Harry was awestruck by Notre Dame—he had never seen anything like it. He'd seen several cathedrals in London, from the outside anyway, but they all looked like Gringotts compared to the soaring gothic masterpiece. The interior reminded him a little of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but Notre Dame was much larger and infinitely more inspiring.
'How did they build this without magic?' he asked Sophie incredulously. 'Or did wizards help?'
'No, it was built entirely by Muggles. There was no secrecy back then, but the Church refused magical help.'
'Remarkable,' murmured Harry. He wasn't looking at her, because he was too enraptured by the cathedral, but he held her hand and their fingers twined together. Leaning towards her, he asked, 'Would it be wrong to kiss you inside a church?'
'Yes, very wrong. You must wait.'
But he didn't hurry through Notre Dame. He was thrilled to look around and he felt himself automatically expanding into awareness, as he did while flying. 'Imagine exploring this on a broomstick,' he said reverently.
'No. It wouldn't be the same. It was designed to be seen from the ground, where you are now.'
They eventually exited and walked around the exterior through a sort of park. 'We're outside now. Can we kiss yet?' he asked, and she responded in the affirmative. When he opened his eyes he saw that Laetitia and Eric were doing the same.
Harry asked where they were going next, and Sophie looked across the river towards the Latin Quarter but shook her head. 'The Quartier latin is classic Paris and you should see it, but in August there are too many people. We should magi somewhere less crowded.'
'Where do you recommend?' asked Eric.
'There are many places to choose from,' she said. 'But I think Ménilmontant.'
Sophie led them to a point Magi, which Eric was able to see with the help of an amulet and by looking through Laetitia's circled fingers. Sophie showed them which stop to press on the map, and soon they were standing on a platform similar to the one at Bastille. They walked up the stairs, and Harry was enchanted by the elegantly curving metal entrance to the Métro station.
'How can a city be so beautiful?' he wondered aloud. 'Didn't they consider it frivolous?'
'What makes you think beauty is frivolous?' asked Sophie.
'I don't know. I grew up in the suburbs, and the only beauty permitted was flowers. I suppose that's why I like them so much.'
Laetitia explained, 'Harry has developed a reputation in Britain for appreciating flowers. He's never photographed without them.'
'C'est vrai? You are a dandy?'
'Yes!' said Harry triumphantly. 'Finally someone who knows what a dandy is, besides Hermione of course. I'm impressed you know the word, though. What's the French word for it?'
'Un dandy,' she said. 'It's even spelled the English way, because the original dandies were from England. But we had them here too. I will show you paintings tomorrow, at the Musée d'Orsay.'
They strolled through Ménilmontant and the neighbouring Belleville district. Sophie knew exactly which streets were most picturesque, which meant they didn't waste time on ordinary commercial streets. The sun was getting lower, and Laetitia and Eric seemed keen to return to their hotel before the flying carpet tour, so they agreed to meet at the Bureau touristique and eat dinner afterwards.
Harry and Sophie travelled by Magi back to l'Îlot Gicale, and they went together to Krum's hotel room to retrieve Harry's suitcase. They both laughed at the portable bed, which was worse even than Penelope's futon. 'Thank you for rescuing me from a horrible fate,' he told her. 'I'm afraid I've no tolerance for uncomfortable beds.'
'You are un peu gâté, n'est-ce pas?' she teased.
'What does that mean?'
'It's when a child is too much indulged.'
He laughed, fully aware of how differently he'd reacted when Gilstrap had made the same accusation. 'The word is "spoilt," and unfortunately no, I wasn't. But I've an impossibly comfortable bed now, and it's hard to go back.'
He wrote a note to Krum explaining his absence and promising to meet him for breakfast as planned, and instead of taking the stairs down to the lobby they crammed themselves into the lift, where they enjoyed a brief snog. When they exited the lift Harry held up his key and asked, 'Are you certain I should give this back? It means you're stuck with me for two nights.'
'Pfft,' she replied dismissively. 'If you're no good I will make you sleep in another room tomorrow night.'
He returned the key to the front desk, with the instruction that they remove the portable bed, and Sophie led him to the flat where her family lived. She started to show him around, but they didn't get past her bedroom.
Afterwards she murmured, 'That was ... très agréable. Are all English wizards like you?'
'I don't know. I've never been with any English wizards.'
'Quel dommage pour eux,' she said. 'Then you are not a true dandy.'
'Apparently not. Were they all gay?'
'Many but not all. The Comte de Montesquiou, a French dandy of the 19th century, once made love with the actress Sarah Bernhardt to see if he liked women, but according to the story he vomited the whole day after.'
Harry laughed out loud. 'I think it's safe to say he wasn't attracted to women. But I don't have that problem ... if anything, I'm a bit hooked.'
'What is hooked?' she asked, not understanding.
'It means I can't get enough,' he replied, reaching for her again.
'Ah, accro. Like with drugs.'
'Yes, completely accro. Thank you for teaching me a new word.'
'It's not a good word. Don't call yourself that in public.'
He smiled and said, 'Fortunately we're in private.'
'We should leave soon, for our tour. I presume you want to wash first?'
'Yes, I'm dandy, not a fop,' he said, and she laughed when he explained.
Afterwards he opened his suitcase and asked, 'Are we going into Muggle Paris tonight, or can I wear robes?'
'I haven't decided,' she said. 'It is probably better to wear Muggle clothes.'
'But Muggle clothes are boring. I much prefer robes.'
'English clothes are boring,' she countered. 'But you are in France.'
'Yes, but my clothes are English. Or do you have something I can wear?' he asked cheekily.
'Oui, un foulard.' She opened a drawer and started to dig through it. 'You have a shirt with buttons, right?'
'I do,' he said, pulling on his trousers. 'What's a foo-lar?'
'It's a scarf,' she replied, holding one up. 'French men wear them.'
Harry raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and when he finished buttoning his shirt she tied the scarf around his neck. 'There, now you are a little bit French.'
