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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its subsequent works, nor do I own Casablanca. I also don't own the rights to the songs "Amado Mio" (1946) or "As Time Goes By" (1931). I'm not making any money off of this, I swear. So please, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Press, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros., MGM, and anyone else involved: DON'T SUE ME! I don't have any money, so taking any legal action against me will benefit no one.
At Harry's Café du Sorcier, there's always something happening, from drunken fights between lovers, to big winnings on the roulette table. But despite all the activity in the famous bar, Harry Potter, the owner himself, was often overlooked or the subject of double takes. After Voldemort's defeat at his hands, Harry Potter had gone into hiding in Bonifacio, Corsica. And though his bar served all sorts—wizards, muggles, and the followers of a dark new regime—Harry himself had no taste for the murderers, the cheaters, or the manipulators.
Monsieur Hugo Lefevre, Chief of Police in Bonifacio, had been completely correct: the most successful pub owner in the Mediterranean was dreadfully lonely and he most certainly was hiding. Of course, Harry would never admit this to anyone, but here, at least, he didn't have to endure the stares, the constant whispering behind his back, or any of the attention that came from being Harry Potter. That is what Monsieur Lefevre did not understand. True, Harry could have been anything he wanted, but what if this was what he wanted?
After leaving Lefevre at his table on the terrace, Harry followed his headwaiter Johann back inside to settle some issue with Valerie, the receptionist and payroll manager.
"What's up, angel?" he asked her.
"Sir, I don't have enough money to back these two gentlemen," she said as she pointed to the two mustached men before her. "They are saying that they are owed two hundred thousand francs. I needed you to retrieve some from the vault."
"Of course, Valerie, my dear." And so, Harry went up the stairs to his personal apartment to the safe he stored in the closet. After entering the electronic code, he heard a couple of clicks before the heavy, steel door opened. Quickly grabbing the francs, Harry shut the safe and went back downstairs to Valerie's desk.
He had only set down the envelope full of French notes on her desk when he felt a tapping on his right shoulder. He turned to see Lefevre. "Can I help you?"
"Well, I thought you ought to know that I plan to make an arrest in you bar tonight. It should be really exciting," the Police Chief told him mischievously.
"Another one?" Harry asked, clearly annoyed. "You know, this is bad for business."
"Ah, but this is no ordinary arrest. This time, it's a murderer," Lefevre said excitedly.
Harry's eyes betrayed him as he looked toward the gambling hall. Unfortunately, Lefevre caught the glance.
"I'm advising you not to warn him. He won't be able to escape."
Matter-of-factly, Harry told the Police Chief, "That's fine then. I don't stick my neck out for anyone."
Lefevre clapped the bar's namesake on the back. "Good man, good policy," he said as he steered Harry toward the stairs. "Come, let us speak in your office."
Harry scoffed, not interested enough to debate the argumentative power in his own establishment.
"You know, Harry, I certainly could've made the arrest at the Footloose Fox, but out of consideration for you and your customers, I've decided to stage it here. Should be great entertainment for them."
"Our entertainment's enough. You know, if I didn't have a gambling hall or I didn't sell booze, I think I'd still have half of my customers coming in to listen to Mik."
The pair crossed the hall from Harry's apartment to his office. He opened the door, turned on the light, and drew a chair for the Police Chief. He then closed the door so that no suspicious ears would overhear their conversation.
"Thank you," Lefevre said as he sat. "But, you know, I think you're right about Mik. Anyways, I should tell you that we're going to have an important guest tonight, and I doubt you'll like him very much. But, who knows? His name's Trottel, one of Mërzitaab's highest lieutenants and an ambassador sent to the French Ministry. A wise policy: discussing fear tactics before actually using them."
"Mërzitaab just doesn't have enough people to mount a full-scale attack. Besides, since this is a continent-wide war, she'll have to draw up quite a bit of followers. Sending—what's his name? Trottel?—will just be a bluff. She flies her own colors in the name of Voldemort, so of course governments will cower." Upon hearing the name of the darkest wizard since Grindelwald, Lefevre flinched. Harry scowled.
