I know it's only been three days since I posted the first (and second) chapters, but I felt really bad about leaving you with a shitty cliffhanger and no romance for the ship. But since there should be enough of that in this chapter, I don't feel as guilty about leaving for a few weeks before the next chapter is posted.
I've also been considering changing the title to "Everybody Comes to Harry's" in reference to the title of the play from which the 1942 movie Casablanca originated. Please let me know what you think in the reviews and thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its subsequent works, nor do I own Casablanca. Any references to other works of fiction are just that and gold stars to anyone who notices them. 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 legal action against me will benefit no one.
"—Hello, Hermione."
"Hello, Harry."
"Oh, so you've already met Harry, Mademoiselle?"
He couldn't believe that she was here, of all places. What was she doing here? How had she found him?
Lefevre's voice shattered the moment, interrupting his reverie, "Well then, perhaps you also—"
"—Harry!" Ron had taken notice of the man who had once been his best friend. "Merlin's beard! What are you doing here? How come Hermione and I haven't heard from you in ages?" In his excitement, Ron began asking too many questions for anyone to process, but neither Harry nor Hermione was paying attention.
Harry involuntarily took a step back, realization dawning over him. Frowning, he asked the Chief of Police, "So, you don't know who our illustrious guests are, do you, Hugo?"
Lefevre shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the impact this revelation would have on the nightclub owner. "I told you the names slipped my mind. What is a name anyway? What does it matter?"
After a sidelong glare, Harry focused his attention on his new friends. "Well, how've you been, mate?" He clapped Ron on the back. "Been hearing a lot about you recently, even if not by name." Another glare at the Chief of Police.
Hermione, still seated, looked from one man to the next. "Won't you two join us?" she addressed Harry and Lefevre. "For a drink, I mean." Ron had already sat opposite her.
Taking a seat, Lefevre answered with a slight chuckle, "Oh, no, Harry would never—"
Turning to face her once again, Harry pulled out a chair and sat himself down. "Thanks, I think I will."
"Well! I must admit that I'm quite surprised. Harry never drinks with customers, you know," he pointed out to Hermione. "Marcel!" he called out to the nearest waiter. He looked at the table and spotted Ron and Hermione's leftover glasses and a half-empty bottle of Ogden's Old. "Take the empty ones away, please, and we'd like a fresh bottle of Ogden's."
"Qui, Monsieur," the waiter replied and bustled off.
"You know, Harry, when you left after the Final Battle without saying a word, everyone sort of assumed you were on some sort of secretive revenge quest or something," Ron informed him. "Actually," he said, wrinkling his nose in thought, "Hermione and I thought you'd gone traveling the world." Hermione looked down at the tablecloth.
"We all thought you'd be back in a year at the most," Ron continued. "But I've got to say that as confused as I am about your choice of living, the place isn't bad. It's very interesting, really. To be honest with you, I've never really seen anything like it."
"Yeah, well, couldn't have anything too flashy or the muggles would get suspicious," Harry pointed out.
Marcel returned with a fresh bottle of Firewhiskey and new glasses.
"I really ought to congratulate you, you know," Harry said to the redhead.
"And why's that?"
"Yours and Hermione's work." Shotglass in hand, Harry looked around at the other three. "I propose a toast. To the Order!"
"To the—" Lefevre started, but quickly realized no one else would drink to it.
"No," Hermione said while looking Harry straight in the eye. "To Harry!"
Glasses raised, Ron and Lefevre joined in, "To Harry!"
The four downed their shots, though Harry didn't seem exactly comfortable with the sentiment.
Pouring himself another shot, Lefevre amiably commented, "You know, I can't get over you two. She was asking about you earlier, Harry, in a way that made me extremely jealous."
"Well, I had no idea it'd be you. We haven't seen you in two years. Let's see," Hermione began thoughtfully, "the last time we met—"
"—It was in Le Cheval Ailé."
"How nice. You remembered," she said with genuine affection. Then her expression fell. "But, that was the day the Death Eaters invaded Paris."
"I couldn't forget that day in a million years," Harry mused bitterly.