'I'd probably get beat up if I wore this in England. Particularly in my neighbourhood,' he said, looking in the mirror at the colourful silk scarf she'd selected. 'But I like it.'
It was a short walk from her flat to the Bureau touristique, and Laetitia and Eric were waiting outside. 'Harry, I see you're already turning into a Frenchman,' exclaimed Laetitia.
'It was either this or flowers, and I didn't see a florist. But I may have to bring one home, as a souvenir if nothing else.'
They entered the Bureau, and when Harry paid for his and Sophie's tickets he was handed a pair of headsets and Invisibility Cloaks. 'You will go up to the roof,' instructed the ticket vendor, 'and the tour will start from there.'
'I've never seen a flying carpet before,' he confessed as they climbed the stairs.
'Really?' said Eric. 'I'd have thought they'd be old hat for you.'
'No, they're banned in the UK,' said Laetitia.
'Are they unsafe?'
'No, I think it's just politics. Most of the broomstick manufacturers are British,' she replied.
The carpet was large—nearly twenty feet long and ten feet wide—and all the passengers were instructed to put on their cloaks and sit on one of the cushions along the edge.
But Harry was hesitant. He whispered to Sophie, 'I think the last person to wear this cloak was a fop, based on the smell. Would it be all right if I used my own Invisibility Cloak?'
'Yes, as long as the charms are good.'
He pulled his own cloak from his pouch and returned the one he was given, and then he sat next to Sophie. They were told to put on their headsets—Harry's was charmed to speak English—and soon afterwards the carpet rose into the air.
At first Eric was uneasy, since he couldn't see the carpet, but he discovered there was an invisible barrier along the outer edge, preventing the passengers from sliding off. He and Laetitia soon leaned against each another, and Harry and Sophie did the same.
Harry had spent countless hours on a broomstick, but riding a flying carpet was completely different. He'd never been so passive in the air, and he didn't particularly like the feeling, but it was the perfect way to see Paris. They flew past what he assumed were all the major sites, including the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Montmartre, and the Louvre. He saw some of the places he'd already seen, such as Notre Dame and the Place des Vosges, and they also passed the Musée d'Orsay, which he still planned to visit.
'Merci beaucoup,' he said to Sophie, pronouncing it correctly. 'I can't believe I'm on a flying carpet over Paris. It's just so beautiful.'
'Yes, Paris is very beautiful.' They were flying over the Seine, and he was gently stroking her hand.
'I never thought I'd see this,' he confessed. 'I didn't even bother dreaming about it—there wasn't any point.'
'How strange … you had to save a world you never even saw,' she said tenderly.
He shook his head. 'I didn't save the world.'
'In France we were worried. Voldemort had already conquered England, and we were afraid he'd come next to France.'
Harry had no idea whether her fears had been justified—he'd never seen or heard Voldemort's thoughts on the subject. But he understood being afraid of an unstoppable evil.
'I was scared too,' he admitted. 'I knew what he was capable of, and also what he wasn't capable of. I don't think he appreciated beauty ... only power. And the only thing he feared was death.'
'Do you fear death?'
'No,' he said honestly. 'Death is simple—it's life that's complicated.'
'And yet you are living. Don't they call you the Boy Who Lived?'
'Yes, but I've only just started to.'
She kissed him, and Harry knew they weren't the only passengers engaged in a public display of affection. France must be unbearable when you're alone, he mused. No wonder they have sex so readily.
The tour ended, and they walked over a footbridge that led to the Left Bank. They emerged through the book stall on the Quai Voltaire, and Sophie led them to a bistro on a side street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Harry's senses were overwhelmed—by the ambiance, by the incredible food, by the wine Sophie selected. He felt drunk on the pleasure of sitting next to her at the cramped table, looking at Laetitia's beautiful face and hair, and seeing the love between her and Eric.
What the hell was wrong with Voldemort? he wondered yet again. The world was so beautiful and Voldemort couldn't see any of it. He lacked love, thought Harry. Voldemort had been conceived and raised without love.
Bollocks! came an opposing thought, and Sirius popped into his mind. Sirius had been conceived and raised without love—by Walburga of all people. He'd grown up in a cesspit of Dark magic and spent more than a decade in Azkaban, and yet he'd had nothing but love for Harry.
Dumbledore made a lot of mistakes, but he was dead-on about love. Then why had the headmaster been alone nearly all his life? Harry had heard the rumours about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and he reckoned they were true. But why hadn't Dumbledore fallen in love again? These days I seem to fall in love at least once a month, Harry admitted to himself.
The wine had gone to his head, he realised. It was also late, and he had to meet Krum early for breakfast. 'Sophie, mon cher,' he whispered, and she laughed.
'You made a mistake,' she said. 'It is ma chère. I called you mon cher because you are masculine, but I am feminine.'
'You're very feminine,' he said, with an admiring look. 'Women are brilliant. There should be nothing but women.'
'You really are accro! But there must be some men who can stay. You don't need all the women.'
'That's true. Where would I put them? And a lot of my mates are blokes ... I'd miss them if they were gone. All right, you've convinced me—the men can stay.'
They finished their meal, and after fighting over the bill Harry and Eric agreed to split it. 'Thanks again for inviting me to Paris last night. I'd have gone out of my mind in London this weekend.'
'No you wouldn't have,' said Laetitia, 'but I'm glad you could join us.'
Sophie and Harry walked back to her flat, and they fell asleep soon after. But she woke him from a nightmare several hours later, and for once he was willing to describe it.
'I was flying over Paris—unassisted, like Voldemort. I was Voldemort, and I hated what I saw, I wanted to destroy it. And I was in Notre Dame and Travers was there and I tortured him, and then it was the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and Tonks was there, only she couldn't see me and I wanted to apologise but she couldn't see me, and she was holding a baby but it was Voldemort like in King's Cross.'
