Oh boy. It was just not his night or his morning.
" Hi. I'm Hadrian Potter-Black, in room twenty-three. Are there any messages for me?"
The hotel clerk on graveyard duty looked up from his magazine and gave Harry a martyred sigh before reluctantly setting down his Paris Match and hoisting his bulk out of the chair. "It will require me to check," he said, his voice rich with accusation.
Harry gave him a feeble smile as an apology. After spending the whole night explaining to the police over and over and over again who he was and what he was doing at Mme. Deauxville's apartment holding the deadly weapon that had been used to kill her, his "be a polite British citizen abroad" muscles were all worn out.
"Yes, there is one."
The clerk looked at him. Harry looked back at the clerk. Neither one of them blinked. When the room started to swim, Harry decided to give in. "I'm sorry, it's six in the morning and I've just spent the last thirty-some hours without sleep, which means I'm more than a little bit fuzzy around the edges. Could you maybe get the message for me? So I could read it? If it isn't too much trouble?"
He sighed and shuffled over to the old-fashioned wall of pigeonholes that served as the hotel's room directory, plucking a yellow message sheet from the square labeled 23. With an even bigger sigh, he gave it to Harry, then stood looking at him as if he were going to demand some other extraordinary act.
"Thank you," Harry said politely and glanced at it. It was a message from Damian demanding that Harry check in and tell him or Draco how the delivery had gone. Harry crumpled up the note and turned toward the little elevator that the tiny but eccentric Hôtel de la Femme Sans Tête (which, he had found out at the police station, means "hotel of the headless lady") boasted.
"The lift, it is not marching," the clerk called out after him, with, Harry couldn't help but notice, an immense amount of satisfaction. With five rooms on each floor, Harry's room was on the fifth floor. His shoulders sagged a bit at the thought of dragging himself up five flights of stairs, but there was no help for it, he couldn't apparate in the middle of muggle establishment in front of said muggles.
Next time he would be traveling the magical way, Draco's new love for muggles be damned.
Ten minutes later Harry collapsed on his bed, having first rallied enough energy to kick off his shoes and peel from his body the t-shirt that had been light and gauzy when he'd put it on, but was now just limp and bloodstained, along with his jeans that had survived better than his shirt had. He figured that being grilled nonstop by the police for more than twelve hours would have sent him immediately to sleep, but he ended up tossing and turning for a long time while the events of the day ran through his head like an annoying song refrain that refused to stop.
"Oh, this is ridiculous. I'm so tired, I can't even see straight, and yet my mind won't shut up," Harry said, sitting up and clicking on the light next to the bed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror visible through the open door—the skin around his eyes looked bruised; his hair, normally wild enough on its own now resembled black straw sticking out of his head; and his skin could have doubled for an inferius. A sick inferius.
"Right, shower first, then coffee, lots and lots of coffee, followed by some exquisite French food, and then, after I've gathered my strength, I'll call Draco."
The pale face staring back at him in the mirror flinched at the words. The only way he could possibly imagine his day getting any worse was by thinking about what his best friend would have to say about the mess he now found himself in, yet again.
Harry did a spin to look around the room. It might have been the sleep deprivation but it looked as though someone had gone searching through his room.
The handful of change he'd thrown on the table before leaving for Mme. Deauxville's was still there, as was the airline magazine he'd filched for the article on fun things to see in Paris, so nothing was stolen that he knew of. His mokeskin bag was still on him which held everything else he had brought with him. The only other things he had on his person was his money, Rene's card, a small comb, his plane ticket, and his wand. The police had confiscated his passport, visa, and all the aquamanile documents. He couldn't leave the country, let alone go home until the police no longer suspected him of murder.
A titter of semi-hysterical laughter burst from his lips. He thought seriously about just letting himself go and having a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown, he had earned one at this point from everything he had been through over the years but realized that once he started, he probably wasn't going to be able to stop. Since he had no idea if French loony bins were nice places to be locked up, it was probably better if he skipped the whole breakdown thing and just stayed sane. "Shower," He told himself. "Sanity, shower, then food. And shopping. Then I'll call Draco, probably."
He was in his last pair of clean clothes, he had expected to be flying back to America this evening but as that wasn't happening and his other set of clothes were now bloodstained he was in desperate need of more clothes. His hair at least was combed even if it still looked rather wild it was better than it had been. He followed his nose to the small room in the basement of the hotel where meals were served. As he passed the reception desk the woman sneered at him, his cheap-looking clothes, and wild untamed hair, in a manner all too similar to the Malfoys.
