Harry knew he should have taken the magical way of entering France instead of the muggle way.
"Hadrian Potter-Black?"
"Yes."
"Traveling from America, but your passport is British?" The Orly passport control man eyed Harry suspiciously over the top of Harry's passport.
"Correct." Harry sighed but not further elaborating. He was going to be late for his meet-up at this rate.
"You are 25?" Antoine the passport man said a little incredulously, eyeing Harry's face.
Harry knew he looked young, younger than he wanted to. After dying and returning during the final battle, Harry seemed to have stopped aging completely. Although only recently in the last couple years that it had begun to become more noticeable.
Harry nodded at Antoine, hoping to move these 20 questions along quickly, time was ticking.
" Bon , we march forward," he said as he flipped through Harry's passport. "You are 166 cm tall, have green eyes and black hair, are 25 years of age, unmarried, and you live in London in England. All correct, oui ?"
"All correct, yes," Harry said a little impatiently.
Antoine cocked an eyebrow at Harry, catching his tone but seeming not to care. He then examined the visa that allowed Harry to act as a courier for Bell & Sons, before moving on to the documents for the aquamanile.
Harry looked around as the documents were inspected. Both Draco and his muggle business partner Damien had given Harry multiple lectures on keeping what he was delivering safe. Draco seemed to get some sick amusement out of listening to a muggle lecture the boy-who-lived.
"Security is your personal responsibility; your security is not the responsibility of the police, or of the government, or any officials. Your first and last line of security is yourself. Be alert and aware of your surroundings. Radiate confidence. Never do anything to indicate that you are prey."
That lecture had Harry bracing himself for someone to start shouting 'Constant Vigilance!' like Moody had once done. Draco still hadn't stopped laughing at him.
Harry eyed the large number of people passing through the airport. The magical way would have been so much easier. But since this job was technically through Draco's muggle partner's side of the business, he wasn't really given much of a choice. Thankfully no one was paying any attention to Harry or the case he held. Somehow this job was more nervewracking than trying to defeat a dark lord. Harry never thought he would be a courier trying to deliver a 600-year-old small golden statue in the shape of a dragon that was worth more than most of Harry's inheritance, but here he was.
Antoine's gaze flickered to the small black heavy-duty plastic case that Harry clutched tightly in his right hand. "Do you have the Inventaire Detaille ?"
"Of course." Harry passed over the sheets of paper describing in French the gold aquamanile. The document was stamped by the San Francisco French consulate and included an appraiser's certificate, as well as a copy of the bill of sale to one Mme. Aurora Deauxville, citizen of France and resident of Paris.
Antoine's finger tapped on the top document. "What is this … aquamanile?"
Harry shifted the case to his left hand, he had dared not cast a featherlight charm on the expensive object, flexing his right fingers to bring blood flow back into them, while being careful to keep the case out of direct eyesight.
"An aquamanile is a form of ewer, usually made of metal, used for the ritual washing of hands by a priest or other liturgical person. They were very common in medieval times." And still common in the wizarding world.
Antoine's eyes widened as he stared at the nondescript black case. "It is a religious artifact you have?"
Harry forced a grimace into a smile that probably wasn't all that convincing. "Not really. Rumor has it that aquamaniles were sometimes often used in … er… darker practices than that of the church."
Antoine stared. "Dark practices?"
Harry smiled sympathetically at the man's confusion. "Demons." Harry shrugged. "Aquamaniles such as this one are said to have been used by powerful mages to raise Demon Princes." And wasn't that wild for Harry to discover? That muggles put more belief into Demons being real than magic such as wizards and witches.
Harry didn't think that Antoine's eyes could open any wider, but at the word demon , they all but popped out of the man's head. "Demon Princes?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Harry shifted the case again and leaned forward, speaking quietly so as to not draw the attention of other people. "You know, Satan's big guns. The leaders of Hell. The demon lords. Anyone can raise a demon supposedly, but it takes a special person to try to raise a demon lord."
Harry might have been enjoying freaking out Antoine a bit too much.
Antoine blinked.
"Yeah, I know. I don't believe it either. It is a bit out there, but you would be surprised what people believe in. But it is a fascinating subject. I started studying demons when I heard about so many people believing in them, just to see what it was that caused such belief in such a fantastical subject. There are whole cults out there revolving around the idea of demons existing and the powers they are supposed to wield over mortals. I heard there is even a group in San Francisco that is trying to get a demon elected into a public political office. If American politics are anything like Britain's then I am not sure anyone would notice a difference if a demon was elected." Harry babbled, chuckling to himself.
