A/N: The usual disclaimer applies, obviously. If you're still reading this, and are not partial to non-explicit sex scenes, I've no idea what you're still doing here. Also, do bear with me if you happen to know what dancing with a French Modern Dance company is really like in France.

In which Harry gets to know Gabrielle, and some things come to a head.


Dejeuner au Café

After a few minutes of wrangling with the shifty-eyed guard at the door to the dance studio, Harry finally found himself walking the halls of the cramped headquarters of the Ballet Atlantique. Luckily for him, a few curious dancers were lounging about in the corridors, evidently preparing to take their lunch break, and, with a certain amount of stammering and flushing at lewd comments whispered between the dancers about him in French, he soon found himself at the door to the studio Gabrielle was presumably practicing in this morning. It was ajar, and the sounds of healthy thumps and the slide-skitter of feet and the authoritarian shouts of someone could be heard just above the loud, vibrant and very Indian music.

After debating with himself for a few minutes as to whether to chance entering the sanctum, Harry was pre-empted by the appearance of Sophie from last night – Gabrielle's friend, looking sweaty, flushed and thoroughly awake.

"Parfait, parfait – Gabby's in need of a friendly face cette matin – Harry? Please come in – " And Sophie was dragging the stuttering Harry into the room, which was whirling with movement, air heavy with sweat and shouts and muttered curses. "In a minute, we will be done – Madame Gorgen pushes us vairy, vairy 'ard zis morning, you see, going into our break. See – over there – Gabrielle ees dance lead zis morning, pauvre petit – "

And indeed she was – nodding her head emphatically at the slim, forceful-looking woman waving her arms vigorously in front of her as the music was changed and dancers scuttled off to the sides of the huge room, evidently preparing to – right, she was running off to the side now, and the music was starting –

Harry absently began to tap his feet to the measured beat of the music, as the dancers moved across the room in what looked like easy concert. Gabrielle made her entrance later, prowling theatrically onto the stage and whirling a couple of odd-looking sticks – everyone else was carrying them, too – and leading the dancers, who had formed in a rough half-circle round her, facing the far mirrors, with every move. It was, in short, rather mesmerising. Harry found himself noticing odd things about her feet – the way they arched, almost impossibly, even when she was doing a simple thing like stepping forward. The way her chest was heaving with sweat as she leapt and twisted into stylistic (again, definitely Indian) poses, the way her neck was pink, but her face pale.

And then the music sped up, and the Indian words ceased, and male dancers were leaping onto the floor as the others, led by Gabrielle, spun in a kind of frantic, beautiful frenzy, and the whole thing had become a lot of muscled leaping from place to place, with Gabrielle in the centre, her pale hair escaping precariously from her bun as she danced imperiously with a male dancer. Harry watched as Sophie muttered things like "too much point, there" and "fuck, Jean leapt the wrong way again", utterly convinced that, with the right clothes, the spectacle (nothing else he could call it) would be dazzling.

Gabrielle finished with a toss of her nearly-loose hair, leg crooked into a position that simultaneously made him wince and caused a stir down below, and yet he couldn't help clapping with the rest of the dancers as the tired group began to fragment off into groups, muttering to themselves. Madame Gorgen – the forceful, dark-haired woman – had cornered Gabrielle and was talking excitedly to her, waving her arms as Gabrielle nodded again, and then – finally, she was walking over, tugging out her bun, evidently meaning to put it up again. Sophie grinned beside him and winked broadly at her, patting Harry on the waist (perilously close to his bum, he thought, slightly scandalised) and flouncing off somewhere else.

Gabrielle could only manage a tired-looking smile as she spotted him, shaking her head at some comment her opposite and brief partner made as she passed him by. But she was heading steadily for Harry, and he found himself thinking, foolishly, that that was enough.