He kept his held high as she pursed her lips as if she'd like to refuse him admittance to the dining room, but breakfast was included in the price of the room, so he trotted downstairs to a cheery whitewashed room that looked out over a petite little garden. Harry took a table in the corner and concentrated on consuming as much caffeine and food as one person his size could handle in a half hour.
By the time breakfast was finished, he'd come to several decisions. First, he wasn't going to call Draco. Not just yet. His stint in the police station had made it quite clear that although they did not have enough evidence to charge him, they considered him a suspect. Probably the only suspect because Drake had so conveniently skipped out after stealing his dragon.
Harry drew circles on the tablecloth, his now-caffeinated mind going over the events of the evening one more time. A lot of the past twelve hours had become a dulled blur, most of it consisting of him sitting around in a small, airless room waiting for a translator to show. Then Jean-Baptiste Proust, a small, balding man who was the head of the criminal investigation department arrived, and things began to happen. A call was put in to the British Embassy and when the Embassy heard the name of who was being held a call was then passed around to the British Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards, not that the muggle police knew this was happening or that it had any effect on getting them to believe his innocence. His fingerprints were taken, as were samples of the blood on his shirt. People asked him questions, some in English, some in French. Harry explained who he was, showed his passport and visa, and the invoice for the aquamanile.
"Where is this valuable artifact?" Inspector Proust asked in a softly accented voice. Everything about him was quiet, from his mild brown eyes to the neutral tones of his brown pants and jacket. The man reminded Harry of Neville. Harry knew from experience, however, that one doesn't get to be the head of a police unit without having a razor-sharp mind.
"It was stolen. Just before the police arrived."
Inspector Proust looked down at a notebook another policeman had given him. "Ah, yes, by the man you claim was an agent of Interpol."
"I'm not claiming it; he is. He said he was an Interpol detective. He even showed me his badge, although I didn't get a good look at it. I was distracted by Mme. Deauxville's horrible death." More like by the nonsense about demons and the hot man that stole his dragon, but he wasn't about to tell Inspector Proust that.
He looked at Harry with sad eyes. "You are aware, M. Potter-Black, that Interpol does not have detectives?"
Harry stared at him, oh he was a dunderhead, wasn't he? Snape was probably calling him an idiot from the other side. "They don't?"
"No. Interpol is an organization dedicated to the sharing of information between countries only; they do not have a police force of their own."
He waited patiently to see what Harry would say. Harry didn't say anything but "Oh."
That's not all he was thinking, of course. Harry's brain was whirring about madly, angry at Drake for stealing his dragon and fooling him in the same breath, furious with himself for having ignored Mad Eye's paranoid lectures from the war, this wasn't as serious as fighting deadly death eaters but still, Harry should know better. He sees one dead body post-war and what did he do? He threw away everything he knew about safeguarding the aquamanile and himself. Damn Drake. It was all his fault. Well . . . mostly his fault.
Harry didn't say any of that to Inspector Proust, though. He answered his questions, then the same questions asked by other members of his investigation team. Over and over again, he answered the same questions, until he knew them so well, that he started answering them before his interrogators had the chance to ask them.
But he never once told them that he had frogs in his bidet. Harry was oddly proud of that fact, too, which just goes to show how deranged one can get when they don't have any sleep while being suspected of a murder they didn't commit. The truth is, Harry was certain that he was going to be tossed into some dark, dank, rat-infested jail cell and left to rot there until the ICW and MoM were notified of the horrible events that had overtaken him, but to his surprise, twelve hours after he was taken to the police station, M. Proust strolled into the interview room and announced Harry was free to leave.
"Free?" Harry asked, blinking, his voice rough and hoarse from talking so long. He was a bit groggy from lack of sleep and food, but he didn't think he was quite to the point where he was hallucinating. Yet. "Free as in I can leave? Walk out of here? You're not charging me with murder?"
Inspector Proust made a sort of a half-shrug that he'd seen several times during the course of the night. Although M. Proust had been awake the night through as well, he didn't look as if he was the least bit troubled by the lack of sleep. "You say you had nothing to do with Mme. Deauxville's death, so I have no grounds to charge you. Unless there is something else you'd like to tell me?"