The blinking stopped. Antoine stared at Harry with a blank look in his eyes. Harry decided that maybe Draco was right and he shouldn't pursue any kind of comedic career choice in the future. Harry's humor had always been a little skewed but after the war, his humor seemed to get worse.
"Yeah… Well, I can't guarantee the usefulness of the items; I just deliver them. So, if everything is in order, do you think I could go? I'm supposed to get this aquamanile to its new owner by five, and it's already past three. This is my first job as a courier, you see, and my best friend - he's my boss, sort of - told me that if I screw up this delivery, he would make me clean his mansion with a toothbrush. He is a posh git with too much money and time on his hands so I believe him, and I'm technically doing this as a favor, but I really don't want that prick to rub in my face that the only thing I am good at is sports, you know? So I need to get this aquamanile to the nice French lady that bought this from my best friend and his business partner."
Antoine looked a bit stunned from the word vomit he had just dumped on the poor man, until Harry nudged his hand that held the documents for the aquamanile. He then pursed his lips as he shot Harry a quelling glare, then nodded toward the black case. "You will open it. I must examine the object and ensure it matches the pictures presented."
Harry swallowed back another sigh of frustration as he fished out the keys to the case from his pocket before unlocking it. Antoine's glare turned to an open-mouthed look of wonder as Harry peeled back the protective foam padding and laid open the soft linen cloth that was wrapped around the aquamanile. " Sacre futur du bordel de Dieu! "
"Yeah, it's pretty impressive, isn't it?" Harry looked fondly at the gold dragon. It was six inches high, all coiled tail, gleaming scales, and glittering emerald eyes not unlike his own. The statue reminded him of so many fond memories of real dragons, although this one was depicted without any wings. Would have made the tri-wizard tournament easier if the bloody dragon couldn't fly.
"Antoine reached out to touch the golden dragon, but Harry quickly re-wrapped the linen back over the statue. "Sorry, look but don't touch. Not even the X-ray guys got to touch it. If you look at the valuation of the statue, you'll see why no one should be touching it." Harry tried to explain so the man wouldn't be insulted.
Antoine glanced at the appraiser's sheet and swore under his breath, before brandishing his stamp for his passport and the dragon's documents. "All is in order. You may continue."
Harry quickly closed up the case, locked it, and stashed the keys back into his pocket, giving Antoine a cheery smile. "Thanks!"
"One moment," Antoine said, stopping Harry with an upraised hand. Harry held his breath, wondering if he was going to have to use a confundus charm on a muggle just so he could make it to his appointment with Mme. Deauxville on time. It would be Harry's luck if he was suddenly pulled aside for a full body search.
"Yes?"
Antoine glanced around quickly, then stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You are an expert in demons but you do not believe in them?"
Harry shook his head, he really didn't have time to get into a philosophical debate with a muggle. "I'm not really an expert, I've just studied a few medieval texts about them."
"Demons are very bad."
Harry shrugged and edged sideways. "Not really. According to everything I have read about them, demons are actually rather stupid. I think people fear the thought of them because they don't know how to control them. Humans like to fear what they don't know or understand." Wow, Harry was starting to sound more and more like Hermione.
Antoine leaned closer, the stale odor of cigarette smoke clinging to him, making Harry's nose wrinkle. "And you do not fear them?"
Harry shook his head and edged ever further away.
Antoine's dark eyes lit for a moment with a deep red light, making him suddenly look a whole lot more ominous than a simple customs inspector. "You should," he said, and then turned away, gesturing for the next person in line to come to his table.
"Hoo boy, I guess there are weirdos all over the world," Harry muttered to himself as he pushed his way through the crowd and toward the exit. Carefully keeping both his hands on the black case. His clothes and personal items were all shoved into the mokeskin pouch around his neck, so he only had to focus on the black case and keeping it safe.
It took Harry another fifteen minutes to decipher the signs in the airport concourses and find where the taxis were. Beth, Damien and Draco's secretary said Orly had signs in English, but Beth lied. Not only was there no English but there was nothing he saw written on the signs from his crash course in French from Draco prior to his leaving.
"Um … Bonjour. " Harry said nervously to a bored-looking taxi driver who stood leaning against his car and picking at his teeth. " Parlez-vous anglais? "
" Non, " he said without stopping the teeth-picking.
"Oh. Um. Do you know if any of the other taxi drivers parlez anglais ? Know ez-vous if le taxi drivers parlez anglais? "
The man gave Harry a look that should have shamed him, but Harry was passed the point of being ashamed of going to France without knowing a single word of French except for what Draco had tried to shove into his brain at the last minute. This trip had not been his idea, but Draco begged Harry to help him. So here he was.