"No matter my politics, or yours," he added, eyeing at Harry, "I'm under orders to be diplomatic to our guest. So this arrest ought to demonstrate the efficiency of my administration. Now, I don't like the situation either, but we've all got to do our part to get by. You of all people should know that."
"Just because I know it doesn't mean that I have to like it. But why's he come to Bonifacio? Even though Corsica is a French territory, I doubt he came here just to witness your efficiency."
"Perhaps not," he said, crestfallen.
Looking from a stack of receipts on the desk before him to his ally, Harry said, "You look like you've got something to share, Hugo. Why don't you come out with it?"
"You're quite observant, Harry. As a matter of fact, I wanted to give you some advice."
"Yeah?" he asked, trying to sound disinterested.
"I know that hundreds of letters of transit have come in and out of your bar. I also know that you have never sold one. That is why I still allow you to remain open."
"Please," Harry scoffed as if he had heard a funny joke. "You wouldn't close the Café du Sorcier. Who else would let you win at roulette?"
"Well, yes, that's also true, but there's been talk that a man's arriving in Bonifacio on his way to central Europe. One of those freedom fighters, you know. He fought in the Second Wizarding War in Britain and he's due to rally forces against the Death Eaters. You'd probably know him. Anyways, he's supposed to pay a great deal to anyone with a letter of transit."
"What's his name?" Harry asked suspiciously.
Lefevre sat for a moment, a puzzled expression gracing his face. Finally, emerging from his confused stupor, he said, "You know, I'm really not sure."
"Sure," Harry said with frank disbelief.
"Look, it's my job to see that he doesn't leave Bonifacio. Got it? He stays here."
"I'll bet you one hundred seventy thousand Galleons he'll get away."
Lefevre scoffed. "You don't have that much money."
"I sure do. Besides, it's only a little more than I paid out tonight and I'd like very much to earn it back."
"Well, you know how I love to gamble. Fine. I'll take you on. Still, I say he needs a letter of transit, or should I say two."
"And why should you say that?" Harry asked curiously.
"Because he's supposedly traveling with a lady."
"Who'd you say this was again?"
"I told you that I don't really know. He's probably one of your friends."
"Doesn't matter. He'll take one."
"I doubt it. If he didn't leave her behind in Prague or in Budapest, he certainly wouldn't leave her in Bonifacio."
"Maybe he's not quite as romantic as you are."
"Well, this discussion is pointless. There is no letter of transit for him."
"Let me just ask you something," Harry started, "What makes you think I'd be so willing to help this guy?"
"Because, dear Harry, no matter what sort of a hardened war hero you may have become, you'll always be loyal to those who fight the Death Eaters. You'll always be a member of the Order of the Phoenix at heart and you'll always be a sentimentalist."
Harry let out a chuckle. "A sentimentalist? Is that what you think of me?"
"Go on, laugh. But you forget that I know who you are. Defeated He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named six times, led a campaign throughout Britain to track down any remaining Death Eaters, and you still overcharge any Death Eater that walks through your doors. Not to mention the fact that they tend to always have horrible odds at your tables."
"You know that I didn't actually lead that campaign, right? I merely suggested it. After the War, I went traveling for two years to go see the world. Besides, in the two things I actually did do, I found the outcomes to be very profitable. I got to keep my life and I earned extra money."
"Come off it."
"Well, it seems you're determined to keep that freedom fighter here."
"I have my orders," Lefevre said resignedly.
Suddenly there was an urgent knock on the door. "Come in," Harry told the knock's owner.
A young boy nervously struggled with the door handle for a moment before jiggling it open. He had to be no older than seventeen, what with his boyish face and the thin wisps of a mustache desperately trying to take root above his upper lip.
"Sir," he said urgently to Lefevre, ignoring Harry in the process, "Monsieur Trottel is here."
Lefevre immediately sprang to his feet and straightened his uniform. "Excuse me, Harry, but we'll have to continue this conversation some other time." With that, he hurried out the door, his aide trailing behind him.