Since when did you care if she likes you? he asked himself irritably, trying to tone down the odd grin on his face – he was sure he looked stupid, but –

"I am so glad you could come," Gabrielle told him tiredly, rising up to give him a small kiss on the cheek that burned and did interestingly embarrassing things to his cock. For Merlin's sake, Potter – not even spoken to her and you're already thinking of your cock

"Told you I would," was all he seemed able to say, around the stupid grin that had taken over his face. Gabrielle smiled again, blushing a little – at what? – as she gave his arm a quick squeeze that burned equally –

"I'll get my things," was all she said, but it seemed more than that, more than –

God, I need help, Harry remarked inwardly, finally finding himself able to shut down that grin. He managed to keep it off his face even as she sort of embarrassedly asked him if he could Dual-Apparate her back home, as she really, really needed a shower, and didn't want to make him wait while she did that here. Harry agreed so fast he wondered if he'd imagined the question, and then Gabrielle was nodding and smiling at her friends and pinking slightly as Sophie winked and said something in low French – sounded like, 'giving it another round' – and tugging burningly on his arm to show him somewhere they could safely disappear. They found such a place, a spotless alley beside the studio, where Harry first cast a mild Notice-Me-Not Charm, then wrapped his arms firmly around Gabby's soft, sweaty form (not even bothering to deceive himself that he was only doing it because of the Apparation), and visualising her bathroom in as much detail as possible.

The crushing sensation of Apparation overtook him, and then they were standing in her slightly messy bathroom, Harry breathing a little heavily. They stayed like that for a minute, very close to each other, Harry able to feel her tired breathing against his neck and chest, because it just felt –

"Right," Gabrielle said softly, squirming slightly against him. Harry let go of her as gently as possible, gulping as she refused to leave his arms, giving him a kiss that tasted of activity and warmth and was very, very – "I should get on with it," she said, breaking away, running a damp hand through her hair. Harry nodded, stepping back, unable to make himself leave as she stripped off the sweaty clothes, dumping them in a basket of other clothes he'd not noticed before, pinking slightly as she looked round at him. "Do you want to…" she gestured hopefully at the shower, and, five minutes later, Harry realised, as his mouth found hers again, that he'd possibly beaten his record for undressing for sex.

Well, he hoped it would be –

"Get in, 'Arry," Gabrielle said lowly, not following, tired blue eyes roving his body as he blushed and hardened before her eyes, obeying her half-hearted mime that he should turn on the shower. "Could you – touch yourself…?" she asked slowly, hopefully, firing Harry's veins with lust and embarrassment as his hands eagerly obeyed her request. She didn't watch him long – ducking into the shower cubicle and pressing him against one of the walls in a hungry kiss that served to further excite him, hands roaming unashamedly over his arse. In what seemed like no time at all, she was shuddering against the wall as he thrust into her, the warm water spilling over them as they joined slowly together, again and again and again –

Her low, low moan pushed him to the limit, and soon he was limp inside her as she kissed him again, softly, his legs wobbling slightly with the intensity of it all.

"Right," Harry said hoarsely, sliding out of her, blushing fit to kill himself – if he wasn't so painfully oversensitive now, he'd be hard again, taking her like this, against the wall, as she moaned and moaned – "You wanted a shower, didn't you?" Gabrielle snorted as she manoeuvred herself under the weak spray, washing absently between her legs.

"I also wanted you to fuck me, but I could not say zat at ze studio, no?" At his further blush, she smiled, turning up the shower spray. "You might want to get your wand – I do not theenk we did anything to prevent, well. Anything." Harry felt like his face was on fire – he'd been that horny, that inconsiderate, hadn't he – and duly called his wand to him, eliciting a half-admiring roll of the eyes from Gabrielle, who was now thoroughly rinsing her hair. After Harry said the requisite spell, she asked him if he could fetch her shampoo, which was, oddly, inside the cubicle with them. Bending over and feeling very, very silly, he did as she asked, only to have her pressing deliciously against him, hands snaking round to touch his cock. It felt almost painfully good to have her wet, warm hands on him, in his sensitised state, and by the time she got round to actually retrieving her shampoo from him, it had fallen twice, and Harry was impossibly half-hard, again.

