Chapter Four
It was over, and the tourists rushed out to find their next bit of excitement. Viviane was sitting still, staring up at one of the chandeliers, showing no intention of moving, much less getting out of her chair. Perhaps she'd picked up some sort of moronic habit from Calloway. I shook her shoulder.
"Viviane, the concert is over. Is there anywhere-"
Was there? And did I want to accompany her? What did I want to do with the damned woman? Take her to dinner, take her to bed, take her to the river and throw her in? I found myself wondering if she could swim, and was surprised at myself that I didn't know. Looking over at her, now looking at me, I realized there was a lot I didn't know about her, even from the days when I thought I knew her better than I knew anyone. Did I want to find out more about her at this late date? I was still reeling from scene in the café, and I quickly let go of her shoulder.
"Anywhere?" She looked like she was trying not to laugh. If there was one thing I did not need at this moment, it was to be mocked by a grief-stricken No-Rules Quidditch groupie.
"It seemed as if you were going to sit here all night," I said, dredging up patience from all sorts of corners where I'd stored it up in anticipation of meeting her. "I wanted to make sure, because I certainly do not. It is damp in here, and the chairs are uncomfortable."
"We've seen the obligatory sights, gone to a concert; I suppose it's time to catch up with each other, now that you've finally come around and decided to act like an adult." She paused and broke into giggles. "Sort of adult."
"I'm not the one causing scenes in cafes," I pointed out, but marveled at the way she could still divine what I was thinking.
She began to stir in her chair, glancing around and behind her, in search of inspiration. "Have you been to the area adjacent to St. Nicholas' cathedral? It's got some lovely cafes, and is near where Kafka once lived. He's suitably miserable for you."
Such easy prods weren't worth an answer, so I got to my feet, pulling her up by the elbow. Walking out of the dim church, we were confronted by a glare of sunlight, which caused Viviane to growl in displeasure and begin to root around in her handbag. Producing a pair of sunglasses, she slid them on with a sigh of relief. They completely covered her eye sockets, followed the line of her cheekbones, and made her look like an anti-heroine in one of those Muggle action films. "Better," she sighed.
"I always suspected the Devereaux of having vampire blood," I said, as we started down the stairs.
She threw back her head and laughed. I nearly pulled her off her feet as I stopped without warning on the step above her, frozen by the sound I had long forgotten; her genuine, abandoned laughter that was one of the few things I had savored in the years we struggled against a resurgent Voldemort. It rang like victory bells, then, and now.
Looking up at me, her laughter subsided into a wicked grin. "I always thought so, too. It allowed me to excuse the excesses of my family through the centuries."
I stepped down to face her, and drew her sunglasses down to peep into her eyes.
"Do you really think, perhaps, that somewhere in the bloodline-"
She pushed them back up and began to walk away from the cathedral. "No. No, the Devereaux lusted for power, not blood, from the very beginning. The de Fontaines, the de Sades...perhaps. They had a great appetite for blood, but not in the way of vampires."
Underneath my hand, her arm trembled. Again, I was taken aback by reminders of the terrible ordeals she had fought through, and yet here she was, standing in the sunlight, as sane as she could be, one moment shaken by memories, and then her newfound beauty struck me again, as I watched the grin melt into an expression of remembered joy about which I knew nothing.
We fell silent and paced along the narrow sidewalks, jostling other people draped in cameras and consulting guidebooks. Finally, Viviane tugged me into a dark little café, redolent of centuries and strange liqueurs. She got into a conversation with the proprietor that was carried on, I recognized with shock, in French. When he left, she shrugged. "It is so hard to find decent local wine, and he has an excellent cellar of French, German and American varieties."
He returned with the bottle, respectably dusty, with glasses and a small bowl of olives. As he opened and poured, I tested my chair. It was heavy, wooden, with a straight back. Excellent. I had a feeling I was going to be here for a while - it was a combined twenty years of information, after all - and as I raised my glass to touch hers, I asked her, "Would you like to start, my dear, or shall I?"
Rubbish. It was rubbish, all of it, and I suppressed a sigh as she went on with her tale of the big happy family in the Irish stone mansion, and the fabulous time she and her Quidditch jockey had had running his security business and vacationing on the Continent and I mostly wondered where our second bottle of wine was. The proprietor had gone to fetch it some time ago. She looked up at me in a sorry welter of Irish sentimentality - it sat on her like a boil - and I decided it was time for some disillusion.
"You expect me to believe that Viviane Devereaux - who fell in love with an Eastern Prince, who treats Europe as her private fiefdom, who, at some time or other, has conquered nearly everyone but herself, found happiness in an Irish backwater, and was the doting Auntie to Seamus Finnigan? Please, Viviane, drag me to a café and share a glass of wine with me, but don't lie to me." The man, finally back with the wine, stopped pouring to give me a surprised glance. I was surprised too. I sounded more bitter not than I was, but than I meant to let on.