Harry smiled at the question in Proust's soft brown eyes. "I didn't kill her, honest. I don't know who did, unless Drake murdered her, and he says he didn't, but then, he lied to me about being an Interpol agent, and he stole my dragon, so how much of what he said can I really believe? Besides, he's too handsome and arrogant. I don't trust men like that. They think they're god's gift to the world, and they go around grabbing you and kissing you and smelling really nice, and making your legs turn to mush when you're pulled up tight against them, not to mention filling your head with all sorts of really wicked thoughts about what you'd like to do to them with a small bowl of ice cream and your tongue. Well, not your tongue, my tongue. And speaking of that, just how did he know the aquamanile was gold?"
Inspector Proust watched Harry silently for a moment, gently tapping a pencil against his chin. "François, my driver, will take you back to your hotel. I believe you are in need of sleep, M. Potter-Black. If you can think of anything else that would help us, you will please contact me at the number on the card."
Harry looked down at the white card that had been placed gently into his hand. It was at that point that Harry realized he was not only babbling almost incoherently, but he truly was being released, as well. No ratty damp jail cell for him today, woo-hoo!
"You'll let me know if you capture Drake, won't you? 'Cause my best friend is going to kill me if I don't recover that aquamanile or at least the person that took said aquamanile. He's going to say it's my fault that Drake stole it, and that he'll have to reimburse Mme. Deauxville's family if I don't find it, and you know, while I got a good amount of money from my inheritance, I would be much poorer if I had to pay Draco back for the loss of the sale. So you'll tell me? If you find Drake? Or my dragon?"
A grim little smile played around Inspector Proust's lips. "You may rest assured, monsieur , if we meet up with a man calling himself Drake Vireo, I will notify you immediately."
"He didn't believe me," Harry said softly to himself as he sat in the sunny hotel dining room, the remains of eggs and croissants littering the plate before him. These are some of the few moments where he appreciated the ease with which the wizarding world could declare him innocent thanks to three drops of a powerful truth serum. He checked the tiny coffeepot, poured the last bit of it into his cup, and tried to force his brain into some fruitful thinking. Two things were obvious— he had to clear his name with the muggle police, hopefully without involving Kingsley and a squadron of obliviators, before they would let Harry have his passport back, and he needed to find Drake and get his dragon back.
"Step one, buy some more clothes." Harry looked in his neck pouch. He had his plane ticket for that evening that he clearly wasn't going to be able to use and since Damian only used cash to buy such things, it meant Harry could cash the ticket in. Giving him enough money to get around until he could get to a proper bank. The hotel bill was paid for the first night with the company credit card— so Harry could just tell the hotel to bill the rest of his stay on there as well. Once he finished all that, he could concentrate on the two issues at hand—proving to the police that he wasn't guilty of anything other than having extremely bad luck, and getting the aquamanile back from a sexy dangerous thief. He'd worry about when he would get home later.
"First things first," Harry said as he marched over to the lobby phone. He pulled out the grubby card Rene the taxi driver had given him and dialed the cell phone number on it.
Ten minutes later, Rene pulled up opposite the hotel, a grin on his face that faded when he took in Harry's rumpled and exhausted-looking frame. "You look as if you have just visited a foie gras factory. What has happened to you?"
"It's a long story, way too long to tell you here. Did you mean what you said? You'd be my driver for the morning for fifty euros? No limit on the number of stops and stuff?"
Rene got out of the car and opened the back door for Harry, his blue eyes narrowing as Harry fingered his mokeskin pouch around his neck. "You will stay in Paris, yes? No drives to Marseilles or Cannes?"
Harry gave him a wry grin. "I don't know anyone in Marseilles or Cannes, whereas I know three people in Paris—you, a very bad man named Drake, and Inspector Proust of the criminal investigation department. I just have to hope that Drake hasn't left Paris."
"Inspector Proust?" Rene sputtered, but he didn't stop Harry as he climbed into Rene's taxi. "You have had dealings with the police?"
"I said it was a long story. If we're to go on the fifty euros for the morning, then would you please take me first to a nice but cheap shop so I can get some clothes? I only planned to be here briefly and I don't have anything else to wear. I promise I'll tell you all about yesterday while we're on the way."
Rene shot him a look that contained at least a dozen questions, but then got back into the car, flipping off the taxi meter. "I will take you to La Pomme Putréfiée . It is a shop run by the wife of my cousin. Berthilde will give you a special price."
