Blood, Roses and Wine
A/N: Some quick notes:
'Maman' means 'Mother/Mum'.
The translations for the German expressions are in the endnotes. I recommend you read it without the translations first since this chapter is written from Harry's POV, who doesn't understand any German either.
It's been a long time since I posted something. Hope you enjoy!
.
1. If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going
.
The scent of blood, roses and wine stung in his nose.
Today, the perfume Maman insisted on wearing would get them killed. Grandmother had wrinkled her nose at the smell and told her to stop acting like someone's mistress if she ever planned on finding a respectable husband one day. Henri, despising the mere notion of a stepfather, had been glad his mother had applied double the amount of rose-scented perfume just to spite the old hag. Until now.
Blood had soaked through the wood panels and was dripping into her flaxen hair. Just an hour ago, Maman and Henri had left Grandmother's chateau to run errands in town. Now they were sitting in the dingy basement of a little wine shop, watching the floor above rattle under heavy boots. The strange men were shouting something in a foreign language.
'Please,' the shop-owner cried, 'take all my money but-'
Maman's hands pressed against his ears but she couldn't cover his eyes. He saw the flash of green light, so bright it illuminated the narrow basement.
He was shaken lightly by her soft, trembling hands. Her rosy pearl complexion had paled into ashen grey. She nodded towards an empty wine barrel in the corner of the room. Soundlessly, he climbed into the barrel, but before she could close it, he grabbed her wrist.
'What about you?' he asked silently, just by focusing his eyes into hers.
She pressed her lips into a tight line and shook her head before pressing the barrel shut. 'Epoximise, Silencio,' she whispered, just before two men stormed into the basement.
.
Henri startled awake. The taste of metallic blood, acidic rose-perfume and rich burgundy wine clung to the back of his throat. For one moment, he was back in the barrel. Maybe if he pressed himself against its wall, Maman would fit inside, too. He'd always been a small child, mon petit, as she used to call him.
A shoulder bumped into his and he bit his tongue to swallow the scream stuck in his throat. He wasn't in that basement anymore. The walls of the barrel weren't caging him in. Anytime he wanted, he could leave this compartment, wait for the next stop and get off the train.
But he wouldn't. He needed to get to Orlèans.
'You were making strange faces. Did you dream?' the little girl sitting in front of him asked.
'Anna!' a woman with a frazzled bun silenced her.
Henri's eyes wandered over the square buttons and intricate stitching of her coat. It was a piece from a designer his mother had adored. Grandmother had liked to turn her nose up at muggle clothing. Maman, on the other hand, had always said that every mind could create beauty. Henri had been saving some money to buy her one of his dresses for her birthday.
This woman's coat was no longer pretty. The hem was unravelling, the threadbare fabric unfit for this year's cold February. Once, this family might've been rich. The occupying forces must've taken whatever they could get their hands on.
'Where are you headed towards?' the man sitting next to him asked. Despite the circumstances, he was cleanly shaven, his hair neatly combed. 'You shouldn't be travelling alone during these times.'
'Philippe!' the woman hissed.
Henri honestly didn't blame her. This wasn't the time to look out for strange teenagers, not if you were a poor muggle family on the run for your life.
'I doubt we share the same destination,' he said, noting the woman relaxing.
'Are you sure?' the man pressed. 'We're on our way to Toulouse. No Germans, no Italians, no coasts. It doesn't get much safer in France these days.'
Henri gulped. Had Grindelwald's troops reached Toulouse? Better not to know. It wasn't like he could tell these people to return where they'd fled from.
'I'm headed North,' he admitted, 'towards Orléans.'
'Orléans?' the woman gasped, a concerned frown now settling on her face, too. 'Are you insane? You know what's happening there, no?'
Henri nibbled at his lip. It was pointless to explain it to them. They couldn't understand that the only portkey that would get him out of this hellhole lied somewhere in a cathedral in Orléans. Remaining in France wasn't an option. He had tried. What places weren't occupied by Grindelwald's army, was ruled by the German troops. Without a wand, he didn't stand a chance against either of them.
'I know,' he said, 'but I have to.' Before the man could press the issue, he rose and zipped his jacket up to his throat. 'Excuse me, I've reached my stop.'
He pulled his backpack out from under his seat. With a nod to the parents and a smile for the little girl he left the compartment.
Ice cracked underneath his feet when he finally stepped off the train. "CHÂTEAUROUX," the large sign at the station said. Henri didn't have the time to admire it. Left and right people were bustling around, hurrying into the train that'd take them south. Despite the size of the large crowd, it was oddly silent. The hurried steps and ringing of the train were the only sources of noise. People were stone-faced and mute.