His heart was racing, and Sophie was soothing him in a jumble of English and French. 'Mon pauvre, n'aie pas peur, you are safe, I am here, mon cher, mon joli Anglais, je suis là.'
'When will they end?' he asked, his throat dry. 'Why won't they end? He's gone now, it's gone now.'
She was facing him and ran her hand through his hair. 'Mon cher, you are so courageux.' She kissed his forehead and tears fell from his eyes, and she kissed those as well.
'I close my eyes and still see it. Still see him.'
'Then open your eyes,' she said, and he saw her looking tenderly at him. 'Do you want some water?'
'I can get it,' he said, starting to sit up, but she stopped him.
'No no, I get it,' she said, and she rose from the bed and returned moments later with a glass.
He sat up to drink, and the water soothed his parched throat. 'Thank you. Merci beaucoup.'
'De rien.'
They lay down again and he curled into her, and he felt himself expand into awareness. I should have done this earlier, he thought, and eventually sleep overtook him.
He awoke hours later, after sunrise, and they enjoyed a playful morning until he had to leave to meet Krum. 'You're welcome to join us,' he said, but she refused.
'No. We still have another day and night together, and all day tomorrow.'
'Then I'm allowed to stay in your room another night?' he asked, with a roguish gleam in his eye.
'You know the answer, coquin!'
'What does that mean, co-can?'
'It means you are a little devil.'
He smiled. 'That's what Hermione calls me, a devil.'
'That's because you are one.'
Harry dressed in wizarding robes, even though he knew he'd need to change into Muggle clothes after breakfast, and he walked to the hotel to meet Krum. 'I could use something to eat,' Harry told him. 'There was only yoghurt and fruit where I'm staying.'
'Yes, I am hungry too,' said Krum. 'We played a match last night.'
'How was it?' asked Harry, as they walked to the café where they'd met the day before.
'A little boring, to be honest. The other Seeker and I didn't speak a common language, so we couldn't exchange insults.'
'You do that as well? That's been a huge part of my new career—much more than at Hogwarts.'
'Yes, all professional Seekers do it.'
They sat at a table inside the café and looked at the menu. Neither of them spoke French, but even they could tell that only beverages were listed. Puzzled, Harry asked their waiter if they served food as well.
'Yes, I will bring something,' said the waiter in accented English. 'You will have café also?' They both nodded, and the waiter left.
'So Harry, how do you like flying professionally? I hear you are winning.'
'My teammates are brilliant, and so is my trainer,' he said, referring to Owen. 'I couldn't do it without them.'
'Yes, but you have also caught the Snitch every time, no?'
'I was ejected for fighting the game before last, but other than that yes.'
'I saw that. Your photograph was in the Italian newspaper.'
'Are you serious?'
'Yes, everyone is wondering whether you'll play for England.'
Harry rolled his eyes. 'That's a bit premature. I only started with the Cannons last month.'
'You have time,' shrugged Krum. 'But do you enjoy it?'
'Yes, more than I'd have imagined.'
The waiter arrived with a pair of bowl-like cups of milky coffee and two croissants.
'That's a start,' said Harry, reaching for a croissant. 'And how are you doing?'
'Better than the last time I saw you.'
'At the wedding you mean?'
'What wedding? No, I meant at Hogwarts, right after Diggory died.'
Harry was puzzled—he and Krum had spoken at Bill and Fleur's wedding two years earlier, right before the Ministry fell and they went into into hiding. But then he remembered.
'I'm sorry, I was in disguise! I saw you at Fleur's wedding to Bill Weasley—I took Polyjuice Potion and claimed I was Ron's cousin Barny.'
'That was you?' exclaimed Krum. 'We spoke about Grindelwald's sign, which that man was wearing, and then you asked me about Gregorovich.' Krum was referring to Xenophilius Lovegood, who had worn a pendant with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, and to the European wandmaker Voldemort had murdered in his search for the Elder Wand.
'I couldn't reveal myself ... we went into hiding that night and didn't come out until the Battle of Hogwarts. But I should thank you for the information you provided—it was extremely helpful.'
'That is a relief to hear. I was very suspicious at the time.'
'You must have been surprised to receive my recent owl, if you thought we hadn't seen each other since the Triwizard Tournament,' said Harry. 'I assume you got my letter?'
'Yes, and I'm sorry for not replying sooner. You made very interesting proposals,' said Krum, referring to Harry's suggestions for changing the rules of Quidditch.
'I know it's a crazy idea, but I figured there's no harm in asking. What do you think?'
'Perhaps I'm the wrong person to ask, because Bulgaria doesn't have the best Chasers, but in principle I think it's a good idea. The reason I didn't write back is because I'm still talking to other Seekers about it.'
'Really? What do they think?'
'It's not a new idea. Chasers all complain about the scoring, and the fans don't like when the match ends too quickly. And as you know, catching the Snitch is sometimes just a matter of luck. There is skill, yes, but not like what the other players do.'
'So are they interested in changing the rules?' persisted Harry.
'Yes, all of them. Me too. But I don't think you'll succeed.'
'Even though all the players think it's a good idea, and probably the fans and team owners as well?'
'Yes, even with that. Wizards are very stubborn about tradition.'
They'd both finished their croissants and were looking expectantly at their waiter, but he didn't bring anything else. Eventually he returned and set down a small metal tray with a slip of paper, which Harry assumed was their bill.
'Excuse me,' said Harry. 'Is that all the food you're serving? We were hoping for breakfast.'
'Yes, that was breakfast,' replied the waiter before walking away.
Stunned, Harry looked at Krum. 'Am I hallucinating, or did he just serve us two croissants and call it breakfast?'
'No, I saw it too. You were hoping for an English breakfast?'
'Er, yes. Admittedly I didn't play a match yesterday, but I walked quite a lot.'
Krum pointed out the ashtray on their table. 'I think the French smoke instead of eating.'
Harry looked at the other patrons, nearly all of whom were smoking, and realised Krum was right. 'Do you have any cigarettes?' he joked.
