A/N: Hey guys! I'm off hiatus now, and I had this ready, so I thought I'd just put it up right away, as I'm not done with Chapter 7 of AST yet. So settle down, sink into your computer chairs, and enjoy some smutty, not-too-angsty goodness. Warnings: The usual. If you're under 16, you definitely shouldn't be reading this.


Petit Dejeuner dans le Lit - 2

As Harry opened his eyes and found they didn't ache ever so slightly with the alcohol from last night, he knew, he knew –

He rose up uncertainly, feeling bone-tired even if his dream-observer-self felt nothing in that vein. He was so tired of this, so tired of –

"Shut up and come to bed, Harry," Ginny said, rather desperately. Harry covered his unfeeling face with unfeeling hands. So it was this one – again.

How didn't I see what she really wanted? Why didn't I see?

"Ginny – "

"Just come, Harry." Harry sighed as he watched the all-too-familiar emotions chase themselves across his too-open face as Ginny leaned close, licking her lips suggestively in what now knew had definitely been desperation. As she set off through the misty walls of Godric's Hollow, his unwilling dream self following hesitantly, he tried to see if he could wake up, willing his body to snap out of this everlasting series of –

Nope, nothing. So that meant he'd be treated to another rendition of the memory of the aftermath of his awkward first time with Ginny during the war, again.

Harry sighed in frustration. He'd have hit something if he'd only been corporeal – that was the most tiring aspect of the whole thing. Some of the recurring dreams he was still cursed with always felt a lot like the viewing of things in a Pensieve, with him being removed from everything. Sometimes, he was thankful for that – there were worse memories, significantly worse ones that his brain had, to his relief, evidently decided he would never have to physically live through again.

All except one in particular, which had its benefits, Harry thought sourly, not bothering to drift after Ginny and his younger, confused lustful self. Sticking a fat sword into Voldemort had been the highlight of that awful day, even if he'd seen at least ten or twenty friends die before, and even after the final deed.

That was one thing that separated himself from the rest of the world at times. Ron and Hermione forgot sometimes, and fretted about the last few Death Eaters, languishing in New Azkaban. Ginny had taken to regularly voicing the dissatisfaction and emptiness she'd felt once the whole ordeal was over, and so had many others. Harry had never understood them, never understood that – Voldemort had sucked almost every last bit of joy out of his teenage life up until his satisfyingly grisly death, and he'd felt well within his rights to cut the bastard into as many pieces as needed.

It was really why he was here in Paris – finishing off the job, in a manner of speaking. Merlin knew there were other unknown Death Eaters still hiding and running about, but Harry had decided that he had a vested interest in making sure all the ones he knew personally were behind bars. At first, he'd convinced himself it was for his safety, for the safety, even, of his family and friends. His future children, perhaps.

Harry angrily swiped at his hair, forgetting that he couldn't. That idea had evaporated rather quickly, it had – he'd eventually had to come to terms with the fact that Ginny was not interested in having children any time soon, and possibly would not be for years, even, but that had still been okay, when she still smiled at him. As Harry lounged about the tattered, unspeakably ancient living room, hearing the faint noises of awkward passion from his nearby teenaged self and Ginny, he found himself wondering whether his unnervingly cold desire for revenge had been what had divided them.

He laughed sourly, soundlessly – how ironic that would've been –

"Harry? Harry?" He started slightly, colouring even now at the remembrance of hasty dressing, of physically painful embarrassment as he lost his erection in what was – "God – what the hell is – "

"Never mind how I'm dressed, Ron," evidently-embarrased-dream-Harry sputtered back, running shaky fingers through even messier hair. Harry felt a pang for himself, embarrassed and scared to death of whether Ron would guess, and so unprepared for the news that came next – "What is it?"

"It's the Delacours, Harry," a voice suddenly came from behind him, startling him. "They've found them at the camp at Albany – we have to go – " Harry broke into a cold sweat he wouldn't feel – this wasn't how this memory turned out, Hermione hadn't even been there

"They've found Gabrielle, Harry," Ron said, eyes settling oddly on him – where was the other Harry? Why wasn't – "They found her – she's in Albany, mad like the rest of them – "

"That's not right," Harry found himself muttering – this was all wrong, it was - "There wasn't a camp at Albany – "

"Zat is where you were wrong, 'Arry," a low, familiar voice sounded from behind, "Zere was. You did not find it – you were too busy fucking Ginny – " God, but this wasn't happening, Gabrielle couldn't be in this memory –

"You should be punished, Harry. You weren't thinking," said a new, sterner voice from his right –

Dean

"You're dead," Harry said shakily, panic clawing at him – he knew these weren't real, but he hated them – "You're dead, I saw it – I saw him kill you – "

"And whose fucking fault was that?"