"No," she agreed.
Harry cold gaze bore into hers. "I remember every detail: the abundant champagne, the kids riding their broomsticks in the back alley, and you. Your hair used to be longer then, and bushier. I like what you've done with it since," he added. "But that day, you were so different; the Death Eaters were in their black garb as usual, but you wore blue."
A hint of color appeared in Hermione's cheeks. He's never complimented me in public like that before, she thought. Then she smiled, "Yes, well, I've put that dress away. When our job's done and the Death Eaters have been defeated, I'll wear it again."
Lefevre leaned forward, whiskey in hand, "Harry, since your friends have arrived, I think you've become something slightly akin to human." He winked at his friend, then took Hermione's hand in his empty one. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, giving her his most charming smile.
All the while, Ron's ears grew pink and jealousy crept into his features.
"Don't worry about him, Ron," Harry advised. "He's just a harmless flirt."
Lefevre drew back his hand. "Yes, well, perhaps I am and…uh…" he tried to find something to say then he glanced down at his wristwatch. "It's very late and for the safety of our guests and residents, magical and muggle alike, we've established a curfew here in Bonifacio. I'm sure you can all imagine how embarrassing it would be for the Chief of Police to be found out and about after others and have to fine himself."
Ron signaled the waiter for the tab.
"Where are you lot staying?" Harry piped up.
"Down the street at the Tricky Pixie," Ron answered as he stood from his seat.
"I would've recommended you to Mama's. They're a muggle inn, but they've got better rates."
The waiter arrived at the table, "Your check, sir."
"It's my party," Harry said as he reached for the bill.
Lefevre's eyes widened. "That's another precedent gone! This has certainly been a very interesting evening. Perhaps I'll get to drink with you again tomorrow night." He left in the direction of the front door as Emil's shouts for the last call rang throughout the bar.
Ron clasped Harry's shoulder as he, too, took a stand. "You didn't have to do that, mate."
"I know," he replied casually. "I wanted to and I haven't seen you two for years. It's my treat. You can pay for tomorrow night," he compromised.
"It's a deal. Then you can tell us what you've really been up to in the last five years."
"Say goodnight to Mik for me," Hermione asked rising from her chair.
"I will."
"No one can play 'As Time Goes By' like Mik," she said with a small, sad smile.
"He hasn't played it for a very long time," Harry admitted.
"Goodnight," the Trio each said to each other.
Harry sat back down at the vacated table, watching his old best friends leave. A part of him really missed them and wished he could've spent the rest of the night deep in conversation, trying to find out about their adventures over the last five years. The other part of him, the one dominated by cynicism and doubt, thought it was just as well. For how could he bear to be around the two people he loved the most, the two people who hurt him the most?
Around him, the other patrons finished their drinks, cashed in their chips. By now the orchestra had stopped playing and Mik was nowhere to be seen. It seemed that the club was even noisier than usual, despite the absence of the trombones or piano. It was fine, however, as the swirl of colors and exiting feet drowned out any other thoughts. For every trace of Hermione's red carnation, there were green heels clack-claking their way across the tiled atrium. And any detail of her dazzling smile had been replaced with the drunken laughter of strangers he'd known for thirty seconds or two years.
Alas, as all things must end, so did his distraction. He sat so lost in thought that it wasn't until Marcel came to clear the table that Harry moved. He sat at the bar, motionless, as the lights were turned out around him and his staff left for their own homes, locking the doors behind them. If Jimmy or Valerie called out a, "Goodnight, boss!" on the way out, Harry didn't hear it.
It was about two in the morning and the only lights that could be seen emanated from Harry's upstairs apartment and the constantly revolving beacon from the airport spilling in from the nearest window. Sometime while Valerie was locking up, Harry had taken a bottle of Campbell's Finest Old Whiskey from behind the bar.
With his right hand, he poured a shot into the glass held by his left. In one gulp, he downed the burning liquid. He knew that the alcohol wouldn't solve all his problems, but damn if he didn't think it'd help him forget if only for a moment! All he could see were her eyes, gentle as a doe's; his nose, as close to the bottle of whiskey as it was, could only breathe in her scent. It was she—not the alcohol—that was so intoxicating.
