point, but I prefer the word "defeated."'
'Interesting,' said Laetitia. 'What's the difference, in your mind?'
'In the end I didn't use a Killing Curse on him, or any curse at all. I could never have defeated him that way—Voldemort was far more powerful than I am. I used a Disarming Charm, and it worked because of factors that had nothing to do with Dark magic.' He added, 'Don't get me wrong, I wanted to stop him. I wanted to end him, and we'd spent more than a year ensuring he wouldn't come back this time around. But if I could have done it without killing him, I would have done.'
Sophie looked thoughtfully at Harry and said, 'You quit your gendarme apprenticeship, no?'
'Do you mean Auror training? Yes, that's right.'
'You are not a killer,' she said. 'But you would have had to become a killer, if you were an Auror.'
'Unfortunately I am a killer,' said Harry. 'When I was eleven I killed my Defence professor with my bare hands.'
Eric was visibly shocked, and Sophie and Laetitia looked surprised as well.
'He was possessed by Voldemort, and he tried to kill me to get the Philosopher's Stone. When he touched me, his skin started to burn, due to the protection from when my mother sacrificed her life for me. I instinctively pressed my hands to his face, and then I grabbed his arm and didn't let go until I finally passed out.'
'Surely that was self-defence,' said Eric.
'Of course, and nobody blamed me for it. I was desperate to stop Voldemort from getting the Philosopher's Stone. But looking back, it's disturbing to see how strong my killer instinct is, and I reckon we all have one. And later, during the war, I performed Dark curses. They weren't natural to me at first, and I wasn't successful. But eventually I was.'
'You are not a killer,' repeated Sophie. 'Yes, you have killed, but then you chose not to. And when you quit your Auror programme, you chose it again.'
'To be honest, I quit being an Auror because I wasn't very good at it and I thought I'd have more fun playing Quidditch.'
'Et alors? You think I have a meaningful career? I sell clothing. And besides, it's important to have fun.'
'I certainly like it,' he said, looking suggestively at her, and she smiled in return. I suspect I won't need that portable bed tonight, he thought with anticipation.
Their food arrived, and Harry was amazed by how good it was. There was nothing pretentious about it, but it was perfectly executed, from the crusty bread to the subtly flavoured sauce. 'What is this herb?' he asked, indicating the little green bits in the salad dressing.
Sophie tasted it and said, 'L'estragon ... I don't know the name in English.'
'Tarragon,' said Eric. 'French tarragon, not Russian—they're a bit different.'
'Do you cook?' asked Harry.
'Yes, that's how he wooed me,' said Laetitia fondly. 'Harry, you know how to cook, right? You said something on the radio about making breakfast for your girlfriends.'
He laughed. 'I try to, but usually my house-elf wins the battle. He's very territorial. It's a good way to impress witches, though—not many wizards know how.'
'Sophie, is it the same in France?' asked Laetitia.
'No, French wizards can cook. In school we learn cooking charms and also how to appreciate different foods. It is considered an essential topic, just like Potions and Transfiguration.'
Harry leaned back in his chair. 'That settles it, I'm moving to France. I just need to find a job and learn the language. That shouldn't be hard, right?'
They planned their afternoon over lunch, with Sophie issuing orders. 'The best way to see Paris is on foot,' she insisted. 'We can walk from here through the Marais, which is an old quartier that has unfortunately become very chic. It is almost too crowded now. But it is very charming, and the Place des Vosges is lovely. And we'll walk to the river from there.'
As promised, they strolled after their late lunch, and Harry was enchanted by the tiny streets and hidden courtyards. Sophie showed him how to spot points Magi not associated with Métro stations. 'There is a floating M, and then you look through your fingers like this.' She made a circle with her thumb and index finger, and held it up to Harry's eye. 'And you will see the entrance.'
'Yes, I see it,' he said, enjoying the touch of her hand against his cheek and brow. 'Do you want to look?' he asked, holding his circled finger and thumb to her eye.
'It looks English,' she said, laughing. 'You are very English.'
'What makes you say that?' he asked playfully.
'Your shoes. And your visage—the look on your face. And of course your hair. A Frenchman would wear it shorter.'
'I've tried! Anytime I cut it shorter than this, it just grows back.'
'But of course, that's what hair does.'
'No, the next morning!'
'Tu rigoles! You are joking.'
'I'm not. Do I need to prove it to you?'
'You mean get a haircut? Today?'
'If you like. There must be a barber somewhere around here.'
'Un coiffeur? Yes, of course. But why bother, if it grows back in the morning?'
'To make you smile,' he replied. 'And I'll look like a Frenchman for one night.'
'Pfft, j'en ai marre des Français,' she said without providing a translation. 'No, it's not worth the effort. You will find other ways to make me smile.'
They arrived at the river and walked across a bridge to the Île Saint-Louis. There was an extremely long queue along the narrow pavement, and Harry asked what everyone was waiting for.
'Berthillon,' replied Sophie. 'It is very good ice cream, but we can get it on l'Îlot Gicale.'
'Is that where you live?' he asked.
'Yes, with my family.' Harry's face must have fallen, because she laughed and said, 'But they are in the provinces for the month of August. I am only here this week for work, and to show Laetitia and Eric around. And now you.'
'So you're all alone this weekend?'
'Yes. And where are you staying?'
'I couldn't get a hotel room, but I ran into a friend and he's letting me stay with him in the Hôtel des Lauriers on a portable bed.'
She made a face and said, 'No, you must stay with me. You will be more comfortable.'
'I'm certain I will be,' he said in a low voice.
Sophie surprised Harry by kissing him, long and deep. 'Pas de suspens. No suspense.'
France is brilliant, he thought, and he took her hand as they strolled the narrow streets.