She watched the wine pour into her glass, her expression inscrutable. "You wouldn't believe I could find happiness outside of the boundaries of your imagination, would you? I wouldn't expect so." Her eyes rose from the wineglass, met mine. "But I did. It - it wasn't perfect, of course, what is? Speaking of imperfection, what of you? What have you refused to tell me, all these years?"
That was easy enough. I'd ranted all my miseries to her constantly over the years, in my dreams and in the bathtub and while watching the latest batch of hopeless Potions students. My history was simple and quickly told: deaths, collapse, rebuilding, teaching, planning, wearing myself to exhaustion and watching the rewards go to others, as usual. My penance was not to stop with Dumbledore's death, and I was made to know it. Comfort began to steal through me - such a foreign sensation, one not felt for so long - as Viviane frowned and snorted and shrugged in all the right places. "Sprout?" she shouted, turning all heads. "They gave Hogwarts to that grinning bubotuber?"
I could trust myself only to clear my throat, and gulp some wine. "Yes. The overall atmosphere is very, er, Hufflepuff."
Viviane shuddered. "Gods, I'm sorry."
"Quite."
We fell silent. She bent her eyes to the scarred wood of the table, and one badly tended fingernail traced the accumulated graffiti of a century. Once again, I found myself tracing the reality of the woman I'd rejected the very idea of for so many years. The uncompromising way her neck met her shoulder, the line of her profile from her forehead to the bridge of her nose, the proud tilt of her head, the mouth, sharply chiseled as ever, but its expression softened by the years and a developed sense of humor. Or so I told myself. I didn't want to think of other possibilities for the change.
Someone put on music, and a sinuous Latin melody drifted out from behind the bar.
"Do you want to tango, Severus?" It was said mockingly, but she clapped her hands to her mouth for a second, then dropped them back to the table. "I forgot, you dance very well. It is such an incongruous talent for someone like you to have."
"You don't need to be good at Quidditch to dance; you need a different sort of coordination and an exceptionally attractive teacher." It wasn't Viviane speaking, it was Tom, older, glamorous Tom, my savior and my mentor from yet another past. He shook me out of my Quidditch-impaired despair and provided the teacher; one of his many mistresses, this one a favorite because she had been Dumbledore's star pupil, seduced away from Hogwarts at the start of her seventh year. She proved an adept at teaching awkward young men to move smoothly with another body. Strange, how many pasts Viviane and I had between us, and how they bumped up against each other to form different patterns, depending on circumstance. I watched this one with interest, watched myself emerge from a difficult teen to a Dark dandy under Tom's watchful eye. He chose me, and there are times when I choose to believe he needed me.
"It was more painful than I thought possible, watching Tom die." I blinked. I kept saying things I was thinking. I never did that.
Viviane's head jerked up from her examination of the table. "I imagine it would be harder to watch him live, after what he'd become. You understood the loss of his potential more keenly than anyone, no doubt."
To my abiding shock, I had to pause and swallow hard before speaking, in order to steady my voice. From anyone else, that statement would have been an accusation. Viviane's voice held nothing but sympathy. "It was and yet, his death was the end of my most idealistic self. I really can't explain it, but it was terrible to see the man who once understood the grand, silly visions of youth, all that we thought might be possible - well, there he was, blown to nothing by James Potter's spawn, a boy not worth the dust of the man he destroyed."
She sighed. "I must admit, I'm glad I wasn't there." To my surprise, she began to shudder, and huddled into the corner formed by the wall and her bench. I stared at her, trying to figure out this newest puzzle, when she unclasped one hand from her bicep and waved it vaguely at me. "Sorry. Sorry, I'll be all right in a moment. More wine, I think. Too much death of late, Severus, and it all overwhelms me at times..."
Her babble continued. I tuned out her voice and looked at her eyes. They were dilated, only a thin ring of green around the pupil, and full of horror. Ah. After all the death she'd casually meted out, the only one that would horrify her would be the one in which she had had no control and no involvement. The misery in her face drew me to my feet, and I forgot my resentment, my rage and my carefully nurtured indignation in a wave of something near regret. I saw that no one around her had been able to break through her grief, and all I could remember at that moment was that she had been my friend and my ally and sometimes my savior, and I had basely renounced her when she needed me most.
Sliding onto the bench next to her, I gathered her into my arms, kissed her hair, her ear, slid her legs over my knees. She burrowed her head into my shoulder, and one hand came up to clasp mine.
To get a clearer idea of what, exactly, feminine grief entailed, I asked, "How did you find out that Calloway had finally gotten himself killed?"