He entered the station, a crowded hall with muddy-wet stone floors, filled with humid warmth. Taking a free seat, he used the last opportunity to study his map away from the cold.
He'd calculated a thirty hour march from Châteauroux to Orléans. A little more if he took breaks. He'd walked a lot in the past months, but he wasn't sure if he'd manage this without any breaks. He had no more bread left and he had to spare his energy for when anything happened on the way. Confrontation was guaranteed.
With a shiver running down his sweat-slick spine, he stood up and left the station. There was no use in thinking about it. He had to get moving.
He tied the wool scarf his mother had knitted him five years ago tightly around his neck, put his fists into his pockets and started walking. The warmth of the station had long been chased away by the biting frost. Thick snowflakes were covering the view.
.
His legs had been cramping, his soles covered in blisters when he'd reached the border to the occupied area. He'd debated taking a break before stepping into the lion's den, but had decided against it. Now, eight hours after passing the order and twenty hours since departing from Châteauroux, he regretted that decision.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the papers quoting the new British muggle minister say, 'If you're going through hell, keep going.'
'If you're going through hell, keep going,' Henri muttered through laboured breathing, lifting his leaden leg, and landing it with a painful step forward. He tripped over a root and caught himself on his hands and knees before hitting the ground.
Pretentious pieces of wisdom were easy to say when you're sitting in front of a cosy fire after a hearty dinner. Less easy when you're exhausted enough to roll up on the freezing ground and hungry because snow was the only thing to pass your gullet in two days.
Still, he had to keep going. What else was there left to do?
Maman used to say that people like him and her had to try harder than anyone else. Others would turn their noses up at them. But the only thing that mattered was what they knew of themselves. Pride was one of the few things they had and would keep even in their stiff, lifeless fingers.
She had fought till the end for him. Dying here in the middle of the forest for nothing would be equal to spitting on her grave.
He pushed himself off the ground and forced his heavy legs forward.
A twig cracked, but not underneath his feet. He froze.
There, behind the snow-laden bushes crouched a boy little older than him. His heart stopped when he recognized the grey uniform with the white eagle on its chest. Of course, the rifle trained on him was also a good indicator of who he was standing in front of.
'Hast du eine Erlaubnis dich hier aufzuhalten?' the soldier barked.
'I don't speak any German,' Henri answered quietly, his green eyes big and round, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible. Probably useless. Most of them got off on defenceless victims.
Unimpressed, the soldier's icy eyes wandered over his malnourished form. 'Hände hoch!' he ordered, no longer angry, but just as assertive.
This time, Henri understood. In the past months, he'd heard that order many times. He held his shaking hands up, his palms open and empty. The man waved his rifle to the left. 'Los.'
Henri hesitantly swerved from his path. The soldier's thick boots crunched over the fresh snow as he followed him. When the cold tip of the rifle pressed into the small of his waist, Henri gasped and tripped over a branch. He was already scrambling to get back up when the soldier stomped on his ankle. His bone cracked like a lone, skinny twig. Henri whimpered through clenched teeth.
'Steh schon auf,' the man scoffed.
Henri rose on shaky legs, careful to shift his weight onto his right uninjured ankle. The man was following, his rifle still glued to Henri's back. It was hard to breath, not because of his broken bone, not even because of the rifle, but because he knew what would happen now.
The soldier would bring him to a camp. Either to work until he died, to be experimented on until he died, or simply to die. They liked to do it with toxic gas that took fifteen minutes to finally kill you off. His best bet was to be shot on sight.
Henri couldn't go there. Not so soon after Grindelwald.
His broken ankle throbbed and he fell again. He turned to his back, clenching his hands around his ankle and whimpering softly. The soldier rolled his eyes and motioned for him to get up.
Henri shifted onto one knee. Quick as a snake attacking its prey he grasped the barrel in his left hand and pulled his knife out of his sock before burying it in the inside of the man's thigh. The soldier yelled and pulled the trigger, but the bullet hit the ground.
The barrel was hot underneath his palm, but he clenched his hand and pulled the rifle out of the soldier's grasp. He staggered to his feet, training the rifle onto the boy lying on the ground. He was muttering something, holding his hands around his bleeding thigh.
But all Henri could think of was the shot – that ear-shattering bang that was still echoing off the trees, ringing in his head. The soldiers' camp couldn't be too far away.
'Shit, shit, shit,' he groaned, tears brimming in his eyes. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Not that he'd actually thought this through.
He took a deep breath, held it for ten quick heartbeats, and released it slowly. All good, Henri. You can handle this. Orléans is only ten hours away. You will reach the portkey and get the hell out of this place. You just have to focus. Freaking out is for later.