'No. But there's a bakery nearby. We can go there after finishing our coffee.'
They both drained their cups and left a couple of Bezants on the metal plate provided.
'How is Hermione?' asked Krum as they walked. 'Are you still friends?'
'Yes, very much so. She's doing well.'
Krum hesitated. 'Is she still with Ron Weasley?'
'No, they broke up last month,' said Harry, and Krum looked at him hopefully. 'But she's started dating my teammate, Ryan Bellamy. He's a Chaser.'
'Chasers,' growled Krum. 'We should leave the Quidditch scoring as it is.'
'Are you still hung up on Hermione? You didn't date her very long, and she was only fifteen.'
'She was special. I'm surprised you don't see it.'
'Did you even talk to her before asking her to the Yule Ball?' asked Harry, and Krum shook his head. 'Then why were you interested? She wasn't the only pretty girl.'
'She was intelligent. I saw her at the library all the time, and she was actually reading books and not just talking with friends. But that wasn't all—I knew she didn't like the Dark Arts.'
'Because she's Muggle-born?'
'Yes, and also because she was friends with you. I assumed you didn't like the Dark Arts either.'
'You were right. In fact, I dislike them now even more than I did then.'
'Really? What changed?'
They arrived at the bakery, so they paused their conversation to look at the pastries. It's not an English breakfast, thought Harry, but everything certainly looks good. He selected a spiral-shaped pastry with raisins and something he hoped contained apples.
After buying their pastries, he and Krum sat on a bench at the park Harry had been chased from the previous afternoon. 'We were talking about the Dark Arts,' Krum reminded him. 'Did you ever pursue them? I suppose you had to, when you fought Voldemort.'
'I never studied them, but I performed several Dark curses during the war. But never again—I've seen too clearly what effect they have, both on the victim and the caster.'
Krum nodded. 'They taught the Dark Arts at Durmstrang.'
'Yes, I heard that,' said Harry, recalling how Draco Malfoy had praised Durmstrang for it. 'I take it you didn't like them either?'
'Actually, at first I did like them. They're very powerful, and they depend on emotions like anger. I was very angry at that age.'
Harry wasn't surprised, considering Krum's perpetual scowl. 'Yes, it was horribly satisfying when I successfully performed the Cruciatus Curse, just before the Battle of Hogwarts.'
'That's the word—satisfying. Only it's with negative emotions, so they grow stronger.'
'I never thought about it that way, but you're right. Dark magic reinforces the worst emotions.' Harry had seen it in himself, but more importantly he'd seen it in Voldemort. When Voldemort had tortured people, his desire to keep torturing only grew stronger. 'What made you realise they were a problem?'
'I started duelling, and I was good at it—but with Dark curses. I felt myself becoming more angry. The only thing that helped was flying. When I was on a broomstick, I felt free from it.'
Harry, who was enjoying his raisin pastry, nodded in agreement. 'It's amazing, isn't it? Hardly anything clears my head like flying does.'
'I was lucky,' said Krum. 'I was a good flyer, so I was allowed to concentrate on Quidditch and give up duelling. I still had to study Dark curses, but not like before. And when we learned about the Triwizard Tournament they let me stop completely, since Dark magic wasn't permitted. I was much more cheerful after that.'
Sweet Merlin, I've only seen the cheerful version of Krum, thought Harry. 'You said you liked Hermione in part because you knew she avoided Dark magic, but there were lots of witches chasing you at Hogwarts, and I doubt they were practicing the Dark Arts.'
'No, probably not. But they were only interested in me because of Quidditch, or because of the Triwizard Tournament. Surely you can understand what that's like.'
'Yes, and I agree it can feel a bit dehumanising. But it also has its advantages. Less effort, you know.'
'Now I know why you didn't need my hotel room,' said Krum, momentarily relaxing his usual scowl. 'And yes, I have enjoyed the benefits as well. But some witches will avoid you for the same reason, and I think they might be the ones who are most worth the effort.'
'Perhaps you're right,' said Harry sceptically. He'd already met several brilliant witches the easy way, and he suspected Krum was being over-pessimistic.
Their conversation drifted back to Quidditch, including a heated debate on the merits and shortcomings of the Firebolt Ultra, and before leaving Harry prodded Krum again on changing the scoring rules.
'Of course you have my support,' said Krum. 'And same with all the other Seekers I've talked to. But mark my words, it won't work.'
'I look forward to proving you wrong. I'm very glad I ran into you, and thanks again for offering to share your hotel room. Please owl me next time you're in Britain.'
'Enjoy Paris, and perhaps we will play against each other one day.'
They embraced—Harry had extended his hand but the Bulgarian had pulled him into a hug—and then Harry returned to Sophie's flat.
'What's the matter with breakfast in this country?' he asked her. 'All they served at the café was a croissant—Viktor and I had to go to a bakery to keep from fainting.'
'You poor thing,' laughed Sophie, 'trying to find an enormous English breakfast in France.' She looked at his robes and added, 'You look very dashing but you'll need to change into Muggle clothes now.'
Harry sighed and began to unbutton the outer robe. 'May I wear something of yours as well? Another scarf?'
'You'd look good in a dress,' she suggested. 'Though your shoes are all wrong.'
'And I have knobbly knees. No, we'll have to come up with something else.'
She pulled a striped knit shirt from a shelf and made him try it on. 'I love it! You must wear it.'
'You're joking! It's way too small.'
'Perhaps. But today we will get you one of your own. It is a classic Breton shirt, worn by French sailors.'
He peeled it off and changed back into one of his own shirts, which Sophie accessorised with another scarf, and they were soon walking towards the Île de la Cité. 'You must see la Sainte Chapelle,' she insisted. 'It has the most beautiful stained glass.'
They met Laetitia and Eric in the queue, and before long they were inside. Harry could scarcely breathe at the sight of the upper chapel, and he felt as though his heart had expanded beyond his own physical boundaries. He automatically reached for Sophie's hand and stood there in blissful silence.