"Special sounds good. Oh, before we go there, I need to swing by and cash in my plane ticket. Is that on the way?"
Rene's dark gaze met Harry's in the mirror. " Non . But I will make it in our path. Now you will commence with your story. I am very much looking forward to hearing it."
By the time Harry had cashed in his plane ticket and visited the shop Rene recommended, he had made it through most of the story. The last bit was told as he stood in a curtained dressing room, feeling ridiculous as he tried on a couple of outfits, answering Rene's questions the best he could. Harry didn't even shop for himself at home on the best of occasions, usually, either Draco or Hermione, would just shove new clothes in his closet without telling him. Harry was feeling quite outside his scope of expertise. His go-to clothes were t-shirts and jeans, but this lovely little French shop didn't seem to cater to Harry's more casual tastes.
"What did Inspector Proust say when you told him about this man who stole your dragon?" Rene asked.
Harry parted the curtains and looked in the mirror in front of where Rene sat waiting for him. "What do you think? I kind of like the light button-down shirt with the vest, but the other outfit with the cardigan and blazer is more sophisticated. Or at least I think it is."
Rene did the Gallic shrug he'd seen earlier. "It is very nice, as well. Why do you not take both?"
He was in Paris, buying authentic French clothes, if he didn't come home with the aquamanile, he might as well distract Draco with French fashion. "Why not I guess. The answer to your question is nothing. Inspector Proust didn't seem to care anything about Drake. To be truthful"—Harry looked over his outfit, eyeing the slacks that seemed way too tight as it clung to his legs like a second skin—"I don't think he believed me about Drake."
Rene didn't say anything. Harry turned back to him, his hands spread in front of him. "I'm telling the truth, Rene. I know it sounds fantastical, but it's the truth. You believe me, don't you?"
Rene stood slowly, waving to his cousin's wife, who was arranging a display in the shop window. "You do not have the air of a murderer. I believe you. But I am not the one you need to convince, eh? You must convince the inspector that you are telling the truth."
"Easier said than done. I don't know how to go about proving I didn't do something. I've never been able to do it before when previously accused of things I hadn't done."
Harry waited while Rene spoke rapidly to Berthilde, who took one of the new outfits and the old one he had been wearing, before putting them both in a tote bag.
"It is difficult, yes, but there is no need for you to derange yourself. I will take you wherever you need to go, yes? And with me helping, we will solve this little problem of yours."
Harry paid Berthilde, thanked her, and stepped out into the sunny June morning. "I appreciate the help—I truly do—I'm just at a loss as to how to start proving that I'm innocent, and where to look for Drake."
Rene mused as they strolled down the street to where he'd parked his taxi. Paris on a sunny summer morning was a delight—if one discounted the blare of horns, the variety of music spilling from shops with doors flung wide open (no two shops seemed to have their radio tuned to the same station), and the air heavy with the smell of gasoline. Still, it was Paris, and even though Harry was having another crisis, he was determined to embrace the City of Light as best he could under the circumstances.
"I think in order to find out who killed Mme. Deauxville, you need to know who drew the magic circle on the floor. Once you find that person, you will prove to monsieur l'inspecteur that you did not do the crime."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the sly look Rene gave him. The lack of sleep was definitely making him silly by this point. "This isn't some sort of mystery story, Rene. I'm not Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I'm not even Miss Marple. I'm just an extremely tired British man who is probably this close to being sent to the guillotine for a murder he didn't commit. And even if I did manage to find out who killed Mme. Deauxville, my best friend will kill me for losing the aquamanile."
"Stop hitting your biscuit—we will figure it all out."
Harry blinked at him. "Huh? Stop hitting my biscuit? What biscuit?"
Rene's hands danced in the air as he tried to explain. "Yes, yes. Stop hitting your biscuit. Stop being angry at yourself because you cannot proceed."
"Oh. Stop beating my head against a wall?"
Rene made a face, pulling out his keys to unlock the car doors. "My expression is more elegant, but yes, the idea is the same. As for the situation with Mme. Deauxville and the man who stole your dragon, how do you know the two things are not related?"
Harry paused as Rene opened the door, staring at him as Harry's tired brain hashed that idea over. "Drake said he didn't kill Mme. Deauxville. I know he lied about the other things, but he just didn't seem like a murderer. And besides, if he was, he could have killed me the second I walked into the apartment, and he didn't. But he did call the cops. That's definitely a point in his favor."
