Gassin, Southern France, about three weeks prior … 

“Angleterre: Opération Propagande – Un mois s’est écoulé depuis l’incident tragique de la finale de la coupe du monde de Quidditch, où Anastasia Scrimgeour-Dupont, 24 ans, fille du député anglais aux Relations Magiques Internationales, a été agressée –”

“Would you mind translating it? You know that my French is limited to ‘oui’ and ‘va te faire foutre’.”

Harry was standing on the patio, which boasted a spectacular view over the gulf of St Tropez and the mountains of the Massif des Maures on the other side; the open door of the bungalow to his back. The water almost a thousand feet below, usually as azure as the name of the coast promised, now glimmered a deep flaming red as the sun descended far out over the Mediterranean Sea, sending the last rays of another day full of brilliant light into the bay.

Without turning around, he was completely certain that Ana was frowning and giving him a stern look. And now, any moment …

“You’ve been here for how long, Harry?”

He smiled at her predictability and rested his hand on the rail, watching the small specks of white dotted onto the sheet of water, Muggle yachts.

Well, how long had it been? Time flowed in a beguiling way here … Something like five summers, that sounded about right. He'd stayed here ever since he had defeated Voldemort and decided that it was time to go and see the world. Money wasn’t an issue, but he never got very far.

Somehow, he’d settled here, in the French Midi, under the bright sun of the Provence; between myriads of colours, blinding white chalk, ochre earth, green cypresses; somewhere between the hard, clear blue above, and fields of endless violet, lazy air thick with a thousand different fragrances, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

That was the Provence. A place to loose oneself, to lie on a hill under the hot sun and dream the day away while listening to the cicadas. No place was quite like here. Painters and poets alike enthused about it.

In other words, for Harry, it was quite boring.

Especially in winter, when all that was left of the typical Provençal nature was the harsh Mistral sweeping across plains and through valleys. Harry spent his time at the coast. The wizarding district of Nice, and Beauxbatons, somewhere off the city, that was more to his liking.

Of course, Ana knew all that. The question was purely rhetorical, and right on cue she continued.

“After five years, you’d think that you would’ve at least done one of the Magifix Language Lessons. Really Harry, ‘Yes’ and ‘Go fuck yourself’? It’s rude.”

He snorted.

“Who the hell came up with that stupid name, by the way?”

Finally turning his back to the bay, he watched Ana standing in the doorway of his current home, a summer residence that Walburga Black had received as a gift from her husband sometime. Now it was his, like Grimauld Place.

Ana shook her head at his wilful ignorance, but he didn’t particularly care. He’d earned the right to tell everyone go fuck themselves the moment Voldemort had died at his hand, and after a while, he’d found that he had no qualms with doing exactly that.

“Do you want to tell me what’s in the paper or not?”

Her green eyes scrutinised him, before she sighed and let it go. She crumbled up the paper and walked over, joining him at the rail.

“More of the same. Our Ministry is running a ‘propaganda campaign’, just because they claim that it was rampant Death Eaters that attacked me at the Quidditch Worldcup. Obviously, the scum is allowed to hide here, behind the Border. Even if the French aren’t actively helping them, they certainly don’t go out of their way to round them up. I really hope he does something. It’s disgusting.”

‘He’ was her uncle, but more importantly, ‘he’ was currently Britain’s Minister of Magic – Rufus Scrimgeour. However, Harry hadn’t been very convinced of the identity of her attackers then, and he wasn’t convinced now.

“I’ve told you I’m not so sure those were Death Eaters. They didn’t wear any white masks, only hoods, when I fought them. You saw them.”

Ana shrugged, leaning onto the rail.

“Who else could it have been?”

Then she turned her head to look at him, grinning.

“But at least they got one thing right. It’s been a month since then. We have our first anniversary!”

Harry suppressed a groan. What was it with women? He wanted nothing more than a casual relationship. Surely there was no need for flowers, gifts or whatever foofaraw you normally did, then? Well, he could always hope, if futilely.

“Great. So why don't we pay a visit to that club in Nice that just opened, and afterwards, we celebrate in the house by –”

“Harry!”