'Er, Harry,' whispered Eric after a few minutes. 'Your hand is glowing.' Harry raised his free hand and saw that silvery light was emanating from it—he immediately stuffed it into his front pocket.
The two witches turned to look, and Harry saw that his other hand was also glowing. Sophie let go of it and covered it with her jumper. 'It pleases you, la Sainte Chapelle?'
He sighed in ecstasy and said, 'God, yes. I don't think I've been anywhere so perfect.'
'It was constructed in only seven years—without magic. That's why it's so uniform.'
Harry was still in raptures, and Laetitia tugged his arm. 'Harry, your face is starting to glow ... we need to get you out of here.'
'Er, yes, of course,' he said absently, and Laetitia dragged him into the stone staircase that led to the exit. His glow brightened the dark passage, and Sophie hastily Confunded the other visitor they passed. Fortunately Harry began to dim when they reached the lower chapel, and by the time they were outside he looked normal again.
Laetitia led him to a bench and sat next to him. 'Are you all right?' she asked.
He closed his eyes and experienced another wave of the bliss he'd felt inside the upper chapel. 'That was tremendous,' he murmured.
'He's glowing again,' whispered Eric, and they led Harry into the sunlight.
'Oh, Sophie,' he sighed, embracing her. 'That was perfection. All of this is perfection.' He began to kiss her tenderly.
'Do you need to go back to the flat?' giggled Laetitia. 'I never realised stained glass could be such a turn-on.'
Returning to himself, Harry shook his head slowly. 'No, it's not sex. It's just overwhelming love. I could kiss any one of you, but Sophie was the obvious choice.'
'I don't think of myself as the jealous type,' said Eric, 'but I can't say I'd be pleased to see you start snogging Laetitia. And I'm not drunk enough to fancy you myself.'
Harry laughed. 'I can't say I've explored that side of things—and yes, I know I attended a boarding school.'
'Where shall we go next?' asked Sophie. 'I had planned on the Musée d'Orsay, but if Harry is too sensitive to the artwork we might need to go somewhere else.'
He shook his head and reassured her. 'Believe me, if Hermione heard anyone worrying I was too sensitive to artwork she'd fall over laughing. I'm sure I'll be fine.'
Sophie guided them to a point Magi, and they emerged near the museum. It was early enough that the queue wasn't horrendous, and before long they were inside. Harry was pleasantly reminded of King's Cross Station, and he followed Sophie as she led them through the various galleries.
'I haven't been to a museum in years,' he confessed. 'Not since before I learnt I was a wizard.'
'How is that possible?' she asked.
'I was at Hogwarts most of the time, and during the summers I was trapped at my aunt and uncle's house. I suppose I could have gone this past year, but it never crossed my mind.'
'Which museums did you visit?' asked Laetitia.
'During primary school I went on a class trip to the British Museum, and once to the National Gallery. I remember liking some of the paintings, but I mostly tried to avoid my cousin and his mates.'
Harry was no longer accustomed to seeing stationary paintings, and he thought he'd find them boring, but they were interesting in a way that wizarding paintings weren't. 'They don't need to move,' he murmured, in front of a painting of labourers preparing a wood floor. He marvelled at how the artist had captured their motion with paint rather than magic.
Sophie was able to tell him about many of the paintings, including which ones had caused a scandal. 'Did you learn this in school?' he asked, impressed by her vast knowledge.
'I grew up near this museum, Harry. I have been here many times. I'm certain you could tell me about the places where you have lived.'
'But you wouldn't be interested. I grew up in Little Whinging, and there was nothing worth visiting there. Hogwarts is all right, but I'd mostly point out places I'd nearly been killed, or cursed someone.'
'Then begin learning about new places and things.'
'I think I will,' he said sincerely.
When she showed Harry the paintings by Van Gogh and told him how much the artist had suffered before taking his own life, he was overcome with emotion. The combination of the beautiful artwork and his own feelings of compassion moved him to tears. He realised that Van Gogh had achieved immortality in a way Voldemort could never have done.
This is greatness, he thought. He knew that people would eventually forget his own accomplishments, but that these paintings were still as inspiring as ever. He had a momentary urge to learn how to paint, but he knew he hadn't any talent or real inclination. But I can appreciate other people's paintings, he thought gratefully.
Sophie led him to the portrait of Robert de Montesquiou, the French dandy she'd told him about the night before. 'I'm glad he's not vomiting in the picture,' said Harry. 'Actually, that's a nice outfit he's wearing. It looks almost like wizarding robes—I wonder if my tailor could reproduce it.'
At Laetitia's prompting, Eric took photographs of the painting, which he promised to send to Harry. 'Don't forget the gloves,' she said, referring to the elegant silk gloves the subject was wearing.
'No, that's where I draw the line. Lucius Malfoy wore gloves like that, probably to avoid touching half-bloods like myself, and worse.'
Harry ate enough at the museum café to keep from passing out, and later they had a proper lunch together on the Îlot Gicale, including the ice cream they'd seen people queuing for on the Île Saint-Louis. Afterwards the two couples parted with a plan to meet for dinner and dancing that evening. 'It is time to buy you clothes and dress you like a Frenchman,' insisted Sophie. 'Or a Frenchwoman if you prefer.'
'No, I cause enough scandals with my clothing already.'
'So I hear! Your British press is horrible.'
'It really is. It's a pleasure not having to read the Daily Prophet for a couple of days. I should leave town more often.'
Sophie took him to a series of shops, where he purchased several silk foulards, including magical ones for Hermione and Andromeda. She also picked out a striped Breton jersey for him, and a fitted floral button-down shirt she insisted he wear that evening. 'If I can't get you into a dress, this will have to do.'
As they walked along an unfamiliar street on the way back to her flat, Harry was surprised to see a British flag mounted a few doors ahead. 'What's going on? I thought we were in France.'