Rene patted Harry's hand. "He might not have killed the old woman, but what was he doing there?"
"I don't know. I asked, but he evaded the question." Harry's eyes opened wide as something occurred to him. "Do you think he drew the circle? He didn't act like he did. In fact, he questioned me about whether or not it was complete, just before he went off about demons being summoned by the circle."
"Demons? The circle was to attract demons? You mean the little devils?"
Harry finally got into the car. "Well . . . kind of. Technically demons are the servants of the demon lords, who are the main warriors of Hell, each responsible for varying numbers of legions. The legions are made up of demons, greater and lesser, all of whom are bound to their lords—servants, if you will, whom the demon lords can call, and who can be summoned by mortals who invoke the master's name. The demons themselves are an interesting group—according to my research, there are several different types of demons, each with specific abilities and levels of competence. One book I read claimed that not all demons were actually evil; some were simply misguided or mischievous."
Rene shot Harry another look over his shoulder as he slid behind the steering wheel.
Harry grinned. "It's my hobby. I study medieval demon texts in my free time. They're really interesting and offer quite an insight into how the medieval mind dealt with the concepts of magic, heaven, and hell, but unlike Drake, I don't believe demons actually exist." Not even the wizarding world believed in demons, at least as far as Harry knew.
Rene made a relieved moue. "I am happy to hear so. I think, however, you have the answer to the question you asked earlier—how to find M. Drake the dragon thief. There is a strong occult society here in Paris. No doubt someone in it will have heard of him and will know how you can find him."
That made sense, but… "I have no idea if he's still in Paris or not. For all I know, he could have taken my dragon and run."
Rene shrugged again and yelled something that sounded like an obscenity out the window to a man on a bike who had dashed out in front of him. "It is, perhaps, the only lead you have, yes?"
"Yes," Harry agreed, feeling like he was a hundred years old. His whole body felt fragile in a way it hadn't felt in years as if one touch would shatter him into a gazillion pieces. "It is the only lead I have. I really should go to the British Embassy, but I got the feeling from the police last night that they wouldn't be much help. I suppose I could call them later after I chase down my nebulous lead. Any ideas on how I get in contact with the dark side of Paris?"
As it turns out, Rene did know. They started out by visiting occult bookstores, but the people there didn't seem to know too much. They then stopped for an early lunch (bread, cheese, and sliced ham from a small shop), before they headed into the Latin Quarter, where Rene said he knew of a shop that catered to the witch trade. Harry assumed he meant muggle Wiccans and not real wizards and witches. The wizarding district was hidden on the outskirts of Paris, according to Draco anyway.
A short while later Harry was negotiating his way down a street made dark by narrow alleys and tall buildings. The air smelled of spices and incense and something earthy that he couldn't pinpoint but reminded him strongly of Hogsmeade. Rene had dropped him off a block away, giving Harry directions to the shop before Rene dashed off to take care of a prearranged appointment.
"I will pick you up right here in an hour, yes?"
"Yes," Harry said. "And thanks, Rene. I'd be lost without you. Literally!"
"Just remember what I taught you to say if anyone annoys you," he said, wagging his finger at Harry.
He cleared my throat and tried on a little sneer that Rene said would go far, it seemed the French preferred Slytherin-like sneers with their insults. " Pardonnez-moi, mais avez-vous un porc-epic coince entre les fesses ?"
Rene cackled and waved, one hand on the horn as he drove through crowded streets.
"Yeah, right, like 'Excuse me, but do you have a porcupine wedged between your buttocks?' is going to save me from being cursed or whatever it is that Wiccan-based witches tend to do." Harry looked at the directions on the slip of paper Rene had given him and started off down a dark little alley named Rue d'Ébullitions sur les Fesses de Diable , which Rene had informed Harry with no little mirth was translated as 'boils on the buttocks of the devil street.'
Could his life get any weirder?
"Yes, yes it could," Harry said a few minutes later as he stepped into a surprisingly well-lit shop. After visiting all the dark, murky occult bookshops, shops that seemed to thrive on dirt, and the merest hint of sunlight through grimy unwashed widows, Le Grimoire Toxique was quite a pleasant change. Flowering plants lined window boxes beneath the shop's two (clean!) windows, and the inside was not only bright and cheery, but also smelled pleasantly of frankincense. The wall opposite of the door was filled with big glass jars that Harry associated with potions class and Snape's condescending tone, each jar labeled with a violet-purple tag. To the right were books and what looked like a large tarot-card section; to the left, a short, salt and pepper haired woman was seated behind a long wooden counter, reading a paper and sipping some coffee.