She’d apparently guessed what he was going to say and looked at him, scandalised.

“I know it must be hard for you, but you could at least try to pretend that you can think about something else every now and then.”

Harry grinned ruefully.

“I would never pretend to be something I’m not.”

She shook her head at him again.

“Anyway, you prat. I was thinking of visiting a nice restaurant. Muggle, not magical, so that we can go unrecognized. Down in the town.”

She pointed to the scatter of yellow at the coast, the famous site of St Tropez, partially hidden behind the hillside. He followed her look for a while, thinking of nothing in particular. Learning that had been quite hard.

A breeze picked up, playing with her open hair. He moved closer, slinging an arm around her, then drew her in for a kiss. After a while, she broke away, leaning her head onto his shoulder.

“So?”

“If you want to, we’ll go. Although I don’t know how you want to get a table on that short a notice.”

“Let that be my concern. Go put on something nice.”

Harry looked down on himself until he found the first piece of clothing. The shorts were nice. Bright and comfortable. But of course, she meant Ana-nice. Not Harry-nice.

~*~

It was already dark as both emerged from the shade of the pines half an hour later; below the Citadel which sat enthroned above the little village. They walked leisurely down the hill; past the strutting peacocks and towards the glittering town lights. Harry now wore slacks and a thin shirt. Ana had insisted.

But at least he liked her dress.

They were in no hurry, so they decided to take the slightly longer route to the harbour, through the centre of the village. But even so, it wasn’t half a mile to walk. St Tropez wasn’t exactly a big town.

Under the plane trees of the Place des Lices people were still playing pétanque. The clicking of the balls in the sand square followed them for a while as they walked past; entering the old town with its narrow streets and flower-bedecked houses. People were milling around in every direction as Harry and Ana walked over the palm-covered Place de la Garonne and further down the street. Groups of tourists were standing in front of the new Gendarmerie Nationale, most likely in search for the old, famous one.

It began to get noticeably more populated; the harbour was not far away and it was the most active place of the town, the centre of St Tropez nightlife. And then, there were cars. Many of them, in fact, and quite nice ones as well. Harry watched a throng of people ahead of them that had gathered around a Ferrari and a Porsche. Not that he was an expert or anything, but even he could tell apart those two types, especially if they were parking directly next to another.

They were blocking the road, of course, but that was nothing new; and nobody cared, since everyone was busy gawking. A special Ferrari, then, Harry pondered. Because really, they were not that uncommon here. In any case, the driver, tanned, bald and with black sunglasses, attracted many stares. Or perhaps it was the wonderful blonde creature with that itsy-bitsy Bikini in red, who just now climbed into the passenger seat, accepting Mr. Bald-and-Tanned’s offer to go for a spin.

Well, she certainly attracted Harry’s stare. Especially when she proved just how long her legs were in entering the open car without bothering to open the door. He tilted his head, thoughtfully. Perhaps getting one of those cars wasn’t all that stupid an idea. He could drive up here, and then –

Ouch.

He grimaced. Then again, perhaps he could manage without it. Ana had sharp nails, and while he actually didn’t mind them at his back, they were currently digging into his arm. He turned his head away from the car speeding off to find her glaring at him.

“Er … nice car?” he ventured hopefully.

Ana’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, her eyes narrowed even further. She pulled at his arm sharply, and started to push her way through the crowd, without all that much regard for the people she was pushing away.

“Certainly, Harry. If your definition of ‘car’ has two legs, two tits, no brain and no clothing.”

“I’m male, Ana. We can’t help but look at nice … cars,” Harry protested, while trying to keep up with her. “It’s the same thing like – uh, with brooms. Yes, brooms. You know what I mean, both have those really great curves – think about the handle, and it’s shiny – and – and fast –”

“You’re not helping your case any,” she informed him.

“What case? There is no case. And anyway, it doesn’t matter where I look. You know that it’s St Tropez, they’re everywhere.”

Ana didn’t even grace that sentence with a look. Harry sighed. He was right, of course. Shiny cars and girls in sparse clothing milled all around them, sometimes in company, sometimes still searching for it. After all, the air was still mild, summer not yet completely departed, even in the last week of September. But Ana was a woman, and as such didn’t want to hear right at the moment. So in order to save the dinner from frosty silence, he tried to appease her.

