Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Seriously.

A/N: Written for Challenge ~ Spontaneity at contrelamontre. I had 55 minutes to write the story and I had no prior idea what to write about. I just knew I wanted this pairing so I put them together and voila, a whole mess of words came out. I mean it, a mess! I have time to reread the story now and I still cannot understand it. If someone do understand it, I applaud you. Either way, leave a review if you enjoy. If you do not enjoy it, be courteous in your criticism.

We have an understanding. I do not touch. She does not speak. It has served me well. I suppose her continued acceptance of our arrangement suggests the same.

I come to the theatre every single night, sitting in the same seat every single time. Sometimes the theatre is full; more often than not it is half-empty - filled by half-hearted stragglers, taking refuge from the rain, from the real world. I may be just the same. I never wear the same face twice. I never use my real face. Perhaps the only reason she recognises me is by the seat I take. At least the thought keeps me reserving the same spot.

The ending of the play sets off a playback of every single night before this one. Everyone disperses, trudges back to their individual lives and goes back out into the real world, where their lives are not divided by cheap, dilapidated stage props, where their roles are not defined by the clothes you are assigned for the night. It may have been easier if it were so. Though my masks stay on, but no one needs know how much I will love to have one permanent role to call mine.

Tonight I am a struggling, muggle businessman from Scotland trying to make a fortune in Paris. The city of lights, where the lights shine too brightly that they all merge and nothing remains distinct in its wake. The thought is a relief, depending on the time of the day.

I wait till everyone has gone, till the lights have turned off, till the stage is left bare with nothing but itself. And her. No one questions her reason for staying overtime. No one has the energy to withstand her, her will, her beauty, her everything. Why a quarter-Veela of a distinguished family and an outstanding education chooses to immerse herself in the low-paying pursuit of a muggle stage actress will always be a question better left unanswered. I have never asked her. She will probably never offer.

She stands from where she has been perched on an upturned, cardboard box. She does not say anything and I do not expect anything to change. She makes her way off the stage. I know where is she going without her needing to tell me. So I stand to follow. My hands are heavy with the bouquet I hold close to my heart. Not tonight, I tell myself once again. With that, I discard my gift, my offering, my poor attempt at trying to label my conflicting emotions on my way out.

The door to her room is flimsy and there are multiple marks on it: scratches and stains, peeling paint and a lopsided, golden star that reads 'Gabrielle Delacour'. She is already behind the screen by the time I get to her room. The screen is so thin - perhaps of age, more likely of the theatre manager's frugality - that the silhouette of her pierces through. I take my seat once more. Another performance has unfolded.

Gabrielle always keeps her back to me. Though I know she is aware of my eyes on her. How can she not? Am I not burning trails into that pale, flawless skin? Each article of clothing disappears to uncover what should never have been hidden to start with, each with a slowness that can only be described as painful. Like this ache in my heart. Like this arrangement between us. If I were to push, she will probably pull away and I can never risk that. I take comfort in knowing I am the only pair of eyes on her now. I take comfort in knowing that she is performing for me alone.

"You were breathtaking," I croak when she has finally stepped out from behind the screen. You are breathtaking, my mind, my heart corrects my mouth.

She smiles faintly, a fleeting smile, just ghosting over her lips, like the lights of Paris, burning into the backs of your eyelids without any consideration for the after-effects, but still worth savouring every moment. She looks to her right slowly and maintains her gaze there.

I follow her line of vision and see a calendar stuck haphazardly onto what amounts to a closet in this poor excuse of a theatre. The calendar is spartanly bare, except for a note stuck on tomorrow. "Is it time?" I ask carefully.

She nods. She regards me with a solemnness a girl, a woman of her age should never be burdened with. She is twenty-two. I am thirty-six. I should be wearing that face, but thanks to this ability of mine I even forget what expression I need to wear at times.

"Oh," I say lamely. I know her job takes her places. Nowhere far. But far enough. As it is, I have been taking too much nightly trips to Paris that my fellow Aurors are starting to ponder whether or not I am harbouring a secret lover in the city of lights. If only it were true. "I - I don't suppose -" I really have no idea what I should say. What does one say after technically stalking a girl fourteen years your junior? What does one say after having agreed to this strange arrangement and going along with it for the past two months? It has been fun? It has been rewarding? Sounds like the sort of half-baked stuff I use to say whenever I finish an assignment. Merlin knows you cannot compare Gabrielle to one of my assignments.

"Let me see you," Gabrielle says suddenly. Two months of silence and she breaks it now. If I were to suppose an appropriate time for her to break her silence, I suppose the night before her departure may be a romantically good suggestion, but what bad timing.

"Huh?" Ah, good work, me. Thirty six years old and I can barely string a proper sentence. Good work indeed.

"Let me see you," she repeats earnestly. "You have seen me. I want to see you." Her eyes are penetrating and her voice is carefully modulated. Her English is impeccable. Though I should know all of this, since I have made it a side job of mine to take note of all that I deem is a part of her.

I squirm under the pressure but give in nonetheless. I cannot say no to her. I usually cannot say no to a friggin' coat stand, but no one has ever seen 'me'. No one has ever asked. I have never offered. The layers come off . The masks disappear. I wish it is as dramatic as my mind makes it out to be. After all, Gabrielle is an actress by choice, I am not, but both of us have been in the business for some time and we both know the weight of revealing faces without makeup, faces without masks, it is almost like revealing your heart. Almost.

Her expression softens incredibly as my real face appears. Softens like I have never seen it, not when the love of her character's life proclaims his undying love for her, not when the world of the stage crumbles and only the two of them remain standing for some unknown reason.

It is only that one sign that shows she has acknowledged some part of me she has not before. She has not moved. She has not said anything else. She simply has a new light in her eyes. Just like the lights of Paris, but every light in her eyes is distinct to me and to see me reflected in her eyes as myself is like seeing a masterpiece performed. With that one sign, I throw caution to the wind and leap forward. I discard the remnant of our arrangement, after all she has broken it first, and embrace the spontaneity of the moment, embrace her, embrace my Paris in the bounds of one person.

When she sighs into the space between my barely open lips as we tumble down onto creaking floorboards and discarded costumes, I think I will never again find such a good result from taking a random chance.

"Gabrielle."

"Tonks."