" Bonjour ," Harry said, mindful of Rene's warning of common courtesies. " Parlez-vous anglais ?"
The woman looked up. Her eyes were a pale, pale blue, the kind of blue you would normally see on Siberian huskies. "Yes, I do, although I do not have much opportunity to speak it. You are British?"
"Yup."
"How delightful. I am Amelie Merllain."
Harry set his shopping bag on the floor, reaching over to shake her hand. "Hadrian Potter-Black, but you can call me Harry."
"I am most pleased to meet you. How can I help you?" A fat black Welsh corgi waddled over and started nosing Harry's bag. Amelie quickly scolded the dog. "Cecile! That is very poor manners to show a visitor."
"It's okay. I don't mind." Harry said, pulling his bag out of the dog's reach. He set it on the counter, bending down to pat the dog, but she snapped at him.
"Cecile!" Amelie pointed to a small maroon dog bed and ordered the dog to lay on it. "My apologies. She is very elderly and feels that gives her the right to be surly."
"No problem. I was wondering if you would happen to know –"
"Tch," Amelie interrupted, brushing at the counter where his mokeskin bag lay next to his bag of clothes. "Dragon scales. They get everywhere, no?"
Harry blinked and stared at her. He saw no dragon scales on the counter, he should know what they look like as he had so many encounters with the dangerous creatures in the past. By this point, he was pretty confident that what she was talking about, was not what he knew about. "I beg your pardon?"
"Dragon scales," she said a little louder, brushing something off of the counter. She poked at the mokeskin bag. "Here, you see? Dragon scales. They are all over your bag."
Harry looked more closely. There was a slight iridescent powder on the bag. Definitely didn't look like any kind of dragon scales he had ever seen. "Are you sure these are dragon scales?"
"Yes. You must have been with a dragon recently."
Harry blinked again. It had been years since he had encountered any real dragons. "Dragons as in the giant fire-breathing creatures with wings?"
Amelie snorted and pushed the mokeskin bag away. "Don't be ridiculous. What sort of dragon do you know who would walk about in his animal form? They would be captured immediately and put to those horrible tests the scientists so love."
Harry was very lost. Harry knew about dragons. Harry knew about animagi. Harry knew about lycanthropes and shifters of all kinds. But he has never heard of a dragon having a human shape. What the hell is happening in France? He needed to call Draco for more information ASAP. "I uh, don't know any dragons that have a human form. I certainly haven't been around any dragons recently."
"If that is your bag, you most certainly know at least one dragon," Amelie said sharply, frowning at him. "Where is your portal?"
Now Harry was definitely lost. "My portal? What portal would that be?"
"The portal that you guard. You are a Guardian, it is not difficult what I ask. Where is your portal?"
"With the dragon?" Harry decided to take a stab in the dark, thinking about the dragon that once guarded the Gringott's vaults.
Her frown deepened. "That is not at all wise. Dragons are not to be trusted when it concerns portals. Too much temptation, you understand. What sept is he from?"
"Who?" Harry asked, giving up on guessing and admitting defeat.
"The dragon whom you left guarding your portal. What is their name?"
For whatever reason, Drake's face popped into his mind and he found himself saying his name before he could think better of it. "Drake Viero."
Her frown disappeared as her eyebrows shot upward in a look of horror. "Drake Viero? You left a wyvern in charge of your portal? Merciful Goddess!"
Now, wyvern is a term he had heard of before. But they were supposed to be extinct, according to Hermione and Hagrid anyway. What the hell had he gotten himself into? He needed to sit down. He should have slept some before trying to jump down this rabbit hole.
"Do you have a chair?"
Amelie waved Harry around the counter where a second stool stood. "You are exhausted. Come, sit here."
Harry smiled gratefully when Amelie poured him a cup of coffee. He prayed that some caffeine would keep him awake and sane enough to make it back to his hotel room to get some much-needed rest.
"Thank you. Now, maybe we could take this slowly. I am a little tired and not thinking as clearly as I would like. So, first question, do you know Drake Viero?"
Amelie shook her head. "Not personally. Although I have heard of him, of course, all the wyverns are known in our community."
'Our community' now that sounded familiar. Maybe the French Wizarding community was vastly different from the British one? Or maybe Harry had stumbled into something else entirely, it would be his luck to do so. "So he lives here?"