Harry, so lost in his thoughts, didn't even notice when Mik came to stand behind him.
"Boss," said the Albanian pianist, but Harry refused to respond. "Boss," he tried again.
Ignoring his friend, Harry poured himself a little more whiskey, sipping it this time.
"Harry!"
"What?"
"Aren't you going to bed?"
"Not right now," the club owner answered grimly.
"Aren't you going to bed in the near future?" Mik asked lightly.
"No."
"Ever?"
"No."
"In that case, I'm not sleepy either," he declared. He rolled the piano up beside the bar.
"Have a drink with me."
"No."
"Then don't have a drink." Perhaps the alcohol was finally starting to work.
"I've an idea," Mik proposed, "Why don't we leave the bar for the rest of the night?"
"I can't. I'm waiting for someone."
"C'mon, Harry, let's get out of here. There's nothing here for you but trouble waiting to happen."
Harry looked at his friend as he took another swig. "No, sir. She's coming back; I know it."
Mik tried again in earnest, "We'll go out and take the car. I'll take you fishing or we can go out for a swim. I know! We'll ride our brooms across the island and back until she's gone! I'll go upstairs and get your Firebolt! Then I'll—"
"Shut up and go home, would you? Just leave me alone."
"No, I'm going to stay right here and damn you if you want to drink yourself into oblivion!" he declared stubbornly. He sat down at the piano, playing a soft improvisation on "One for My Baby (One More for the Road)."
"I guess that's the way of the world, isn't it? They grab Dieb—whom they've probably killed already—and then she walks in. What a lousy night! Mik?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think any of it mattered?"
"What do you mean?"
"I defeated one dark lord, now there's another ready to take his place. I thought I was helping people, saving lives, and here we are, right where I started. And now, knowing that I've done nothing about it, I feel absolutely guilty, like a kid that hasn't done his homework."
He pounded his right fist on the wooden surface before him, his left still holding his glass. He buried his head in his arms, as if hiding. No, he thought, I'm stronger than this, aren't I? Doubt cluttered his thoughts. He raised his head once more.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
He set down his glass, finally feeling the headache, though if it was from the alcohol or thoughts of her, he wasn't sure. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.
The light from the beacon outside still flashed its way across the room. Harry looked over at Mik, just realizing that he'd been playing the piano the entire time. "What are you playing?"
"'One for My Baby,'" Mik told him.
"Stop it," he scolded. "You know what I want to hear."
"No I don't," Mik denied.
"If you could play it for her, you can play it for me."
"I don't think that's such a good idea…"
"I think it's a terrific idea. If she can stand it, so can I. Play it!"
"Yes, boss," Mik conceded. Mid-song, he switched tunes against his better judgment.
As Mik played the opening notes of "As Time Goes By," Harry imagined Paris as he had known it two years ago. He'd spent the previous two-and-a-half years traveling the world. He'd taken a cruise down the Congo River, seen the Taj Mahal in India, experienced a Siberian winter, even visited the Japanese wizarding school, Mahoutokoro. He sailed from one Polynesian island to the next, explored the Amazon, and ventured into the States. But of everything he'd seen on his travels, nothing held a flame to Paris.
His first day in the City of Love and it was raining. Not just a drizzle, not a heavy downpour, but just enough to make everything feel new and fresh. He'd taken a taxi past the Bois de Boulogne to get to his hotel. The city was beautiful, more so than the skyline of New York City or the bamboo forests of China; it had an unrivaled elegance that toyed with his loneliness.
He had asked the concierge the name of the best bar, only to be directed to Le Cheval Ailé. It was there that he'd first seen her blue railene dress. At first, he'd only recognized her because of her hair: length to her mid-back and bushy beneath the styled curls. There were no tears in her eyes, nor did they look red or puffy, but Harry knew she'd been crying. He always knew.
To say that Hermione was surprised to see him was a bit of an understatement and after the pleasantries, when he'd asked her why she'd been crying, all she'd say was, "No questions, Harry."