Shaking his head, Harry bent over a few of the papers on his desk in an effort to sort them, but he couldn't concentrate. He was much too focused on what Lefevre said about tonight's scheduled events. He couldn't fathom who this resistance leader could be or why any of this should matter at all. He had done his part; this was no longer his war to fight. So why did he still care? You know it's because of her, said a voice in his head.
Harry sighed. He supposed there really was nothing else for it. Giving up on trying to settle the receipts and order forms for the moment, Harry stood from his desk and turned off the office's lights before closing the office door. He casually walked down the stairs into the nightclub's main room, desperately flattening his hair over his scar and removing his glasses just in case he ran into this Mr. Trottel.
He watched as Lefevre waved Johann over. Seated across from Bonifacio's Chief of Police was an older gentleman that could have passed for Barty Crouch Sr.'s brother. His neatly-trimmed hair was combed back, his thin line of a mustache stretched from one corner of his mouth to the other, and he was dressed impeccably, as if he were about to hold job interviews. He wore all black and on his face was plastered an expression of expectation and demand. Clearly, Harry could see, Mërzitaab only sent the most suave-looking in her ranks to deal with delegations.
Harry leaned against the railing for a bit, eyes searching the crowd. He spotted Dieb walking towards Valerie, handfuls of chips in his hand, while being trailed by two stern-looking men. Harry noticed they both tried to conceal their wands in their sleeves but kept them pointed at the small, slippery little man. They must be on Lefevre's payroll, Harry thought. Indeed they were. Monsieur Lefevre didn't discriminate between wizards and muggles on his police squads, but he preferred to leave more crafty wizards like Dieb to magical folk.
Dieb dropped his chips on Valerie's desk, exchanging them for francs. He pocketed half of it and turned to face the front door, seemingly preparing to exit. However, the francs still in his hand were suddenly thrown into the air.
Chaos ensued. From all sides, patrons came streaming to collect the rain of money. The two wizards trailing him were shoved aside by the greedy crowd; one was even knocked to the floor. They pulled out their guns; they couldn't openly fire spells at him while surrounded by muggles. As this occurred, Dieb ran straight for Harry.
A manic look in his eyes, Dieb grabbed Harry's jacket by its lapels. "Harry! Harry, you've got to help me!"
Expressionless, Harry merely said, "Don't be a fool. You have no chance for trying to get away."
"Please, Harry! Hide me, cover me! Do something! For God's sake, Harry, help me! Do something!"
Harry just stood there as the wizards caught up to the small escapee and dragged him off. He struggled against them, but his physical size made his attempts futile.
"Harry! Harry!" he called out desperately.
In all the commotion with the scramble for Dieb's discarded francs, very few guests had noticed the slippery little man being dragged off. Those who did, however, looked as if they were preparing to leave.
Harry knew what he had to do as he walked fairly quickly towards Mik. He whispered something to Mik, still keeping his eyes on those about ready to depart. Harry in turn walked away, distancing himself from the piano as quickly as possible.
Then, Mik stood from his piano and announced to the whole of the nightclub, whoever paid attention, "On behalf of the entire management here at Harry's, I'd like to apologize for the disturbance folks, but it's all over now and everything's fine. If you'll just sit down and enjoy yourselves." In turn, he sat down and started pinging on the keys in a very complex variation of "Come Fly with Me." His fingers bounced from one side of the keyboard to the other, constantly in motion.
Harry happened to walk by Lefevre's table when he heard a call. "Oh, Harry? This is Monsieur Trottel; he works with the esteemed Mademoiselle Fetije Mërzitaab and is a diplomat to the French Ministry from her organization," the Police Chief said as Harry halted before the booth.
"How do you do, Mr. Harry?" Trottel said in a near-perfect English accent. He had a twinge to his voice that lingered on some of his vowels, adding a hard edge to his speech.
"Oh, how do you do?" Harry asked back, feigning boredom.
"Please join us, Mr. Harry," Trottel said curtly. He held out a hand toward an empty seat.
"We are very honored tonight, Harry," Lefevre said as Harry sat down. "Monsieur Trottel here is one of the reasons why the international Death Eaters hold such a strong sway across Europe today."