She pursed her lips. "No, I believe the main lair of the green dragons is in Hungary. But he is a frequent visitor to Paris, if that is what you are asking."
Harry didn't want to ask, especially since he couldn't be sure if he was talking to a muggle or not, but he didn't really see another way around it. "This is probably going to sound bloody ridiculous, but are you trying to tell me that Drake, Drake Viero, six foot two, dark hair, green eyes, gorgeous voice with sticky fingers is a dragon?"
Amelie didn't smile or even laugh at Harry. Her eyes narrowed as she examined him. "Drake Viero is not just a dragon. He is a wyvern. The green wyvern."
"The two-legged dragon with a barbed tail?" Harry asked just to see if they were on the same page.
"Yes, but it is also the name for the leader of a dragon sept. His name explains that." She said slowly, eyes growing darker.
Harry felt a migraine coming on. "You've lost me. Again."
"Drake, a modernization of the Latin draco, meaning 'dragon'. Vireo is also Latin. It means 'green'. Only wyverns are allowed to use their sept color as a name."
"So because his name translates to 'green dragon' he is automatically a dragon? I don't think that works, because my best friend's name is Draco and if he used his mother's maiden name, he would be Draco Black. But while he is a nightmare, he is no dragon. Drake Viero was definitely something else, but a dragon? He was gorgeous. Sexy as hell, but did not seem like a large lizard wearing a human suit, you know?"
"Immortals do not need to wear human suits. They can change form." Amelie said a bit scornfully.
So like a reverse animagus, Harry mused to himself. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to work, but he had certainly never heard of it before. It was likely both Hermione and Draco knew since they definitely were not academically challenged like he was.
Amelie suddenly leaned forward and placed both her hands on Harry's head, her fingers touching his temples. Harry was too tired to be alarmed, although he probably should have been. Her touch wasn't unpleasant though, just unexpected. Amelie hummed a soft little song under her breath as her fingers stroked his temples.
"You do not understand of what I speak, and yet I feel in you great power, great possibilities beyond what you think you already know," she said dreamily, very similar to how Luna would get when she was seeing beyond what the normal eye could see. "You have fought against dark powers before, conquered and come away unscathed by them, and yet you were born, chosen, to wield them yourself. You are a wyvern's mate, and yet he did not claim you. You are a puzzle that has no end and no beginning."
"Uh, maybe we could take a step back for a minute? I didn't understand half of what you just said, but I am no one's mate."
Amelie released Harry's head and moved back over to her stool, her brows pulled together in a puzzled frown.
"Look, all I want to know is where I can find Drake. The sexy bastard stole something from me and I want it back."
She nodded. "The green dragons are thieves. That is their skill. He is their wyvern, he would naturally be a very talented thief. And you know how it is with dragons."
At this point, Harry wasn't sure of what he did or did not know. That thought must have shown on his face because Amelie smirked at him.
"They hoard treasure."
"Well…okay then. Still doesn't mean the prat gets to take and keep whatever he wants. Do you know where Drake lives?"
"No."
Harry's shoulders slumped.
"But I know where you can find him most evenings."
"Where?" Harry asked a bit too eagerly.
"The same place you can find anyone of consequence; G&T. It is a club on Rue de la Grande Pest - 'the street of the great plague'."
"Sounds…charming. G&T like gin and tonic?"
"Goety and theurgy," she answered.
Black and white magic. Because of course, that is what it would be called.
"Thanks for the coffee and the information," Harry said as he stood and gathered his things, knowing he needed sleep before he delved any further into France's eccentric ways.
Amelie watched Harry walk all the way down the length of the counter to the door before she spoke up again. "Harry, a word of warning from one who wishes you well. Do not close your mind to the possibilities. To do so will not only deny you your rightful place in this world, but it can also mean great destruction to those you love."
Harry scowled. "If you want to start talking about the fate of the world being in my hands. I don't want to hear it. Been there. Done that. Bought the t-shirt."
Amelie smirked at him. "Perhaps."
Harry looked back at her. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime. Hopeful with less cryptic remarks."
"Of that, you can be sure," she said. "I would not wish to miss your entrance into the Otherworld."
That sounded ominous. Draco had some explaining to do after Harry got some sleep. Harry walked back out into the warm sunny street without saying anything else to the strange woman. There was nothing left he could say.