And so, they'd carried on as if taking a vacation from reality. He took her driving around the city in a small convertible he rented. She'd snuggle close to him, her head on his shoulder, and he'd put his free arm around her to hold her close. They would sometimes take boat tours down the Seine and lean on the railing while popping Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. They never talked about the War, who they'd lost, or what Hermione did when Harry had been traveling the world. They were news-free except for what they heard in Le Cheval Ailé, one of their only connections to the wizarding world. Paris was their escape and they were content in keeping it that way.
Never before had he been so happy; not at Hogwarts, not even while playing Quidditch. After the first month, he started to notice how he always looked his best when he knew he was meeting up with her and how she always brought a smile to his face.
One day, they'd been walking through the Bois de Boulogne and it had begun to rain. It was a near-perfect recreation of Harry's first day in Paris. Only this time, he wasn't alone. His hand found hers and they ran to take shelter beneath one of the trees, laughing all the way.
He looked into her eyes, one of her hands still grasped in his. "I have to make a confession."
"I thought we said—"
"It's nothing like that. Hermione, I love you, really love you." And then she kissed him.
It didn't matter that they were soaking wet or that her hair was the frizziest it'd been in a long time. The only important thing was how good it felt to hold her in his arms, to hear lilting refrains of "As Time Goes By" from the nearest street musician, to breathe in the scent of damp chestnut trees, and the sweet, sweet pull of her lips.
Soon after, she told him that she loved him in return.
A few days later found them in Harry's apartment. She stood by the window, arranging his flowers—Casablanca lilies—and wearing a sleeveless, knee-length black dress. She heard a pop as Harry opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses.
"C'mon, Hermione," he pleaded. "Tell me why you came to Paris; it's been more than a month. What's everyone been up to back home?"
She sat next to him on the couch. Taking her glass from his extended hand, she shook her head sadly. "We said 'no questions' and it's much too nice being here in the moment with you."
"Can't say I like the answer, but I'll drink to that." He raised his glass in a toast, "Here's looking at you, kid."
They clinked glasses. It was always the same toast and she always reacted in the same fashion: she'd giggle, playfully swat him on the arm, and say, "But Harry, I'm older than you."
They went out dancing at night sometimes. They would go to a posh club and dance cheek-to-cheek; she would wear her pearls and he would don his best shoes. Sometimes, the club would be noisy with flashing lights and the smell of alcohol would permeate the air. On those nights, there was nothing so sweet in their dancing as a twirl under the arm or gentle swaying. Though surrounded on all sides by other dancers and a DJ or band, it was just the two of them. Just Harry and just Hermione.
She didn't enjoy flying and it was illegal under the International Statute of Secrecy to fly around muggle areas, anyways, so some mornings, he'd take a moped around to her place. He'd ring the callbox and she'd bounce outside less than a minute later. They would ride across the city just to pass the Eiffel Tower and he would always stop to buy her a large bouquet of red carnations from the street vendor closest to the south leg.
"You're too special for roses," he'd always say as they drove away. "Every guy buys a girl roses; they're too common."
She'd always laugh and kiss his cheek as she held onto him and her bouquet.
A few months had passed and they once more relaxed in Harry's Parisian apartment. They were each wearing jumpers and jeans from back home. Hermione switched on the radio and flipped a Galleon as she made her way over to the couch. The sun shone brightly through the gossamer curtains. She balanced the golden coin on her index finger and thumb then flipped it over to Harry, who caught it lazily before it could hit him in the face.
"Your reflexes are still as good as ever," she noted.
"Thanks," he said, turning the coin over in his head.
She sat down beside him. "A Galleon for your thoughts?"
"If I'm not mistaking, there was a time when you would've priced them at a penny, but that must've been a long time ago."
"For you, I'm willing to be overcharged." She leaned her head on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes.
"I was just wondering…"
"What?"
"How I got to be so lucky. How you happened to be one of the first faces I came across in a foreign city after two-and-a-half years of traveling alone."
"Like why you've been the only man in my life for quite a while?"