Sirius

"Always off having fun, instead of paying attention to your surroundings, laddie – " Mad-Eye, too – Harry felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rising up in him as the dead, the long dead clustered around him, moving ominously closer, hatred and contempt in their eyes. Oh Merlin

"Punish him!" Dumbledore's unnaturally cold, implacable tone came from everywhere –

Cold, dripping hands seized him from every angle, strength twisting at him as they separated, chanting their hatred at him, seeking to tear him apart, even as Gabrielle stood proudly by, blue eyes gleaming coldly –

«Wake up, Harry!»

Warmer hand seemed to pull him from the shaking horror that was his dream, panicky French flowing about him like an oddly soothing Calming Draught. Harry did not open his eyes at first, choosing to just let Gabrielle – the real Gabrielle – stroke his messy hair and squeeze him against her until he couldn't breathe. He tried to steady his short, rasping breaths, focusing on irrelevant little details like how much like her bed she smelled, and how interestingly soft-firm her breasts were against his back, and how interesting it was that her arms supported him easily against her.

Harry tried to speak in the lull between her slightly jittery murmurings of nonsense, but could not. There was a lump in his throat – when was the last time he'd had someone willing to do this for him, anyway?

Warm, slightly chapped lips pressed hastily against his neck, and Gabrielle began to speak in English again.

"I am so sorry – I know you will not wish to speak of it, but I – I – " she faltered, easing away from him slightly. No, don't do that, bring those back – "I 'ave rehearsal, zis morning."

Harry's face and heart fell simultaneously.

"For how long?" He just hoped he didn't sound like – like a horny, pervy twenty-four-year-old, pining for another go in the proverbial sack. Even if he was a horny, pervy –

"A few 'ours, nothing too long," Gabrielle said, shifting behind him. "Will you see me afterwards? For lunch…?"

C'est impossible! The horny twenty-four-year-old shall strike again! The memories dancing around the edges of Harry's memory seemed to still and retreat at his inwardly said, self-deprecating nonsense, and that was certainly much better than struggling back to his flat to have a go at that tempting bottle of mint liquor while wondering morosely why he never seemed to meet anyone or do anything to help take his mind off things. And although it was really implausible that Gabrielle could really be serious, eighteen – or was it nineteen? – year-old Gabrielle with that lovely figure and odd, misplaced athleticism.

Not bad, Potter – a night and she's already hooked, he told himself, sarcastically, behind the foolish grin he sprouted in her direction. A week and she'll be chaining you to her bed

Right, time to answer.

«But of course,» Harry said, in bad French. A sleepy, sad sort of giggle assured him that she was not joking, and was really pleased, even as that comfortable warmth returned to wind firmly about his back. He turned over, meaning to ask her when her dance rehearsal would end, but felt compelled to put his mouth to better use when his suspicion that she was naked under those slightly scratchy covers was confirmed.

That turned into an impromptu round of hands going where he'd never dreamed of putting them – well, not literally, last night, and before Harry really registered what he was doing, he was grinding his sticky, leaking erection against Gabrielle's sinfully warm softness, and the morning started well after all, with an orgasm and a delicious sense of sensitive, tingling stickiness that only translated into more guilt-tinged satisfaction when Gabrielle suggested that they take a shower together, 'to save time'.

That would have been more or less a repeat performance of their lustful activities so far if the both blessed and accursed phone had not begun to shrill distantly.

«Oh, sweet Merlin, I must be late – »

Gabrielle neatly extricated herself from Harry's slightly shaky grip, biting her lip in a move Harry felt travel all the way down to – "I am sorry we cannot finish – zis," she said, colouring a little shyly as she wrung out her hair. "but I am already late as it is – if I do not leave – "

"Ssh," Harry shook his head at her, pausing her in her speeded-up ablutions to kiss her gently on the neck, heatedly admiring the way the blush travelled down across her breasts and back, "I'll see you afterwards, won't I?" Gabrielle grinned at him through the intermittent shower spray, and pulled him into another kiss by way of reply.

