All of the photos so far look like rubbish, and Louis' very upset about it.
He's tried it from a few angles - with Noemie in the foreground, with the table in focus, one awful one with the bottles in the center and Noemie's blurred silhouette rising behind – and while Noemie's been very agreeable with all his suggestions so far, bless her, there is still that frustrating blank in the middle, where he is trying to figure out what the center of the photograph is.
He frowns, crouched in front of the table and clicking through the shots, sure that there is an obvious approach here that he is missing.
There's a soft noise from the couch, and he finds that Noemie is laughing, and watching him.
"Sorry," she says, "With that look, you remind me of someone I know."
Louis stops with the camera, welcoming the distraction. "Oh. Who?" he asks.
"My… step-brother, I think it is? He is a chef, and while cooking he makes –" she pauses to furrow her brow theatrically, "-like you," she finishes, still laughing.
Louis is indignant. "I do not look like that," he says.
Noemie shrugs, indifferent, a half-smile still perched on her mouth.
"I didn't even know you had a stepbrother," Louis says, angling the camera to the side.
"Ah, oui," Noemie says, shifting. "I didn't say? Maman died when I was younger, and Papa met Sandrine when I was… fifteen, sixteen? Sebastien was already nine, and Baptiste was two."
"And who's the chef?" Louis continues.
Noemie clicks her tongue. "It's Sebastien, in a small restaurant. Baptiste is only twelve. He wants to be Captain of the French National Team."
"Haven't all the Quidditch Captains in France been girls for, er, 200 years, is it?"
Noemie nods. "But don't tell Baptiste," she says, eyes sparkling.
And there it is, finally – Louis gets the camera up before he fully realizes he's doing it, the lens centimeters from her face as he takes the picture.
"Ah, sorry," he says into the sudden quiet, "I just – "
Noemie ignores it, and leans over the camera from the couch.
"Let me see it," she says.
"Er, yeah," Louis says, dragging his eyes towards the screen.
He likes it quite a bit: the sofa is mostly shadow to avoid distracting from the rest of the picture, and he's managed to capture the long line of her throat, the elegant swoop of her hair over her shoulder. The foreground is the part that's arresting.
It's almost as good as a wizard photograph, but better, because it's caught Noemie poised on the edge of something – eyes sparkling, lips pursed, hiding a secret in the faint dimple on her cheek – all the vibrant liveliness a wizard's photo would have, but just beyond reach, a promise that leaves the viewer... yearning.
It's too personal for a newspaper, but surprisingly, it's exactly what Louis wanted. This is the version of Noemie he's been lucky enough to uncover. Here is her charm, and her wit and her sly humor, her delight in her family and delight in sharing them. This is the version of Noemie that Louis –
"You are very talented," Noemie says, at last, two fingers touching her bottom lip. She hasn't turned to look at him, "It – I did not think I could look like that, right now."
Louis is thinking about those two fingers. "Right now?" he says.
Noemie takes a longer breath. Then another. "He was using me," she says, still not looking at him, "My fiancé. He wanted my papa's name, he wanted to be Minister. He did not realize it, I believe, that he was doing that. He said he loved me. But his timing, his job... it mattered more than what I wanted, than me. I could not forgive it."
She does turn to look at him, then, and she says, "It is not what I expected, to find laughter again so soon."
Louis is still looking at her, trapped by those two fingers, the two inches between his mouth and hers, that slight dimple he'd seen moments ago. I could kiss her, he is thinking, I could kiss her and she might not mind it. I could kiss her right now, and it might be all right.
So he does.
She's very gentle with it, touching the slope of his chin, the corner of his mouth. Louis is still holding his camera, crouching with one leg bent under him. He brings one hand up to hers, touching the pulse of her wrist with his fingers. He's still there when she pulls back and stares at him like he is brand new and utterly unknown at once.
"Is it time for you to leave?" she asks.
"Yeah - yeah, it probably is," Louis says, softly.