Looking as if he were refusing to point, Trottel eyed Harry suspiciously, then asked him, "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? All unofficial business, of course," he said, completely ignoring Lefevre's comment.
"You're certainly welcome to. Mind you, I don't really fancy answering personal questions, so let's try to keep it short. I've got a nightclub to run."
Trottel didn't expect this response, nor did he seem to like it very much. "What's your full name?"
"Harry Tiberius Evans." Harry had been using this alias since he left Britain nearly five years ago. It ensured that he didn't attract so much unwanted attention. However, Hugo Lefevre knew the truth, so to keep him from questioning this change in identity, Harry kicked the Police Chief's shin under the table.
"Evans, hmm?" Trottel mumbled disbelievingly, taking a notepad out of his left breast pocket and writing the name down. He looked back up at Harry. "By the sound of your English, I'd say that you are of British nationality, am I correct?"
Barely looking around at his company, Harry had begun picking at the tablecloth. "I'm a drunkard if anything," he said nonchalantly.
Lefevre let out a chuckle, "Well, that makes Harry a citizen of the world!"
Glancing up at his inquisitor, Harry answered, "I was born in Surrey, if that helps you at all." Completely untrue of course. Harry had been born in Godric's Hollow; he lived at Number Four, Privet Drive in Surrey from the night his parents died until he turned seventeen. But Major Trottel didn't need to know that.
Trottel wrote this down in his notepad too before changing the subject. "I understand you came here from Paris only two years ago."
"True enough."
"Two years ago, Mistress Fetije ordered quite a number of our ranks into Paris. Tell me, Harry, are you one of those people who cannot imagine the Death Eaters in their beloved Paris?"
"It's not particularly my beloved Paris," he answered in a bored fashion.
"Can you imagine us in America?"
"When you get there, ask me."
Lefevre snorted before he downed his Scotch.
"How about in London?"
"As much as I'd like to advise you to avoid certain sections of London, you and I both know that, as I am English, I've already seen Death Eaters in London. It's where you originated."
"You and I both know that there will be an international wizarding war. Our reach has already begun," Trottel said matter-of-factly. He then resumed his interrogating air, "Who do you think will win?"
Looking Trottel straight in the eyes, Harry answered him, "I haven't the slightest idea."
Lefevre, sensing trouble, cut in to the conversation. "Harry is completely neutral about everything. And that takes in the field of women, too."
"I hardly doubt you were always so neutral," Trottel said with the expression of a foul smell beneath his nose. He flipped through his notepad to the first few pages. "We've been trying to keep tabs on you, Monsieur Evans, but with all the secrecy you impose upon your identity, I admit that we've been forced to rely on rumours and half-truths. For example, though we've thoroughly decided that you're half-blood and confirmed that you'd come to Bonifacio from Paris, we could never agree on whether or not you were English before tonight."
"Glad I could be of some help to you after all."
"We also happen to know why you left Paris," Trottel added smugly.
He's bluffing, Harry thought.
"Do you now? And why would that be?"
"It was a woman." Harry looked at the Major sourly, distrust and offense written all over his face. "Don't worry," Trottel added, noting Harry's expression. "We're not going to broadcast it."
Harry reached out and grabbed the notepad from Trottel's hand with his Seeker reflexes. Skimming through it, he looked up at the Major, "Are my eyes really brown? I've always been told they're green."
Trottel snatched the notepad back from Harry before depositing it back in his left-breast pocket. "Thank you, Mr. Evans, for your illuminating details. The real point of our discussion, however, is the arrival of a certain enemy of ours and your ability to help us keep him here."
Harry glanced over at Lefevre. "My interest in the freedom of a freedom fighter is purely sporting. Hugo's already told you: I'm a neutral party in your war."
"In this case, you have no sympathy for the fox, do you?"
"I understand the perspective of the hound, too."
Trottel sighed in frustration as if remembering something painful. "This particular troublemaker has cost us many men; he has led guerilla attacks throughout Eastern Europe and spreads messages throughout the Wizarding Wireless under the codename Kingshelm. We apprehended him in Paris and he was still able to broadcast from our prison."