"I suppose that's one way to put it."
"That's easy," she pulled her head off his shoulder. "There was one once, but he's dead now."
"I'm sorry to hear that." He genuinely was. "Whatever happened to you and Ron?" Before she could answer, he said, "But I forgot that we said 'no questions.' I'm sorry for asking."
"Well," she leaned closer to him so that their lips nearly touched, "only one answer can take care of all our questions." She kissed him, draping her arms over his shoulders. He responded in kind by pulling her closer and running a hand through her trademark bushy hair. They had many conversations that ended like this throughout their time in Paris, but no two were exactly the same.
They had already stayed in the City of Love for six months when they felt the first stirrings of danger. They were seated at a sidewalk café, sipping their tea, when a haggard-looking man rushed up to them and handed them a newspaper. It was Le Voyant Parisien, the wizarding newspaper for Paris. Translated, the headline read: DEATH EATERS CLOSE IN ON ZÜRICH.
"Wait!" Harry called after the man, but he'd already disappeared down the street. He turned to Hermione, "How'd he know we're wizards?"
"Hmm?" she'd been skimming the article; her French was much better than Harry's. Then her eyes widened in shock. "Harry, they're only about five days away by foot. I'm scared; they could discover us here and we have no idea how to contact the French Ministry for further information or protection."
"So I guess that you want to leave, then?"
"It seems like our only option. We'd have to leave sometime in the next couple of days just to be safe. Transportation's been more difficult to come by since the French Ministry put a temporary ban on Apparition and Floo Powder. We'll have to take muggle transportation; a train perhaps," she decided.
The next day, they met up at their favorite bar, Le Cheval Ailé. Hermione was wearing her blue railene dress, sitting at a table. Though the muggles seemed oblivious to the imminent danger, wizards and witches raced to leave the city. It was as if someone had announced a bomb would be going off some time in the next few days and no one could really be sure when it would happen.
Harry returned from the bar with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Beside their table was a piano player. Mik. Though it had been months since the pianist had first met the couple and since Harry had given him enough money to leave his mistreating family, he remained in Paris, glad for the couple's friendship and waiting for his debts to be paid off.
As Harry poured the champagne, Mik played "As Time Goes By."
"Alright, Louis wants us to finish this bottle before he gives us three more," he noted of the bartender. "He said he'd rather dump it into the Seine before the Death Eaters have an opportunity to drink it."
"You know," Mik said as he looked at his glass, "I think this is the first time I've ever been paid in champagne. Really makes you feel better about getting invaded, doesn't it?"
Harry wrinkled his brow, "I wouldn't exactly say that…." He looked at Hermione, her expression betraying her nerves. "Hey, it'll be alright," he comforted. He raised a glass, "Here's looking at you, kid."
Suddenly, a young French boy ran upstairs into the bar. He frantically shouted something in French.
"What's he saying?" Harry asked. Hermione had acted as translator since Harry didn't quite have the knack for languages that she did.
"He's says that the Death Eaters are almost in the city. They'll be here by tomorrow. The French Ministry is trying to hold them off at the Swiss border." She turned to Harry, smiling faintly. "With all the time we've had, it's silly to think that we've only just now fallen in love."
"It is pretty bad timing, I suppose. What was going on five years ago?"
She paused to think. "We were in our sixth year; probably in Potions class. I don't know, weren't you dating Ginny back then?"
"I suppose I was. We've been fools, Hermione, oblivious fools."
She smiled sadly as she stood and went to lean against the window frame. Harry went to stand beside her. "I suppose we have, but now I'm too much in love to care" she said.
Only a few inches taller than her, he leaned down, capturing her lips with his and engulfing her with his arms like the ocean. They kissed hungrily, desperate for the moment to last as long as possible. They broke apart at the sound of a muffled explosion in the distance.
"Was that an explosion?" Hermione asked, frightened.
"Must've been. Blasting curse, maybe? They can't be far now." Another BOOM pervaded the air. "They're getting closer every minute. You were right to suggest that we leave today." Turning his attention back to their table and picking up his glass, he said, "But drink up! We've still got three more bottles after this!"
