Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing except junk. Harry Potter, etc., is not mine.
Author's Notes: This took for-bloody-ever! I didn't think I'd get this far with it before throwing it away in frustration. Thanks to Christy Corr, who had to poke and prod me to get this first bit done. Also, for not letting me title it "Douleur du Coeur" like I so wanted to.
Feedback: Oh, God, nothing would make me happier.
Additional Tidbits: L'hôtel Residence Claridge Champs-Elysées is an actual hotel located on - what else? - Champs-Elysées. (Again, props to Christy.) As always, appréciez!
I Love and I Hurt by Esperanza Fuega
Harry woke up crying. His one night stand, a gorgeous Parisienne named Hélène, had long since vacated the premises, leaving the hollow where her body had lain cold.
He'd been having the same dream. The end of the War, the celebrations...
He'd never forget the final battle. Never forget the way that Neville Longbottom looked at him as he drew his last breath. Never forget Colin Creevey's last words. Or McGonagall's body, the way the great witch leapt to protect him from the Killing Curse that arced his way.
He'd never forget what happened afterwards.
He'd always remember. The last knot of Death Eaters. Getting back at the invincible Boy Who Lived, now a Man, the only way they knew how.
"Harry... Harry, Ron's dead." Hermione sobbed out as she Flooed into his home, her thin shoulders shaking, her face dirty with ashes and soot, streaking clean with fresh tears.
Harry swore viciously, reaching Hermione in one easy movement he could never quite remember making, and holding her close, burying his head in her hair as she cried on his shoulder, at length.
He had not, however, gotten to the end of the dream.
Thank Merlin for small favors. He struggled out of bed, put on his glasses groggily, wrapping a sheet around himself to hide his nudity, walking from his bedroom through the main hall of his Parisian flat, located in the heart of the city's posh wizardry district. Stumbled to the gleaming metallic kitchen, opened the fridge.
God, he needed a beer. He needed several beers. He could use a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, actually. But one Heineken would do for now.
Harry popped the top, and walked to the large window. He could see the Eiffel Tower from here.
The view was amazing. He didn't really care.
Harry drank his beer, eyes glazed over at the magnificent, the wonderful Paris. The night was young for the partiers. The clock read three AM.
The Heineken was finished and thrown aside. The maid would get it. He tried to Summon another one to take its place in his hand.
Wand, wand. He'd forgotten his wand. Ugh. Harry walked to the fridge and grabbed a new one, flopping down in front of the telly. It was playing a cheesy dating show, in French.
God, he hated listening to French. French and French accents. They sounded like sick, gargling Germans.
Suddenly he missed England very much. A rush of longing came over him for Hogwarts, and England. It was cool, and dark and misty. Everything that bright, stunning Paris was not.
The dating show host gargled on. "Ces filles sont très belles, non?"
"Oui, monsieur," the poor garçon replied slowly, trying to make up his mind.
"Oh, what does it matter, they'll all fuck you," Harry said crossly. He flipped through the channels, looking for something that spoke English -- or at least didn't talk. No such luck. Off went the telly. He stood up again.
Wandering around his flat wasn't so hard -- he could do it in fifty seconds, walking slow. Pacing helped him to clear his mind, to think of nothing. The only danger was this catatonic state of consciousness inevitably led to thinking of her.
Hermione.
What had she done, after he ran away from his demons? Knowing Hermione, she'd carried on. Such a trooper. Ron was dead, and she'd carried on. Their relationship was struggling, and what had Harry done?
He'd walked away. Hermione, however, had carried on.
Harry walked until dawn, and showered and dressed. He went to a café and got a cup of espresso. Strong, black, dark, and bloody expensive.
It didn't matter -- his Gringotts account was as large as ever. War heroes tended to become rich overnight. The fall of the Malfoys had somehow meant that their money became Harry's. He wasn't complaining about the mixup. He got up, started walking. The park was beautiful in the summer.
He stopped at a bridge over the Seine, discreetly conjuring some breadcrumbs and throwing them over the edge, giving the ducks some lunch. Harry stayed there a moment, feeling at one with the world. Even though he never felt a part of it. Suddenly...
Her voice. Her voice! Laughing, pointing out the sights and sounds and history of the Seine in excited, hurried tones. Harry spun around like a man possessed, seeing Hermione, very tan and healthy, chatting intimately with Seamus Finnegan, who looked around nervously, steering them and - oh, Merlin, Harry hadn't noticed their brat - into a more protected area.
Shoving his way through the tourists with an "excusez-moi" here and there, Harry made his way to them. Bloody hell! What am I going to say?
"Er... hullo, Seamus." Well, that wasn't too bad of a start. From the glower Hermione sent his way, though, his presence was not welcome. Seamus gave her a gently rebuking look.
"Harry!" Seamus said, pumping his hand enthusiastically. "How long has it been?"
"About six years," Hermione said, rather frigid. "Harry, you know Seamus, and this," she indicated the tanned young blonde child in between them, looking up at Harry curiously, "is Patrick Ronald Finnegan."
"Hullo, chappie," Harry said, sticking a bright smile on his face. Dropping down in a crouch, he cocked his head, giving the boy a stare. "My name's Harry."
"I'm Ronnie!" the little boy ventured, giving Harry a brilliant smile. "Mum calls me Ronniekins." Harry smiled again, feeling a knife twist viciously in his stomach.
"What a great name for a fellow," Harry said, rather woodenly. He stiffened, rising, surprised to find his knees made little popping sounds. He wasn't getting any younger. "So where are you lot staying?"
"Oh, some hotel," Seamus said, laughing. "I can't pronounce the name for the life of me..."
"That's too bad," Hermione said. "I've only told you a thousand times. It's the Residence Claridge Champs-Elysées, Seamus." Seamus nuzzled her, laughing.
"Ah, I'm hopeless, me." Harry felt the twisting sensation again -- he grinned instead of screaming.
"You doing something tonight? I can get tickets to the theatre."
"Ah, I'm not feeling like the theatre tonight. Hermy, you go, I'll take care of Ron."
"Oh, Seamus..."
"Hermione, please?"
She acquiesced, bowing her head. "Very well, my darling."
Harry smiled. "Fine. I'll meet you at the hotel... say, 8-ish?"
Hermione nodded tersely.
"Oh," Harry added, with a mental wicked grin. "Dress nicely." He turned and started off, waving goodbye over his shoulder, whistling as he walked away.
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