Lefevre chose just this moment to interrupt and remind everyone at the table that he was still present. "Of course, one must admit that he has great courage."
"He is a force to be reckoned with and he must be stopped. Three times he has slipped through our fingers and I intend to not let it happen again."
Harry got up from his seat. "Well, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, this conversation has begun to bore me. I'll leave you to your politics and I'll continue running my pub."
"Good evening, Mr. Evans." Major Trottel shook Harry's hand before allowing the nightclub owner to disappear into the frenzy of gamblers and drinkers.
Walking toward the gambling den, Harry could just make out Lefevre's words, "You see, Major, you have nothing to worry about Harry."
On the other side of the club, a couple walked through the front door under the bouncer's scrutiny. The man was very tall and freckly, his red hair neatly combed for the occasion of stepping into such a venue as this. The woman beside him was very beautiful with her sleek brown curls that ended just below her shoulders and she wore a simple white ensemble with half-sleeves and a light-red carnation in place of a broach. She was, in fact, so beautiful that people began to stare at the pair as they passed by.
Suddenly, the headwaiter approached them from amongst the tables teeming with people. "May I help you, sir?" he asked with his heavy German accent.
The man turned to look at his companion. "I believe we reserved a table under 'Ron Weasley.'"
The headwaiter nodded, "Yes, Herr Weasley. Right this way." He led them past a number of tables, of which many of the occupants couldn't help but stare at the couple. As they passed the piano, the woman glanced at the player, who was jolting out his rendition of Celestina Warbeck's "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me."
The piano player kept his gaze steadily on his instrument in concentration. Then, as the party of two passed, he too stole a glance in her direction.
"Frau," the headwaiter said as he pulls out a seat for the woman. "Herr," he said as he did the same for the man. "My name is Johann and I will be taking care of you tonight. May I start you off with some champagne?"
Looking around, Ron Weasley told him off-handedly, "An elderflower wine and a Knotgrass Mead."
"As you wish, Herr Weasley." With that, Johann left to attend to some other guests.
Ron turned to the woman as he lowered his voice, "I don't see anyone here who matches Dieb's description."
"Ron, I don't think we ought to stay here."
Ron raised his eyebrows. "Why not? If he leave here too soon, we'll attract even more attention. Maybe he's in some other part of the bar…."
Seemingly out of nowhere, another man approached the table. He was older than the couple by about twenty years and was beginning to bald. He spoke with some sort of an Eastern European accent, "Excuse me, but you look like a couple on their way to America."
"I'm sorry?" Ron asked, taken aback.
The man removed a ring from his finger and held it for their view. "I think that you'll find a market there for this. I, however, must sell it to you at a great sacrifice."
"I'm sorry, but we aren't headed to America and we don't quite fancy your ring."
"But I must insist, for the lady." He lifted up the peridot stone to reveal the Deathly Hallows symbol.
Ron and his companion exchanged a look. "In that case, we're very interested."
The man sat down between them. "Good. I'm Lorik, Albanian, and at your service, sir."
The woman turned to see the Chief of Police approach their table from behind her traveling partner.
"Ron," she starts in warning.
Catching her drift, he lowered his voice, "I'll meet you at the bar in a few minutes." Then, returning to his normal volume, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think we'll buy the ring. Good luck with your wares." Lorik scuttled off.
"Monsieur Weasley, is it not?" the Chief of Police extended a hand toward the redhead who had stood to welcome the newcomer.
"Yes."
"I am Captain Lefevre, Bonifacio's Chief of Police."
"Yes. What do you want?"
"Merely to welcome you to our lovely little city. I must tell you that it has been quite a while since we've had so distinguished a guest as you, Monsieur."
"Thank you, even if your French administration hasn't been as welcoming of late," Ron said skeptically. "May I present Hermione Granger?"
Hermione stood and offered her hand to Lefevre, who took it in his own and gently placed a kiss on it. "I was informed that you were the most beautiful woman to ever visit Bonifacio. May I say that it was a great understatement."
Hermione blushed, and taking her hand back, replied reservedly, "You're too kind."
"I suppose we'll ask you to join us," Ron said.