After a deep breath and a reach for her wine, Viviane unfolded herself from my torso and sat up, stiff, instead of her usual, casually perfect posture. "I got an owl from Rob, his teammate and best friend, and soon after, they - they brought him home. They'd been playing a match in Portugal and I have no idea how they managed it, but the next day, the team showed up with Rufus in his coffin. For a day, I could not look at him, but I did lift the lid, finally. I had to. I'd asked him not to go, because I knew he'd get hurt somehow, but I never thought - never dreamed - he was so strong, and they arrived with him in that box, and it was so unreal."
"Ah," I said. "Yes, I know unreal."
"His hair was the same, even his face - there was only a little bruising - but his neck was broken and his head was lying at an angle that was horribly wrong. He looked so uncomfortable, and Rufus was never uncomfortable, not with me or my past or anything in our future. I couldn't bear to have him go into eternity like that, so I tried to straighten his neck, and I couldn't, and he was so damned cold, and he was never cold - I always was, and now I don't think I'll ever be warm again, and I'm so afraid-"
She set down her wine and covered her face with her hands.
Of course she would be afraid of the cold. She'd spent most of the time I knew her heading to the nearest fire, and dressing in gowns with distractingly low necklines, but with sleeves down to her wrists, and made of thin wool even in summer.
Once again, I heard myself speaking aloud what I felt. "That damned bloody fool. No man worth his salt would leave you to play a boy's game, after everything we've all gone through. His stubbornness and selfishness got him tossed out of Hogwarts in his sixth year, and it's obvious he hadn't changed a bit."
Viviane took her hands away from her face, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and, wide-eyed, started a messy sort of sniffle-giggle that, to my alarm, held a tinge of hysteria.
"Oh Severus. Thank you." Having used my trouser leg as a handkerchief, she next tried wiping off her wet face with both hands, producing disastrous results. "Severus, I've waited a year for someone to say that, but dreading that they would, because I'm not supposed to be so angry at him and I am. He could be a stubborn bastard, but he was such a sexy one that I didn't really mind. I don't resent you saying it though, because damn, I'm exhausted from the soppy sympathy and all the talk of our great love and how romantic it all was. It is not romantic to have your husband flown home dead from a damned Quidditch match gone wrong.
"I suppose not," I murmured, having a most unfortunate urge to laugh. All my life, I could read people so easily, from Albus to Potter, but they never failed to trump me by breaking every rule while holding me firmly to them. Viviane never failed to surprise me, and when the result wasn't nearly mortal, it could be delightful. I picked a few stray, wet pieces of hair off of her face and smoothed them back, remembering also that she never gave rules a second thought, but never expected me to cleave to any, either.
Handing her her wine, I picked mine up and clinked glasses. "To Rufus," I said. "That stubborn bastard."
"To you," she replied. "You enthusiastic misanthrope."
Dear Remus,
How you let Viviane get into and remain in this state, I cannot imagine. For someone who claims to know her so well, your analysis of her state of mind was embarrassingly off target. She was nowhere near throwing herself into the river, although I admit it was a tempting option to consider helping her to it. She was, however, sadly in need of a shoulder and a few well-considered words of comfort, which I offered – for future reference, try giving her the truth instead of romantic twaddle. She responds to it. Her gratitude, and her way of showing it, was as genuine as it was inappropriate, but I remained a gentleman and merely saw her to her door.
Regarding your thoughts of what to do when hit with Astrangularis, I must disagree. Using a series of subtle itching spells combined with Rictusemprus will do nothing; in a duel, you need a good sharp, overwhelming hex - something that will demoralize your opponent, not make him reach for itching powder. Your strongest Collapsus spell aimed straight at the lungs would be the best strategy, and more practical if you're choking than performing a series of third year curses. The goal is to win the damned duel, not show off your creativity and charm.
I've been doing some research into certain potions, being in that part of the world where your favorite brew is quite popular. I may be able to add some sugar to it, or at least a few drops of honey; there has been quite a bit of research here on how to improve the taste.
Severus
I set down my quill, sealed the letter, and tried to remember exactly what had happened.
Daylight, two bottles of wine, three hours of conversation, a confession, tears, candlelight and then we were walking back to her hotel, down an avenue lined by tall rococo buildings and busy cafes. Viviane was on the thin edge between exhaustion and frantic energy that often follows a release of emotion, and it made me wary. Her fingers grasped my arm for balance, but she strode along, humming one of the bawdy French songs she liked to sing when in a good mood.
"Are you going to stay at Hogwarts forever?" she asked, abruptly stopping her tune. "It's a dull sort of life to settle for."
I was irritated enough to aim for her weak spot. "At least it is an academic center, and not situated in an educational backwater, where half the population goes in for trade."
She flinched and fell silent, and did not resume humming. My irritation increased. "What do you plan to do, Viviane? Flit around Europe forever? Retire to become the beloved chatelaine of the Calloway family, your finger in every domestic pie? Go back to Paris and challenge the Mortemart for control of the Ministry?"