'It is a British pub,' she laughed. 'For expat wizards.'
'Good lord no,' he said, backing away. 'Are you saying it's full of British people?'
'Not only British people. French people enjoy British pubs as well, for a change of atmosphere.'
'Oh, do they serve a proper breakfast there?'
'Probably, but I have never been. We must go in, and you can tell me if it's authentic.'
'You realise what you're asking, right? For all I know it's full of exiled Death Eaters who want to kill me.'
'Interesting. Perhaps I should go in first to see.'
'How would you even tell?' he asked.
'I don't know. But I have good instincts.'
He hung back, a few doors away, and Sophie went ahead to look inside. First she just poked her head in, and then she entered all the way. He got nervous when she didn't come out immediately and he was preparing to approach with his wand, but she popped out and waved him over.
'Allez, viens, you must see,' she called.
Her tone quelled his fears but raised a new concern. He was tempted to raise his 'Leave me alone' shields but he suspected Sophie wanted to see him attract attention. She'd been amused the other times he'd been recognised on the Îlot Gicale, and once even at the Musée d'Orsay, and it seemed churlish to disappoint her.
Harry walked into a bar that was simultaneously the most and least authentic British pub he'd ever seen. The flag alone should have warned him, since he'd never seen one outside a pub at home. But there were several more inside, along with banners for every Quidditch team in the league. Numerous photographs covered the back wall, but before he could examine them someone exclaimed, 'Bless me, it's Harry Potter!' and mayhem was unleashed.
He moved instinctively towards Sophie and resisted the urge to use her as a human shield. Laughing, she grabbed his arm and pointed to the wall of photographs. On top was a photograph of Queen Elizabeth, whom he had never seen displayed in a wizarding pub, along with other photos of the royal family, and right below them was a large photograph of himself.
There was a clamour of voices and the flash of a camera, but eventually the noise died down enough that he was able to answer individual questions. 'I'm just in Paris for the weekend ... Yes, it's brilliant ... I came here with friends ... No, I've never been here before ... The Cannons played on Thursday night ... Yes, they're a wonderful organisation ... No, Hermione's not here with me ... I'd prefer not to answer that, but I'm very sorry I lost my temper.'
The last question was about why he'd punched Gilstrap the weekend before. Clearly the group was mad for Quidditch—in addition to all the banners on display, several of the patrons were wearing team jerseys, possibly related to the match playing on the radio.
'Is that Puddlemere?' he asked, recognising some of the names the announcer mentioned.
'Yes, they're up 150 to 130—they've been playing the Harpies for more than three hours,' said a patron.
Poor Phil, thought Harry. I'll have to wear his jersey next week as a show of support.
Harry and Sophie were herded to a large table and given pint glasses. She looked delighted, so he decided to surrender to the situation. 'Do you live in Paris or are you also just visiting?' he asked the people around him.
'We're mostly expats,' said a tall wizard old enough to be Harry's father. 'My wife and I moved here in the eighties, between wars, but a lot of people came here during one of the wars and then stayed.'
Harry felt the same resentment he'd felt towards Clive, for leaving instead of fighting, but he knew it was unjust. The Ministry had repeatedly announced during the war that Harry had fled and that the resistance was crushed, so it was only sensible for them to move somewhere safe. Helena's family had nearly left, after all.
'What was it like, being here during the war?' he asked, genuinely curious.
'Some of us tried to help, best as we could,' said the wizard. 'There was a steady stream of refugees—mostly Muggle-born—and we had an organisation to help get them resettled. We sent a lot to America, actually, since not everyone wanted to learn a new language. Luckily I'd learnt some French at school, so I had a head start when I moved here.'
'You didn't go to Hogwarts, I take it,' said Harry. 'I'm realising how inadequate my education was.'
'No, I attended Dunbridge. Except for Muggle-born refugees, you won't meet many expats who attended Hogwarts.'
'Why is that?'
'They usually do just fine at home. The reason my wife and I left was that there were better opportunities abroad for people without Hogwarts connections. Good luck getting a job at the Ministry when they assume your N.E.W.T. results were forged, since they can't believe you were properly educated somewhere else.'
'I'm hoping that'll change, now that the word about the other schools is finally getting out.'
'Maybe, maybe not,' said the wizard. 'There hasn't been a peep about it yet in the Prophet.'
'No, there wouldn't be. Their wards are still up—hopefully they'll be removed next week.'
'You know you're in today's Prophet,' interjected a witch, holding out the newspaper.
Bloody hell, thought Harry. What did I do now?
Fortunately it was just an item in the gossip column, reporting that he'd gone to Paris for the weekend and speculating about who he was meeting there. Laetitia was the leading suspect, since they'd been seen together at the end of Harry's match, and it was theorised they'd travelled separately to avoid suspicion.
Why would Laetitia and I try to avoid suspicion after we'd been photographed together on purpose? he wondered, but there was no point trying to understand.
Harry returned to what the wizard had said earlier, about whether things would change now that news of the other schools was coming to light. 'I'd like more than anything to help level the playing field in Britain, for people from all schools, but how would you suggest going about it?'
'That's a damn good question, Potter,' said another wizard. 'Are you planning to start attending the Wizengamot regularly?'
'Not if I can help it. I have business there on Wednesday, but otherwise I'd rather keep my distance, in part because the sessions are normally when I'm at practice.' Though at least I have those snazzy robes now, he added inwardly. 'What would I even be able to do at the Wizengamot?'
'Stir up trouble, same as you do everywhere else. Nice work taking down the lords, by the way. We raised a glass in your honour after reading your "bollocks" letter.'
'I'm certain I can stir up trouble without attending the Wizengamot. Are you able to listen to Weasley's Wizard Wireless here?'
'Yes, and it's fantastic,' said the first wizard. 'Tell them there's a market in Paris for those condoms. I have a shop here on l'Îlot Gicale and I'm certain they'd be a hit.'