"If you insist." The three of them sat down. Lefevre then raised a hand and called out, "Oh Marcel!" A waiter appeared by the table in seconds flat. "Please, a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, and put it on my bill."
"Yes, of course, sir," said Marcel the waiter.
"No, Captain, please," Hermione began.
"No. Please, it is a little game we play. They put it on the bill, I tear the bill up. It is incredibly convenient."
Hermione then glanced over in the piano player's direction. "Captain, who is that playing the piano? I feel as if I've seen him before."
"Mik?"
"Yes."
"Oh, he came with Harry from France. Hired three weeks into the bar's establishment, I believe."
"Harry? Who's Harry?"
Lefevre smiled at her. "Mademoiselle, you are in Harry's and Harry is—"
"—Is what?" Hermione interrupted.
"Well, he's the kind of a man that, if I were a woman and I," at this, he tapped his own chest, "were not around, I should be in love with Harry. But what a fool I am, talking to a beautiful woman about another man."
Just behind him, another man of military pedigree approached the table.
"Ah! Excuse me, this is Major Trottel, Mademoiselle Fetije Mërzitaab's right-hand diplomat. This is Monsieur Weasley and Mademoiselle Granger," Lefevre continued with introductions.
Trottel smiled and bowed curtly. "How do you do? I have long looked forward to the pleasure of meeting you both."
Again, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look, this time of confusion. They didn't recognize him nor did they invite him to take a seat.
"Excuse me if you find my manners lacking, but we don't exactly get on well with your sort," Ron said coolly.
Insulted, Trottel exclaimed, "My sort? And what sort are you implying, exactly?"
Ron stood, towering over the unwanted guest. "We don't like Death Eaters and I'm sure you know that, considering that you've just given us quite a special welcome."
Scowling, Trottel's voice hardened, "Then I suppose that your special welcome ought to include a discussion of your presence here in Bonifacio. Tomorrow at ten in the Captain's office, with the Mademoiselle."
Ron looked over at Lefevre, hoping he could make a more peaceful settlement. "Captain Lefevre, since Hermione and I are under your authority, is it your order that we come to your office?"
With a smile as false as the thought of Draco Malfoy in Gryffindor, Lefevre answered, "I think I prefer the word 'request.' It's so much more pleasant, don't you think?"
"Fine," Ron growled.
Lefevre and Trottel bowed to the couple and each addressed Hermione before departing for another corner of the nightclub.
Ron still stood from his seat, his liquor all but forgotten. "Where's Harry-bloody-Potter when you need him, eh? Harry'd know what to do." He sighed in exasperation. "I really wish he'd never left, you know, Hermione? He'd have a plan to get us off this island or something. You said you saw him last in Paris, what, two years ago? What happened to him?"
"I don't know, Ron," Hermione said, avoiding his gaze. "But I do know that we've been on our own without him before and that we've survived through worse scrapes than this."
"Yeah," he conceded. "I guess."
She smiled back at him, but still her eyes were glazed with trouble.
Ron looked across the club, his gaze landing on Lorik at the bar. A turn of the head gave him the perfect view of Lefevre and Trottel whispering together conspiratorially.
"I'll be back soon, but I'm gonna try and find out what Lorik knows."
"Be careful, then," Hermione wished.
As Ron left her alone at the table, a Spanish singer struck up a tune on her guitar and began to sing:
Amado mio
Love me forever
And let forever
Begin tonight
Elderflower wine and Ogden's Old before her, Hermione sipped the more fruity concoction as she observed the patrons around her. Many were dressed in their fine silks and pearls, others, with their hair slicked back and their coats completely lint-free. Though the noise and colors began to blur together after awhile and the occasional drunken shout pierced the air, everyone and everything had an air of class that so often seems to be missing from the modern world.
Amado mio
When we're together
I'm in a dream world
Of sweet delight
Over the noisy din, the Spanish singer could still be heard crooning her song. Another look around the room led Hermione's eyes to land upon Mik. He was watching her nervously. Hermione glanced over at Ron, now at the bar and casually talking with Lorik over something not so casual. Perhaps they were discussing what had happened to Dieb, the man who was supposed to arrange transportation for them to Italy. Or maybe they were setting up another meeting for another time and another place with other Order of the Phoenix members.