"Look, I'm doing the best I can, okay? I just want to go to the Rue Sang des Innocents." Harry hugged the black case to his chest as he searched his brain for what Draco had taught him. " Je veux aller a la Rue Sang des Innocents. "
The taxi driver stopped picking his teeth to grimace. "That is the worst French I have ever heard, and I have heard much bad French."
"You do speak English!" Harry said, "You said you didn't! And I tried, my best friend attempted to give me French lessons prior to me flying out here but he is a horrible teacher and I'm not a great student even in the best of circumstances."
"It wasn't much wrong…but your accent…" the man shuddered delicately then with a sweeping bow, opened the door to his taxi. "Very well, I will take you to the Rue Sang des Innocents, but it will cost you."
"How much?" Harry asked suspiciously as he slid into the backseat of the taxi, still keeping a firm hold of the black case.
The taxi driver closed Harry's door before sliding into the driver's seat up front. "The journey will cost you thirty-six euro, but the ride will cost you more."
"Huh?"
He smiled at Harry in his rearview mirror. "By the time we arrive at the Rue Sang des Innocents, you will know how to say three things in French. With those three things, you will be able to go anywhere in Paris."
Harry agreed to his terms and, since Harry was early for his appointment with Mme. Deauxville, had the taxi driver wait for him while he ran into the hotel where Beth had booked him. Harry checked in, washed some of the sweat off of his face, pulled a comb through his crazy curls so he at least attempted to look less like a crazy person and more like a professional courier, and dashed back downstairs to where Rene and his taxi were waiting for him.
At five minutes to five, the taxi pulled up next to a six-story cream-colored building with high arched doorways and windows graced by intricate black metal grilles.
"Wow," Harry breathed as he leaned out the window to peer up at the house. "What a gorgeous building. It looks so . . . French!" Draco would have hit him for saying such a thing, but Harry didn't have any better words to describe the building.
Rene reached backwards through his window and opened Harry's door. Harry grabbed his things and got out onto the cobblestone street, his mouth still hanging open as he stared up at the house. This is what Grimmauld Place should have looked like. Maybe he will attempt to renovate the creepy dark house at a later date instead of burning it down.
"You see that all the houses here are old mansions. It is a very exclusive neighborhood. Île Saint-Louis itself is only six blocks long and two blocks wide. And now, you will pay me exactly thirty-six euro, and recite for me please the phrases I have taught you."
Harry dragged his eyes off the house and smiled as he handed Rene his money. "If someone annoys me, I say, Voulez-vous cesser de me cracher dessus pendant que vous parlez ."
"Will you stop spitting on me while you are speaking," Rene translated with a nod.
"And if I need help with anything, I say, J'ai une grenouille dans mon bidet ."
"I have a frog in my bidet. Yes, very good. And the last one?"
"The last I should reserve for any guy or girl who hits on me when I don't want them to: Tu as une tête a faire sauter les plaques des egouts . Although I doubt anyone will be hitting on me, Rene."
"You have a face that would blow off the cover of a manhole. Oui, trés bon . You will do. And for your meeting with the important lady, bonne chance , eh?"
"Thanks, Rene. I appreciate the lessons. You just never know when you need to tell someone there's an amphibian in your bidet."
"One moment. I have something for you." He rustled around in a small brown bag for a second, then pulled out a battered card and handed it to Harry with the air of someone presenting an object of great value. "I am available for hire as a driver. You pay me, I drive you around Paris, show you all of the sites you must see. You can call me on my mobile number anytime."
"Thanks. I don't know that I'll be in Paris long enough for a chauffeur to drive me around, but if I ever need a driver, you'll be the one I call." Harry saluted him with the card, then tucked it away in his pocket.
He drove off with a friendly wave and a faint puff of black exhaust. Harry turned back to the impressive building, squared his shoulders, and after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching him, stepped into the doorway to press the buzzer labeled DEAUXVILLE.
But there was no answer.
He buzzed again.
Nothing happened.
A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he was two minutes early. Surely Mme. Deauxville was in?
He buzzed once more, leaning on the buzzer this time. He tried putting his ear to the door, but couldn't hear anything. A glance at a window showed him why—the walls of the building looked to be at least three feet thick.
"Well, hell," Harry swore, stepping back so he could look up at the building. Harry knew from the instructions Damian had given him that Mme. Deauxville was on the second floor. The red-and-cream drapes visible through the slightly opened windows didn't move at all. Nothing moved anywhere on the second floor . . . or on any of the floors, for that matter. Since it was a pleasant June evening, he expected people to be arriving home, bustling around doing their evening shopping, strolling down the street, gazing upon the Seine, and so forth, but there was no movement at all in the house.