"Eleven fifty at zis address," Gabrielle said, rinsing then disentangling herself once more to dart out of the bathroom – still naked, and a joy to watch – to fetch a small business card that she set upon the tiny, cluttered dresser nearby. "You can find my number on ze phone if you are confused, no?" Not waiting for a reply, she began to towel herself down ruthlessly, making sure to give her hair a seeing-too as well.

"Want me to dry that for you?" Harry said, eyes greedily taking in the sight of a pretty girl dressing up – a process that had always fascinated him, especially when coupled with such an impressive figure as the one before him. Gabrielle's eyes met his in the mirror as she started putting on some thick, sweet-smelling lotion. "Or if you'd rather not – "

"It's all right, 'Arry," she said simply, bending over briefly to struggle out a strange-looking apparatus. "I 'ave an 'airdryer – just as good as a wand. Sometimes better…" She left the bathroom abruptly, charging out into the living room in search of something. Probably clothes, when Harry allowed himself to grudgingly reflect on it – she needn't bother covering that up around me, that's for certain – as he turned off the water and availed himself of the same towel. It was a bit damp, and smelled very, very much like damp, clean French girl, which was fast becoming Harry's favourite French smell –

"You should let me 'ave a try at your 'air with ze dryer sometime, 'Arry," Gabrielle said, slipping back in, already partially dressed in some active-style bra and too-long, slightly grubby tracksuit bottoms. "Really – with ze right brush, and ze right tools, I could – "

"Make my hair lie down for about ten minutes," Harry interjected playfully, idly wrapping the towel round his waist and watching her plug in the dryer. It'd been ages since he'd had cause to actually even see one, let alone use one – they'd certainly advanced to the point of insanity, from the sleek shininess of the one she was currently and proficiently using in tandem with an odd-looking round-barrelled hairbrush. Gabrielle rolled her blue eyes at the comment and, in a surprising move, tossed her hair directly into his face – "Hey!"

"It is a small toilet, you must forgive me," she said insincerely, grinning at him in the mirror.

"Well maybe I should leave you to your toilet, then," Harry said, surprised to find he had an urge to pout. He quashed the impulse – by all that was good, he hadn't pouted for years, it would look so silly –

"Ah, non," Gabrielle said, wickedly serious, backing gracefully into his way, kicking the door shut. "I mean to keep you 'ere – it is only fair, as you woke me up zis morning…" she trailed off at the expression on Harry's face, reddening slightly. "Ah, je suis – I am so sorry – zat was terribly bad taste – "

"It's okay," Harry found himself wanting to insist, watching her try to keep an eye on him while blasting and brushing her hair with the rather loud and hot dryer. He didn't think anyone since Ginny had ever even tried to joke about the sodding things with him, inadvertently or not, and seeing as Gabrielle hadn't run screaming from his screaming that morning, or carefully edged out of another meeting with him, it was clear that she didn't care very much. "Everyone I know still has them, I think." He paused for a moment after her answering nod, wanting to ask, but not knowing – "Do you still…?" Her face seemed to shut down, making him want to kick himself –

For crying out loud, of all the things you ask her, Potter

"No," Gabrielle said quietly, too quietly. An uncomfortable silence rested heavy on them, broken only by their breathing and the whining roar of the dryer. "I was wondering when you would ask, no?"

Harry felt the knot in his chest grow tighter – why hadn't he just kept his mouth –

"Don't," came the rough admonishment as he opened his mouth to apologise, to say something, anything – "Just don't."

"But – "

"Listen to me," Gabrielle said, just as roughly, seeking out his eyes with hers again in the fogged-up mirror. "I won't 'ave your pity, 'Arry, tu comprends? I," she said, fiercely setting down the now-silent hairdresser, "am content. I 'ave friends, work zat I love to do – I am fine, 'ow I am." She took a stabilising breath, before going on, "If you 'ave come 'ere to convince me to return to ze wizarding world, I can already tell you zat my answer is no, and will always be no. If – if you are not ready to accept zat…" she shrugged stiffly in the mirror, breathing a little fast as she seized a hair band and began to ruthlessly tame her hair into the small circle of black.

"I didn't come here to push you to do something you'll hate, Gabrielle," Harry replied softly. "That's not what I came here for."

"Zen what, 'Arry?" she half-snapped in return, now fishing out a few pots and tubes of muggle makeup.

"I'm here on leave, to debauch myself with the lovely French food and wine, not to imprison or convince someone of something really against her will," he replied, stepping closer to Gabrielle's slightly hunched form.