Mik paused from his piano to take a drink. "I don't know, Harry, maybe we should all leave now. They aren't exactly looking for you, but if they do find you, I have no doubt that they'd consider it a small victory."
Hermione turned to look at him from where she leaned on the window frame. She looked sick with worry.
In an attempt to cheer her up, Harry said, "Don't worry. They know just where to find me. I left them a note telling them to 'go to hell.'" He chuckled at his own joke and noticed Hermione didn't.
"Be serious, Harry. You're in danger and you've got to leave Paris. There's no being a hero this time."
"Aw, come on, Hermione! Being the hero is what I do best," he joked light-heartedly. When her expression didn't change, he added, "Fine, but in all seriousness, we've got to leave Paris."
"Er, right. Of course," she said seriously.
"The train for Marseilles leaves at five o'clock." He turned around to address Mik, "You're going with us, right?"
"Yeah, then I'm boarding the next boat to the Amalfi Coast in Italy."
"So, I'll pick you up at your apartment at four-thirty?" Harry asked Hermione.
"Uh, no, it's probably best if I just met you at the station; I've got some more things to do around the city before I leave."
Harry shrugged. "Alright, I suppose. Four-forty-five, you'll be there."
She tilted her head slightly and gave him a small, sad smile.
Then a thought struck him and his eyes lit up. "Why don't we get married in Marseilles?"
"Oh, Harry!" She couldn't look him in the eyes as she started to cry. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed softly into his shoulder.
He rubbed slow, soft circles into her back and smoothed her hair. "What's wrong?" he asked with concern. "Is it the thought of marrying me? Because I don't think being married to me would be so horrible…"
She sniffed and pulled herself away from his shoulder. "It's not that," she assured him. "It's just that I love you so much, and I hate this invasion so much. Oh, it's a crazy world; one dark lord and now another! Anything can happen, and I'm really worried for you, Harry. If for some reason you don't get away, I mean, if…if something should keep us apart, whatever they do to you and wherever I am, I want you to know—"
Another bout of tears overwhelmed her. Harry took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. He held her again until most of her tears subsided. Then she pulled back enough just to look into his eyes.
He kissed her forehead gently and made his way to her mouth, his lips lightly brushing over her features. She opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them.
"Kiss me, Harry," she pleaded. "Kiss me as if it were the last time." And he did. Over and over again, each more hungry than the last.
That evening, Harry arrived at the train station at four-forty-five, just as they had agreed. He wore a heavy trench coat and had turned down the brim on his fedora. It was raining—a real downpour. So, it rains my first day in Paris and my last. How fitting, he thought cynically.
People were rushing all around him to board the last train out of Paris for the night. Many of them were wizards, but a great deal were muggles to who had somehow sensed an unforeseen danger. The conductor was blowing his whistle, calling out for any last-minute passengers.
Harry stood by and watched the frenzy in action, not that it really mattered to him anyway. There were only three minutes until the train left the station and he'd been checking his watch every minute since he'd arrived. It didn't matter that he was soaking wet or that he'd nearly been trampled twice. She hadn't arrived yet and that meant everything.
Then, through the heavy bustle of the crowd, Mik appeared waving his hand in the air and jostling his way closer to Harry.
"Where is she? Have you seen her?" Harry called out.
"No, I can't find her. Her apartment was vacated this afternoon and there was a note taped to the door." He pulled out a letter from under his own trench coat.
Harry grabbed it from him and hastily unfolded it. It read:
Dear Harry,
I cannot go with you and I don't know the next time or if there will be a next time we meet again. Please don't ask why. I'm sorry that it had to turn out this way, but please believe that I love you. For God's sake, Harry, get on that train! Be safe and take care of Mik.
I love you,
Hermione
Rain poured from the sky, smudging her neat handwriting like tears.
A loud whistle rang through the station and Mik grabbed Harry by the arm and dragged him toward the nearest carriage. "Come on, Harry. That's the last call. They're leaving!"