To my relief, she laughed at the last suggestion. "Oh yes, a power struggle between Raymond and myself would be so good for France. No, I've got my bets on Isabeau. She is laying low now, but she'll come out on top in a few years, and France will be in good hands."
I sorted through my memories. Isabeau. Ah yes, the quiet woman who shadowed sinister Raymond like a dark dragonfly. "How, exactly, is she going to do that? She has no power outside the family, and Raymond is not about to give any up, not even to her."
By this time, we were at the door of her hotel, and she turned to face me in the dim gaslight spilling from the archway that lead to the inner courtyard. Her eyebrows were arched in amusement, her generous mouth tilted in gleeful triumph. "Oh, she's got some power. As she left Hogwarts when their attempted deception of me failed, I gave her the deeds to both Aquitaine and the Chateau de Mepris. She'll have plenty of money from the lands of the chateau, and the ruins of Aquitaine, and will control the residual power that survives there. I only wish I could see Raymond's face when he finds out."
Shock overcame manners, and I shook her hand from my arm to grasp both of hers. "You gave her the deeds to your land? To Aquitaine? Viviane - why?"
She shrugged. "Why not? They are places of death to me, dragging me back always to the events that sent me down such terrible paths. To her, they can be the means of renewing the arts that were lost through Voldemort's destructive march through France. Isabeau has the passion for the land that I once had, and will see that my gift is kept safe from Raymond's machinations."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I was still trying to comprehend her act, but an inexonerable if-then game was forming in my mind, making sense of the past in a way that had escaped me for more than a decade. If she had been strong enough to break the fetters of ruined Aquitaine, then surely the act of tossing aside her sword, and the power that went with it, was within her sphere of possibilities. If she had found the will to throw back the poisoned heritage of her damnable family, then her choice of Rufus Calloway did not seem so far fetched. If she had made peace with her burdens, then the balance I saw behind her grief was not an illusion.
"You weren't speaking to me, remember?" she said, her voice light and free of accusation. "It is a habit of yours." She swayed towards me, and I realized that we'd only had some olives and bread with our wine. "But I've missed you very much these ten years, happy as I have been."
Before I could say anything, or even step back, Viviane's body was pressed against mine. Despite the fact that in the last twelve hours she'd had her head in my lap, and been in my arms, and I had kissed her hair, and she had clasped my hand, for the first time a jolt of the old sensual electricity shot up my spine, then gathered back into a glowing, roiling mess in my very core. Before I could do anything with this information, her hands, her talented, dangerous, bloodstained hands – so like mine - had grasped the strands of my hair and bent my head that fraction down to hers.
She kissed me. The world tilted. Rather, the tilted axis of the globe abruptly stood at attention and all I could do was feel past and present collide and burst into fragments as her soft, warm lips slid along mine, seeking a response. I was thrilled by her advance, horrified by it, unsure of her motives, happy for the chance to give Rufus a posthumous cuckolding, and not at all pleased that he lingered between us in the tears I'd dried such a very short time ago.
I responded. I could not help it, not with her body finding all the old contact points against mine, with her lips parting, her fingertips caressing the back of my neck. My clenched hands opened and automatically began seeking out the old scars that were hidden underneath the wool and, when exposed, used to thrill me so. I'd followed them in memory for so long, recalling the texture and taste of each one, and the thought of exploring them again in reality made me crush her more closely against me.
Taking her mouth from mine, she gave me a stare, her eyes gone dark and secretive. Her fingers trailed down my arms, raising flesh through layers of clothing until she captured my hands, and took a few steps backward, leading me towards the archway of the hotel.
It would have been so easy to follow. Every instinct I had was reaching for her, except one, and that one was the flair for survival that had kept me alive through mind-wrenching turns of fate. It stopped my feet, and I shook myself from her grasp. "No, Viviane, not tonight," I said, with great effort keeping regret from my voice. "I won't be your consolation prize in lieu of a dead man." That was true enough. After our conversation tonight, the idea of Rufus was still hovering in the air between us, and it wasn't my idea of a romantic atmosphere.
"You rotten bastard." Viviane's voice was so low that anyone who didn't know her would have missed the rage in it. "I won't even bother to hex you. Goodnight."
She stalked into the building, leaving me feeling as close to an idiot as I'd ever felt. I glanced around at the quiet little street, saw nobody but myself standing on the ancient cobblestones, and started to walk back to my own hotel. I turned my head slightly in order to catch the last, lingering scent of her on the lapel of my jacket. It went to my head as if I were standing in a field of poppies, and I tried to drive the image of her, alone, infuriated and aroused in a former convent cell, from my mind, but with little success. I knew it would be another sleepless night, hopefully for both of us.