"What was that for?" he demanded, shakily, turning round to stare at her pink nipples as she stroked shampoo through her hair.

"An incentive to wash my hair," she said diffidently, turning round with a pointed look. Harry felt the urge to pout hit him again, but then she was backing into him delightfully, pressing her firm buttocks against him enticingly, and before he knew what he was doing, he was carefully dragging fingers through her hair and massaging her scalp. An undignified groan escaped him as her hand found his cock again. "Keep going." The implicit promise that she would if he did sped his hands, and soon he was rocking helplessly against her, and –

She disengaged briefly, eliciting another groan of despair from him, ducking her head under the spray to rinse it out. Harry, who had become nearly incoherent, reached for her arse and hips anyway, sliding fingers into her in a desperate effort to entice her back.

It worked, and fifteen minutes later, they were groaning against the shower wall again, and her hair smelt fucking fantastic, and Harry was so painfully close –

Another shameful groan escaped him, and he felt far too wobbly to stand upright under the hot spray, and found himself leaning sweatily against the wall as she kissed him again and again. She was very slow about it, very deliberate, very –

Dammit, he was too tired to think, so he wouldn't do it. Only kiss – only taste her lips and mouth and neck and revel in the water –

Whhhrrring!

"Shite," Harry could only say, reluctantly disentangling himself from Gabrielle's complaining warmth and dripping out of the bathroom, cursing the stupid – "Shi – right."

FLOO CALL PIERRE OR DIE! His messager advised him in blocky, slightly childish letters. Harry groaned loudly without even thinking – oh no, I do have to meet with him this afternoon. Said something about a lead on the Lestranges, or

"'Arry?" He shivered, almost pathetically. It really wasn't fair, her having such tones at her command – "Anytheenk wrong?"

"Well, I think I might have to leave soon." That is, everything.

"Are you sure? You 'ave appointment, or – "

"Something like that," Harry said, stuffing the messager roughly back into his coat-pocket, feeling rather resentful towards its sleek metal shell. It hadn't any human feelings or desires. It didn't feel the need to have a pleasantly warm body next to it for any amount of time. It didn't feel bone tired standing and feeling silly in some stupid little hall playing at spies –

"It ees importante?"

"Irritatingly so," Harry said lowly, shuffling back into the bathroom to gaze longingly at Gabrielle's sleek, dripping towelled form. As she tended to her wet hair, the slightly damp towel slithered unhelpfully down to her waist, and he was only too happy to protect her – er – modesty, by lending a helping hand. And a long, wistful helping kiss, after that. "I'm Apparating to mine for a sec, to get my stuff, then – "

"Non, don't tell me," Gabrielle said softly, cutting him off. "You won't tell me ze truth, in any case, so it is bettaire to say nothing."

"What?" Harry stopped cold, feeling very –

"It is obviously not a normal work, what you 'ave," she continued, turning from him to her dressing table, "strange 'ours. And you, being who you are…eet strongly suggests somesing not quite…how shall I say eet…public." She shrugged as she sprayed out some foamy substance onto her hair and began to rub it in, even as Harry stumblingly helped himself to a strangely rich lotion as fast as he could. "Just – " she set down the can from which she'd extracted the foam, " – be here, zis evening, at – shall we say – nine?" Harry nodded eagerly, leaning over to kiss her cheek in an action that felt stunningly natural – far too natural for so soon, his mind noted suspiciously – before stumbling into his clothes and retrieving his wand.

The last thing he saw before he finally subjected himself to that crushing darkness, once more, was Gabrielle's oddly accepting nod. Permissive, somehow, he thought to himself as he frantically Accio-ed everything he would need for the meeting with Pierre, shrinking various odd-looking implements and placing them as carefully as he could into the special, over-pocketed vest all spies that worked for the Department were given, occasionally cursing the irritating thing. Protocol stated that its contents had to be resized and dispersed each time he put it away, the process of which was everlastingly annoying, and everlastingly long.