In the past two years, Ron and Hermione had been traveling across Europe amidst rumors of a new threat to the wizarding world: Fetije Mërzitaab. Inspired by Voldemort's ideology and subsequent "martyrdom," Mërzitaab had been attempting to begin an international war across the wizarding world; more Magic is Might. They headlined a new campaign to protect those that Mërzitaab and her people targeted. One of their duties was to set up a new, international Order of the Phoenix.
As the Spanish singer ended her song, Hermione waved over the nearest waiter. "Will you ask the piano player to join me, please?"
"Qui, Mademoiselle."
Mik wheeled over his piano to Hermione, who sat alone at her table, all her company having deserted her.
"Hello, Mik," she addressed him with a graceful smile. She was the very picture of elegance, concealing every bit of anxiety and fear that she really felt.
Mik, on the other hand, seemed as nervous as a man on death row. "Hello, Miss Hermione. I never expected to see you again."
"Yes, it's been awhile, hasn't it? Two years," she commented as she rose her wine glass to her lips.
"A lot of water under the bridge, I hope," he replied, sweat beading his brow.
"You wouldn't mind playing some of the old songs, would you?"
"Of course, Miss Hermione." He started off with the slow, gentle opening of "Green Eyes." He waited for her to say something, anything.
"Where's Harry?" she asked after a few measures of the music.
Perhaps she shouldn't have said just anything. "I don't know; he hasn't been here all night," he replied in what he hoped sounded like a satisfactory answer. Though, he did look awfully uncomfortable.
"Well, do you know when he'll be back?" she questioned with muted curiosity.
"Uh, he won't be coming back tonight. He's gone home, I think."
"Does he always go home so early?" She glanced down at her wristwatch. "Why, it's only eleven-thirty!"
"Oh, he never…well…" Mik struggled to find something to say. Rivulets streamed down his forehead. Changing the subject as tactfully as possible, he started, "He's got a girl up at the French Fox, you know? Really pretty…but, uh, not as pretty as you, Miss Hermione," he finished lamely.
Her smile grew wider. The red of her lipstick against the white of her teeth contrasted like a rose upon fresh snow. It contained the youth of a new feeling and the wisdom of recalling an old one.
"You used to be a much better liar, Mik."
Suddenly stopping his song, Mik turned to face her. "Leave him alone, Miss Hermione. You're bad luck to him."
Deciding she'd had enough teasing the poor piano player, she asked something else of him. "Play it once, Mik, for old time's sake."
"I don't know what you mean, Miss Hermione."
"Play it Mik," she gently urged. "Play 'As Time Goes By.'"
"Oh, I can't remember it." He was evading again. "I'm a little rusty on it you know." He seemed even more frightened than before.
"Fine, I'll hum it for you."
As the sweet notes rolled off her tongue, Mik began playing the intro softly against his better judgment.
Smiling even more sweetly, she requested the equivalent of his death sentence. "Sing it, Mik."
Sighing with resignation and only looking at her every other measure, he started to sing:
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by
Still nursing her wine, tears began to cloud her vision.
Then, the doors to the gambling den swing open. There, in his white jacket and black bowtie tuxedo, storms Harry. The pain written on his face could have distracted anyone from the lightning bolt scar that shone from beneath his unruly hair. After all his attempts at flattening it, it refused to remain in place.
And when two lovers woo
They both say I love you
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by
In less than ten long strides, he was beside the piano. "Mik, I thought I told you to never play that—"
Then he saw her. "Shocked" couldn't describe it, nor could "astonished" or "stunned." She, too, seemed a bit unnerved at the man before her.
Sensing the tension, Mik quickly stood up, placed his bench on the piano's top, and wheeled it away.
Lefevre and Ron approach the table, not even paying attention to what had been going on.
"Well, you were asking about Harry and here he is, though he doesn't often advertise himself. Mademoiselle, may I present—"
"—Hello, Hermione."
"Hello, Harry."