Sophie had started rubbing her foot against Harry's leg under the table, and he too was ready to leave. But he was stuck signing autographs for a while, and the proprietor induced him to sign the large photograph on the wall. A closer look at the wall revealed signed photos from numerous famous Britons, including Celestina Warbeck, Ludo Bagman, The Weird Sisters, Gilderoy Lockhart, and to Harry's surprise, a much younger-looking Albus Dumbledore.
The photograph was black and white, and Harry could see that Dumbledore's hair and beard were still dark. This must have been taken around the time he defeated Grindelwald, he thought. And it might have been Harry's imagination, but Dumbledore seemed to be regarding him with great interest—he tented his fingers and appeared to study him carefully.
'You were right about Riddle,' he whispered to the photograph. 'He was worse than you could have imagined, but we got him in the end. It's yet to be determined whether he irretrievably fucked up my life or not—or whether you did, for that matter. I'll keep you posted.' Dumbledore's eyes softened, and he very slightly tipped his head at Harry before resuming his previous pose.
Harry and Sophie finally extricated themselves from the pub, but not before several wizards handed him business cards and mentioned they were looking for investors in their pastry export business. 'I hope you enjoyed that,' he told Sophie once they were outside.
'It was very funny,' she said, 'but then it took too long. Is that what happens when you go out in England?'
'I sometimes use a Notice-Me-Not Charm, but usually I just put up a non-magical wall, which works pretty well.'
'A non-magical wall? Show me.'
Harry tried to compress his energy and draw himself inward, but it wasn't as easy or natural as it had once been. 'Hang on, I'm having trouble now.'
She looked at him appraisingly. 'You are less magnétique, and a little more sad perhaps. But I prefer the other version—bring him back.'
'Inside your flat,' he whispered. 'Then he's all yours.'
He allowed his energy to expand fully once they were in her bedroom, and he was surprised by how powerful the experience was. He employed the same technique he'd used to kiss Myrtle, only Sophie was warm and lovely and very much alive.
'This is your power,' she murmured afterwards, as they lay together. 'This is how you survive two Killing Curses.'
'No,' he exhaled. 'Both times were because of my mother's sacrifice.'
'Then that is her gift to you, and your gift to everyone else.'
'I haven't shagged that many witches,' he laughed. 'It's only five now, although four have been in the last six weeks, since I joined the Cannons.'
She raised an eyebrow at him. 'You really are accro. But I didn't mean "shagging,"' she said with a smirk. 'I meant how you defeated Voldemort.'
'Yes, that was a sacrifice too—my own. But I'd rather not sacrifice my life every time someone needs help. I've grown rather fond of living,' he said, stroking her gently.
'You don't need to give your life ... you give your energy, your puissance.'
'Toujours puissant,' he quoted, and she looked at him curiously. 'That's the Black family motto, my godfather's family. I'm Head of House now, and I'm considering changing my name to Harry Potter-Black.'
'That sounds even more English than Harry Potter,' she giggled. 'And yes ... toujours puissant.'
He relished hearing her pronounce the words. 'Say it again.'
'Toujours puissant. It suits you. You share your power and it grows.'
Harry stretched his arms languorously. I don't care what the Blacks think, he thought. I'm changing my bloody name.
Sophie looked at the clock on the nightstand and said, 'If you are a dandy you must shower now. And then we will dress you in your flower shirt and foulard and go to dinner.'
He let her wash first—the stall was too small to share—and when he emerged she was applying makeup. 'Muggle makeup,' he said approvingly, remembering what Helena had worn.
'Yes, we are going to a nightclub and I am too vaniteuse to be invisible, especially next to Laetitia.'
'You won't be invisible, I promise.'
By the time he'd dressed, she was putting on the finishing touches. Her makeup wasn't as dramatic as Helena's had been—no lip gloss or false eyelashes—but Harry was astonished by the difference it had made. Until then she'd only been a pretty young woman, but she transformed into someone he could easily picture on the cover of a magazine.
Sophie noticed his reaction and laughed. 'Yes, I know—I look very different this way. But let's see what we can do with you.'
'Are you serious?'
'Yes. You have beautiful eyes, and I want to exaggerate them.' Instructing him to stand still, she gently rubbed lotion onto his eyelids and then used a brush to apply different colour powders. She drew along the edges using a soft pencil, which went poorly until he finally used an obscure hex on himself to keep from blinking. The last step was an eyelash curler and then mascara.
'The hard part is done,' she said, not letting him look in the mirror. 'Now only rouge and lipstick.'
'Please, not lipstick,' he urged. 'I hate seeing it on the rims of glasses.'
She nodded. 'Then we can use a charm, but I will apply it. And I'll only remove it when we come home.'
'I can't possibly walk through l'Îlot Gicale wearing makeup, particularly now that everyone knows I'm here.'
'Fine, you can wear your Invisibility Cloak until we arrive at Bastille, and we can Apparate home.'
Sophie applied rouge to his cheeks and performed a charm on his lips, and then she stood back and nodded. 'It is done. You can see now.'
Harry looked in the mirror, expecting to start laughing, but she'd done a surprisingly good job. He didn't look like a girl, which was fortunate because he didn't think he'd be a very attractive one, with his thin face and angular features. But he had to admit his eyes looked spectacular, and the lip colour suited him as well.
'This is a one-time occurrence,' he said. 'I could never go out like this in England.'
'Then enjoy it,' she replied, tying a scarf around his neck. 'You are a très joli garçon. Or jeune fille, if you prefer.'
'Je suis un dandy,' he declared, and he kissed her once more before pulling on his Invisibility Cloak.
She led him to the point Magi, and when they arrived at Bastille he removed his Cloak. 'I don't know if I was this nervous when we tried to rob Gringotts,' he confessed. 'But fortunately everyone will be looking at you and Laetitia tonight.'
'We could walk through the Marais later, if you want attention from men. And there will be gay men at the nightclub as well.'