Harry snorted to himself. Sometimes he wondered what bloody use all the protections and uselessly tiny vials would do if he met someone really intent on putting an end to him – something he'd not done for more than three or so years. No, he thought to himself, stripping off his shirt and slipping the vest on under it with the ease that came from practice, they're all too busy wondering why their luck is bad enough that the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World gets sent after them, poor sods.

Not that many of the targets of the Department were capable of arousing any sympathy in Harry's breast, of course. He dealt with only the highest levels of criminals – the ones the Aurors could never quite understand, the ones that were really loose in the head. Many of them had turned out to be former Death Eaters, but Harry, by now, was of the firm belief that one didn't have to kowtow to Voldemort or any other dark wizard to be Dark themselves.

All it takes, Harry thought, a little morosely, is willingness to hurt someone else, and then –

His hand tightened unnecessarily on his wand as he hid the vest with the complex spell he'd thought he'd never be able to learn, eyes hardening imperceptibly.

Then, you became someone – something like the Lestrange brothers.

And then – Harry smiled, grimly – you got the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding world set on your trail. He caressed his wand for a moment, almost fondly, before mouthing the communication spell in the direction of one of the gadgets he'd dropped into his vest.

"Pierre? You'd better be there, you irritating piece of – "

"Monsieur! Monsieur Bleu, what a lovely surprise – " Harry rolled his eyes, partly at his handler's irreverently patronising manner, which never failed to get on his nerves, and partly at the slight slur in the man's speech. Pierre occasionally indulged, he knew that – wasn't likely to forget it after running afoul of him during the Spanish mission in Pasajes an hour or so before judicious use of hangover potion was usually expected – but not usually at such an important time. Harry snorted to himself, suddenly remembering, with a wry grin, that he was doing all the legwork this time around – Pierre could be sitting in some swanky apartment on the other side of town, shooing away beautiful, naked blondes from his bedside so he could finish 'eemportant business'… "Monsieur? Are you listeneeng?"

Harry started, nodding almost automatically before remembering Pierre couldn't see him. "I'm all ears, for crying out loud – get on with it."

"Mon plaisir, Bleu. Les frères Lestranges sont vu dans un petit hôtel dans Verduron. L'adresse est…"

Harry mouthed the street address of the hotel, thanked his partner, and abruptly severed the connection, frissons of adrenaline already running up and down his arms.

Time. He darted to the mirror in the bathroom and hastily altered his facial features with makeup than magic, his only concessions to his wand in this case being the temporary Colouring Charm and a few drops of judiciously applied engorgement potion to his jawline and lips. There – he still looked very English, and, with an added touch of an insipid expression he'd had to perfect, would also look harmless.

Activating the built-in Disillusionment Charm on the vest, Harry Apparated almost immediately after, ignoring the sensations as he planned what to do and how to go about it. He appeared on a street corner and ducked out of the way of a hurrying, slightly disheveled-looking businessman, heading for the shadows. A small pub was across the street from the hotel caught his eye, and, after rendering himself visible again, he conjured a large coat and pullover and fought into them as quickly as he could. Nerves fizzling as always, he crossed the street and headed into the pub, not yet knowing why his instinct was directing him inside, his shoulders settling easily into the disguise he'd use for the evening.

The door swung open before him, and, quite suddenly, he knew.

Harry paused momentarily on the threshold of the pub, ignoring the stench of alcohol as he scanned it surreptitiously. How he knew, he did not know, but what he knew was clear. He stepped inside, smiling nervously at the barmaid from a distance, heart thudding rapidly.

Rabastan Lestrange was in the building.


A/N: Just to clarify, what Pierre was saying just before Harry Apparated was more or less, "The Lestrange brothers were seen in a small hotel in Verduron. The address is…"

And worry not, the next chapter is already about halfway written. I'm finally settling into my writing groove this year, so all my stuff is weirdly on schedule. All the better for you guys, I guess...