What would Maman do?
He took off his backpack, and searched for the bottle full of polyjuice potion he'd brewed for when he'd actually reach Orléans. Crouching down, he plucked a few blonde strands out of the unconscious boy's head and added it to the potion. The muddy fluid changed into a deep purple colour.
'Now, wave your wand to complete the potion,' the memory of Maman said in his mind. But he didn't have a wand. It'd been snapped weeks ago.
Harry froze when a deep voice reached his ears. 'Paul!' it was shouting. 'Paul!'
Taking a deep breath, he drank the potion as it was, barely tasting it. He rushed to the soldier now lying still on the ground, took the grey uniform jacket off and pulled it over his own black coat. Just as he was about to pull the man's trousers off, he noticed the large blood-stain.
'Paul!'
The bushes were being rustled.
'Paul!'
Frantically, he scooped snow over the body and heaved bundles of branches and twigs on top.
'Paul!'
The steps were getting clearer.
'Paul!'
He hurried behind a bush, dropped his trousers and started to pee.
Two men in identical grey uniforms appeared from between the trees, each of them holding a rifle.
'Pa- Ach, da bist du ja!' the short one said. 'Warum hast du nicht geantwortet, wenn du nur pissen warst? Wir rufen schon eine Ewigkeit nach dir.'
Shit. The potion seemed to have done its job, but he'd barely understood two words of the man's question. He could nod or shake his head. But if the man had asked for more than that, he was screwed.
Henri decided to pull his pants up and shrug.
The men scoffed and rolled their eyes, accepting his answer. Henri was careful not to sigh loudly. Now if they would go about their way, he could go about his and they would never meet again.
The men passed him, rifles resting on their shoulders, when one of them turned around.
'Hast du eigentlich einen Schuss abgefeuert? Wir haben einen lauten Knall gehört.'
Henri shrugged again, but this time, the man raised a confused brow. 'Was denn jetzt? Hast du was gehört oder nicht?'
Henri's hands clenched around the grip of his stolen rifle. Even if he'd manage to shoot one, the other might shoot him before he got the chance to do so first. The noise would alert even more soldiers. No, he had to take his chances.
'Nein,' he said, the only German word he could say besides "Ja".
The soldier shrugged. 'Muss wohl jemand anderes gewesen sein.'
Henri held his breath while the two soldiers finally turned around and left. He fell to his knees. 'Fuck,' he whispered. That was close.
Leaning his weight onto the rifle, he stood up. He had to get away while he still could. Knowing his life, luck wouldn't last. He should take the rifle with him, just in case.
His gaze wandered over the lump of snow on the side. Although Henri had to hurry, he was standing frozen and staring at the snow pile he'd buried a man under. If the soldier was discovered, he would be returned to his camp, heal for some weeks, and return to killing people. Like Grindelwald's army, they were murdering innocent children, the helpless elderly, and desperate mothers.
No one had had mercy with Maman. No, they'd made her suffer.
The Crucios had went on for what felt like hours as Henri had been stuck in the barrel, unable to get out because of the charm his mother had cast. He'd screamed until he spit blood, but no noise ever left his wooden cage.
By the time the Avada Kedavra came, he'd lost his voice. Through the cracks in the barrel, his mother's eyes had stared into his when the curse hit. They continued staring at him, sky-blue irises torn wide open, for two days.
Two days he could barely remember anymore. Only the awful smell of metallic blood, artificial roses, and residue wine remained long after some lone survivors found him in his barrel.
Henri dug his feet into the snow and returned to his path towards Orléans.
.
A/N:
Translations:
- Hast du eine Erlaubnis dich hier aufzuhalten? = Do you have permission to be here?
- Hände hoch! = Hands up!
- Los. = Go on/Come on
- Steh schon auf. = Get up already.
- Hast du eigentlich einen Schuss abgefeuert? Wir haben einen lauten Knall gehört. = Did you fire a shot? We've heard a loud bang.
- Was den jetzt? Hast du was gehört oder nicht? = So what is it? Did you hear something, or didn't you?
- Nein = No
- Ja = Yes
- Muss wohl jemand anderes gewesen sein. = Must've been someone else.
Epoximise is a sticking charm according to the card games and harrypotter wikia.
About the last name 'Durant': It comes from the Latin omen name 'Durandus', meaning 'enduring'.
About the story: Henri will be 'Harry' when he arrives in Britain (unless you're attached to calling him 'Henri', I don't care either way to be honest). It will be some time until he meets Tom.
Tell me what you thought of this chapter! Criticism is welcome! This is the first thing I've posted in months, so I can really use some encouragement!
You can also contact me through tumblr. (Link in profile)