Harry looked down the street, the hairs on the back of his neck slowly standing on end. There was no movement on the street either. No people, no cars, no birds . . . nothing. Not even a flower bobbed in the slight breeze from the river. He looked behind him. The cross street was the Rue Saint-Louis en l'Île, a busy street with stores and restaurants, and lots of shops. It had taken Rene ten minutes to navigate a couple of blocks because the traffic and shoppers were so dense, but from where he stood, the noise of said traffic and shoppers was oddly filtered, as if the whole of Rue Sang des Innocents was swathed in cotton wool, leaving it an oasis of stillness and silence in a city known for its liveliness. If it wasn't for the fact Harry could not feel or detect any magic in the air, he would suspect muggle repellant and silencing wards as the culprit.
"The word creepy doesn't even begin to cover the situation," Harry said aloud to himself, just to hear something. Unease rippled through him as he held the black case tightly, giving Mme. Deauxville's bell one more long ring. The skin on the back of his neck tightened even more as he noticed that the door to the building wasn't shut properly. His gut yelled at him to turn around and leave.
"Someone must have been in a rush to leave this morning," Harry told the door, trying to tamp down on the major case of the willies the silent street was giving him. "Someone was just late for work, and they didn't quite close the door. That's all. There's nothing foreboding in a door that hasn't been shut all the way. There's nothing eerie in that at all. There's nothing creepy about a street . . . Oh, bloody hell. Hello?" Harry pushed the door open and took a step into a tiny hall. Ignoring the instincts and possible PTSD he had gained from the war in the process. The entrance narrowed into a dark passage beyond a brown-paneled stairway that led upward. "Anyone here? I'm looking for Mme. Deauxville. Hellooooooo?"
Harry had expected the last notes of his hello to echo up the stairwell, but strangely, his words were muffled, as if they had been absorbed into the walls, filtered by the same strange effect that kept the street outside as quiet as a tomb.
"I would have to think of a tomb," Harry grumbled to himself as he carefully closed the door behind him, turning to start up the stairs to the second floor. "There are times when it absolutely does not pay to have a good imagination."
There were two doors in the tiny hall stretching the length of the second-floor stairs. One bore a silver plate with the word DEAUXVILLE written on it in a fancy script that screamed expensive. The other door, he assumed, was a second entrance to the apartment. Harry stepped up to the main door, one arm holding the case tight to his chest, the other upraised to knock.
Just as his knuckles were about to touch the glossy oak of the door, a wave of dread and foreboding, a sense of something being very, very wrong swept over him. The sensation was so strong, that he stepped backward until the coolness of the paneling behind him seeped through the thin cotton of his shirt. Harry clutched the case and struggled to breathe, his chest tight with dread. The feeling of unease that had set in as soon as Rene left swelled into something much more frightening, leaving him with goosebumps on his arms and a warning voice in his head shrieking at him to leave the building and never come back.
The feeling in the air reminded him so strongly of dementors, but the air was still warm and slightly humid. Something horrible had been in that apartment. Something . . . unnatural . . . maybe something magical even.
"Come on Harry, if you can face Voldemort, you can face this," he ground out through his teeth, and forced his feet forward to the door. "It's just an eccentric collector, nothing evil. There is nothing to be afraid of. I am a professional. I have fought the worst magical terrorists to ever have existed. I can do this."
The door swung open at the first brush of his hand against it.
Harry stood frozen in the doorway, the skin on his back crawling with horror as he looked down the short hall into what must be the living room of the apartment. Tiny little motes of dust danced lazily in the late afternoon sunshine that streamed through the tall floor-to-ceiling arched windows, spilling in a ruby pool on a carpet of deeper red. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat on an antique table between two of the windows, the sharp scent of it detectable even from where Harry stood. The ceilings were high, cream-colored to complement the robin's-egg-blue walls, the edges scalloped with intricate molding. Along one wall he could see a highly polished antique desk with a red upholstered matching chair sitting before it at an angle, as if its occupant had arisen just a moment before.
Everything was lovely, beautiful, expensive, just exactly what Harry expected in the apartment of a rich woman who lived in an exclusive area of Paris.
Everything except the body, that is. Suspended from a chandelier, a woman's body was doubled over, hanging from her hands that were tied behind her back, her body swinging slightly above a black circle of ash that had been drawn on the lovely red carpet, a circle inscribed with twelve symbols. The dead woman was Mme. Deauxville; of that he was sure.
" J'ai une grenouille dans mon bidet ," Harry said and wished fervently that the worst of his problems had to do with frogs. Harry's luck really was the worst.
Draco was going to kill him.