"And zat is your polite way of telling me your stay is just temporary, I suppose," she remarked again, but far less snappishly, as she shook her longish ponytail and examined it from as many angles as she could manage. "'Ow does it look?"

"Your hair, or you?" Gabrielle snorted. "Well fine, don't help me out, then. Your hair looks great, and so does the rest of you..."

"Ah, merde! I am going to be late…" she dashed out of the bathroom with him lumbering in surprised pursuit. One minute she was swearing never to return to using magic, and the next she was fishing for compliments from him. It was really odd how flighty she was – and how much he sort of enjoyed it, the imbalanced nature of –

"Eleven fifty, 'Arry," Gabrielle whispered, coming out of what seemed like nowhere to crush herself to him. The short ensuing kiss left him rather short for breath, but not dazed enough not to throw on something decent and follow her out so he could make sure she was safe, especially in this neighbourhood, where everything looked dingy and battered. They rushed down the stairs in tandem, Gabrielle almost seeming to sparkle as she entered the cab.

"Eleven fifty!" Harry half-roared after her, just so it'd make her laugh. And she did, over her shoulder, through the darkened windows of the car, she waved and sent a few involuntary giggles his way.

Going back to the flat without her ached, in a very insistent, particular manner. Harry closed the door behind him, wincing at his state of arousal – still hard, can't believe it – as he returned to the bathroom to have a go with the hairdryer. It wouldn't hurt to try it on himself, really – he was at once whimsical and gagging for it –

The dryer took longer to use than his wand, as he'd expected. What he hadn't expected was the almost mad desire to point the thing at his cock, which had piped down after it probably realised he wasn't going to oblige it with a hard rub. He tried it – gulped – noted that somewhere in the back of his mind – Gabrielle + me + dryer recipe for success – then turned it off, not minding that his hair was just a tiny bit damp at the roots.

And, what do you know – looking at himself in the mirror, it did look a bit more tamed. Which was just as well, as Harry wanted, rather a bit more than usual, to look good for his meeting with Gabrielle. Checking the time on the clock in the tiny living room, he blushingly put on the discarded, rather wrinkled formal clothes from the evening before, trying not to remember how she'd taken off his boxers, as he'd feel like a dirty old man wanking here, within reach of that bed and that smell –

Right. Apparation time.

Harry closed his eyes and squeezed down, not even needing to do the wand movement – he was so used to –

Fucking hell

The temporary Floo connection, a tiny floating grate, was vibrating angrily just in front of the fizzling flat-screen television, emitting gurgles and squeaks Harry knew boded nothing but ill. He'd been right, then – Alain had called during the night, and, by the looks of it, several times.

Twenty minutes later, Harry was stomping rather angrily into the largeish shower cubicle, feeling at once ashamed of himself and irritated as hell at the shouted insults he'd copped from his sort-of-superior. What was even more annoying was how Alain had relaxed considerably after finally being made to understand, by a highly embarrassed Harry, that he'd not been kidnapped, killed or lost – merely in the bed of some girl he'd inadvertently met after the show.

He'd asked for details, the dirty sod –

Harry tried to calm down, as the water was starting to grow unnaturally hot from the magical energy seeping off him. He'd had a horrible experience with a thoroughly Muggle shower once – it had burst and rained scalding hot water on him, flooding the bathroom after Harry had given in and cursed it, irrationally, with wandless magic. That, he wincingly remembered, had been a month or two after the first real break with Ginny. He'd been unstable. He certainly wasn't unstable now, just –

Horny. Again.

Harry gave in to the insidious voice of his impulses, reaching down to stroke at his wet, half-hard cock. As he stroked and gasped and leant against one of the shower walls, water pounding into his side, he only gave a fleeting thought to why the thought of Gabrielle's wet skin, earlier in the day, sent him into such paroxysms of arousal.

Then he was cleaning up and getting out of the shower, and it really wasn't as important as fussing over his choice of clothes – black, blue, grey, white, and – oh, thank Merlin, red – and wishing fervently that he'd not thought to take a second bloody shower.

A half-hour of research later, Harry was gasping at the time and grabbing at his jacket, running fingers through his irritatingly messy hair even as he Apparated to the street she'd mentioned. By the time he'd finally gained entrance to the studio, he'd forgotten entirely about his almost unnaturally heated wank and the feelings that had had lain beneath it, and was only moderately anxious to see Gabrielle again.