Harry had only enough time to grab his suitcase before he reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged to the door by Mik. As soon as they boarded, the train began to take off. All the while, he looked back, hoping against hope that she'd appear. When it sunk in that she wouldn't, that she couldn't, he crumbled the letter and tossed it at the platform, the steam of the engine billowing behind him and the rain drenching him from overhead.
Back in his own bar, in his own time, Harry knocked over a glass of whiskey as he reached for it. By this time, his eyes were bloodshot and a sheen of sweat had beaded his brow. Mik had stopped playing, finally intent on forcing Harry to go to bed.
Just then, the lock on the front door jiggled. From outside came a soft cry of "Alohomora!" Harry turned his head to see Hermione in a white summer coat and a silk scarf covering her recognizable hair. Then, she sat down next to him at the bar.
"Harry, I need to talk to you."
"Oh, good." He turned to Mik, "I told you I was waiting for someone," he called out in drunken smugness.
Mik wheeled the piano back to its resting place and waved goodnight before exiting the building.
"Have a drink with me," Harry requested.
"No, not tonight. You've had enough, anyway."
"Especially tonight," he seemed rebuffed. "Fine. Another for me, then." He poured himself another drink and knocked it back. He went to pour himself another, but Hermione placed her hand on his instead."
"Please listen to me."
He tried to look her in the eye, but she was out of focus, wavering as if she were a mirage. He took off his glasses to clean them with a corner of his shirt.
"Your glasses are fine, Harry. You're just drunk."
"Why did you come to Bonifacio? There are other places, other pubs."
"I wouldn't have come if I knew you were here. Believe me, Harry, the last thing I want to cause you is more heartache."
"Yeah, well," he slurred, "it's a bit late for that. Whatever happened to 'Harry love, we'll leave Paris someday and you'll show me the rest of the world?' What about 'It'll always just be the two of us?'"
"Please don't. I understand how you feel, but—"
"—But what? Do you really understand what that feels like? After everyone else that I've lost, the first person I really, truly love says that she loves me in return but stabs me in the back anyway." Tears formed in her eyes, but she refused to let them spill; he wouldn't notice them in his drunken state as it was. "How long was it that we had together? Do you remember?"
"I didn't count the days."
"Well I did! All one hundred and ninety-three of them. But I mostly remember the last one and what a brilliant finish it was. Picture it: a guy standing in the pouring rain on a train platform with a comical expression because he'd just been hit by something worse than a stunning spell."
"Can I tell you a story, Harry?"
"Maybe. Does it have a brilliant finish?"
"I don't know the end yet."
"Well, go on, tell it. Maybe you'll think of something as you go along. You were always the smart one," he said bitterly.
"It's about a girl who received a letter that told her she was a witch. So she left her home on the outskirts of London to attend her magical school, where she met two boys: one was very brave and noble, the other was humorous and loyal. Nevertheless, they were both incredibly fierce and protective. Everything she ever knew or ever became was inspired by them. She fell in love with the first boy, but when he didn't seem to notice her affections, the second boy consoled her and she looked to him with a feeling she supposed was love."
"Yes, that's very pretty. I heard a story once. As a matter of fact, I've heard a lot of stories; comes with the job, you see," he said as he waved a hand to indicate the club. "A lot of them went along with a tinny piano that could be heard across a crowded floor, 'Mister, I met a man once when I was a kid,' they'd always begin."
Hermione let her tears fall freely now, hurt and ire crossed her face.
"Huh," he said in his drunken state, "I guess neither of our stories had that wild finish I'd hoped for. Tell me, was I your rebound for Ron or was it the other way around? Or were there others in-between? Or are you the kind that doesn't kiss-and-tell, just shows off instead?"
Hermione knocked over her barstool as she stood and didn't bother to pick it up. She was at the door in less than five seconds, but before she left, she told him through the tears, "I could hex you, Harry Potter, but I won't. I'd be doing you a favor if I knocked you out long enough for the worst of your hangover to subside. Sometimes, you can be a real prat, did you know that?"
As she ran out the door, slamming it behind her, Harry felt his head connect with a combination of wood and arms before he blacked out.