'I suppose I can Disapparate in a pinch. Just promise to Obliviate people after I leave.'
When Laetitia and Eric saw him, they both stared in shock. 'Don't even think about taking my photograph,' warned Harry. 'This is probably the biggest mistake of my life, and that's saying something, but Sophie talked me into it.'
'You look smashing,' said Laetitia. 'And I suspect Eric won't need a drink to want to snog you.'
'I will,' joked Harry, and they started walking towards the restaurant Sophie had selected. Dinner was superb, and again they drank more wine than he was accustomed to, but Harry's pleasure was extreme. He felt almost as he had in the Sainte Chapelle and was concerned he'd start glowing again, but he found he could dial back the feeling without completely extinguishing it.
Their meal took hours, which Harry had discovered was normal in France, and eventually they headed to a nightclub on the Rue de Lappe. There was a queue, but the doorman ushered them to the front as soon as he saw Laetitia and Sophie.
It wasn't as dark inside as the nightclub in London had been, and Harry found he enjoyed being looked at. Both women and men were checking him out, and he deliberately increased his energy flow to amplify the effect. When Sophie was in the loo, a man approached Harry and started speaking to him in French.
'Désolé, je ne parle pas français. Parlez-vous anglais?' he replied automatically, and the man switched to heavily accented English. 'Yes, I speak English. You are American?'
'No, British.'
'Why are you here and not in the Marais? You will meet more men there.'
'I'm here with friends. And you?'
'It is the same thing for me.' The Frenchman looked at Harry hungrily. 'You have very beautiful eyes. Do you want something to drink?'
'I've already had too much,' he said, indicating the empty glass that had held his cocktail. 'But I'm here with a woman.'
'Dommage,' said the man, looking at Harry's close-fitting shirt. 'You are very British rocker. David Bowie, or Marc Bolan. Bisexuels, tu sais.'
'I've never tried,' he admitted, and Sophie returned.
'This is your girlfriend?' asked the Frenchman. 'Pas mal, pour une femme.'
'C'est ma faute,' she said playfully, clearly referring to Harry. 'C'est moi qui l'ai maquillé—il est joli ainsi, n'est-ce pas?'
'Ouais, très joli.' He handed Harry a card and said, 'If you want to explore your côté rockeur britannique, call me.'
'Cheers,' said Harry, who had enjoyed the attention but was also glad to see him go. The man wasn't unattractive—in fact, he was quite good looking—but a single glance at Sophie was enough to remind Harry he preferred women.
'Where are Laetitia and Eric?' she asked, taking his hand.
'Over there, I think,' he said, indicating a different section of the dance floor. 'Shall we join them?'
Harry and Sophie found the other couple, who were dancing very demonstratively. 'Vive la France,' he thought, and he began dancing with Sophie in a similar manner. They had charmed their ears to protect their hearing and make each other's voices more audible, and Laetitia had done the same for Eric.
'Harry encountered his first dragueur,' announced Sophie proudly.
'Welcome to France,' laughed Laetitia. 'Though you should walk through the Marais for the full experience.'
Harry gathered from the context that a dragueur was someone on the pull. 'Is it worse for women?' he asked, and Sophie and Laetitia nodded emphatically.
'I can't walk a single block without hearing from les dragueurs, and that's without makeup,' explained Sophie. 'And before you tell me it's because I'm a model, I assure you my friends all say the same.'
'That sounds unpleasant,' said Harry. 'I assume they're not usually men you'd be interested in.'
'Almost never. At least your friend over there was handsome, and he didn't follow you.'
'Ugh, men are the worst,' groaned Harry. 'I think I want to restate my wish for there to be women only.'
'Oi, we aren't all bad,' protested Eric, who'd also had his share of alcohol. 'Laetitia likes me, anyway.'
'I certainly do,' she said affectionately. 'Go on, prove to Harry why I like you.'
'What are you suggesting? I'm not certain our hotel room will accommodate four.'
She burst out laughing. 'Classic male response, jumping to the most pornographic scenario! No, I'm only suggesting you kiss him, if he's willing.'
Everyone looked expectantly at Harry. 'On the first date?' he asked, fluttering his eyelashes. 'I'm not that kind of girl.'
'You aren't a girl at all,' said Sophie. 'I checked.'
'Good point,' said Harry, wondering whether he actually wanted to kiss Eric. It would be different, he thought. And he's good looking, for a bloke. 'All right,' he said saucily. 'I won't even make you buy me a drink first, since I'm already pissed.'
'So am I,' said Eric, looking intently at him. Harry returned his gaze and allowed the other man to take the lead. Eric leaned forwards and pressed his lips to his, and Harry opened his mouth to admit Eric's tongue. His mouth is firmer than a woman's, and I can feel his stubble, which is weird, thought Harry as they kissed. But he's good at it—no wonder Laetitia likes him.
They drew apart after ten or fifteen seconds, during which the two women hooted appreciatively. 'That was seriously hot,' said Laetitia, and she kissed her fiancé passionately.
'What did you think?' asked Sophie.
'It was good,' replied Harry. But I like women better.'
'I'm glad,' she said, wrapping her arms around him. 'Mon cher Anglais.'
'Ma chère Français,' he murmured after kissing her, and she laughingly corrected him.
'Française. Je suis française. Feminine.'
'Yes, feminine—brilliant. I'm sure I'll get the hang of it eventually. Unless you're deliberately teaching me wrong.'
'Ma chère Anglais? Mon cher Anglaise?' She frowned and shook her head. 'No, I cannot say it—it doesn't sound right.'
'It sounds perfect to me,' he said breathily, and he felt the blissful energy return. 'Oh bugger, I'm glowing again. Can we Apparate to your flat? I don't want to make it stop ... it feels so good.'
'Yes, from the toilettes.' Sophie led him from the dance floor, but before they reached the bathroom she pulled him into a curtained alcove and brought him home. There was no need to turn on the lights, and soft shadows played along the walls as they embraced.