“If you slow down, I could look at you for a change. How’s that sound?”

She didn’t respond, but the grip on his arm noticeably loosened, and she slowed down to a more leisurely pace. Mentally, Harry congratulated himself.

~*~

They reached the Old Port moments later. To their right flashed the bright red marquee of one of the cafes invitingly over the heads of the people, and to their left, some way down the street, he spotted the memorial of some historically important figure looking proudly over the harbour. Harry had been down here a few times. It had been July then, peak season; now it was less jammed than he remembered. Still, there were more than enough people for the painters and musicians and jugglers and who knew what else to have an audience.

Ana and Harry walked around their sites; alongside the glitzy clubs and bars and the many restaurants flanked by a flurry of pavement tables and chairs outside, where people sat on the waterfront and watched the white, massed luxury yachts lining the harbour and their rich owners and guests dining on deck.

The port overflowed with boats, some of the bigger ships even anchored in the bay with the annual regatta drawing near, the traditional end-of-season. And the brightly lit ships after sundown had the same effect as the cars did earlier – where polished brass, glass and steel glinted, young women were attracted, and Harry saw more than once one of them beckoned up the gangway. He tried to not look too often at the pert bottoms walking up and even was mostly successful.

Ana meandered down the quay, towards one of the more fancy restaurants at the end, Harry guessed. Before that was one of the largest ships in the harbour. Music spilled down, as well as laughter and rapid French; the huge aftdeck was crowded with people. Someone had decided to already start the party; a bit earlier than the others.

Near the gang-way sat a short man in a white garb. He surveyed the passer-bys with a vacant expression, but perked up when he spotted the both of them. A petite dark-haired girl joined him, walking down from down the ship, looking at Harry. She couldn’t have been all that much taller than five feet and a few inches, but it seemed to fit her profile. She certainly wasn’t unattractive; with that typical Mediterranean look. When her loose strands of hair caught the light from the ship, Harry saw that it wasn’t an actual black, but a dark brown.

“Bonsoir,” she called.

Harry paused in mid-step, forcing Ana to stop as well. She looked at him questioningly.

“What’s up, Harry?”

“Can I help you?” he asked who was about the fourteenth looker of the evening, Ana not included. He’d tried to count.

Number Fourteen smiled.

“Ah. You’re English?”

She spoke almost without a French accent. A pity really, Harry thought. When employed in the right way, it was quite sexy.

“Would you like to come aboard?

Well, what do you know. He opened his mouth to say that certainly, they’d like to, when the nails were back. He shot Ana an annoyed look.

“Stop it.”

“So sorry, Harry. Must’ve been a reflex.”

The brunette had by now reached at the quay. She was in Bikini only as well, a beaded variety, but had thrown some kind of colourful Kaftan over it. It ended just above her hip, and showed off another nice pair of legs. Perhaps he did have a fixation.

She renewed her smile.

“I’m Inès. We’re having a little party on the ship. You’d be most welcome.”

She was concentrating on Harry, making it clear who ‘you’ was, and ignoring Ana.

Ana didn’t like to be ignored.

“I’m sure it would be lovely,” she cut in sweetly, while glaring daggers at the woman. “But I’m afraid we have a table reservation for dinner. Perhaps another time.”

Her hand moved away from Harry’s arm and onto his shoulder, pulling him towards her. He wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew when he was regulated to the role of the bystander. That much he’d learned very thoroughly, through trial and error. Well, mostly error.

But Inès flashed him a bright smile which infuriated Ana, and looked at her possessive hand on him calculatingly.

“I see … A shame, we could have had so much fun, I’m certain. Are you really sure? You could bring your friend as well, if you want.”

Oh, that simply wasn’t fair. So not fair. Harry looked at the girl accusingly. She knew that it wasn’t his choice, and now she was teasing him. And next to him, Ana looked ready to explode.

“Not one word,” she hissed to him.

Huh. Harry looked at Ana, thoughtful. Well, that he’d already known.

To his Number Fourteen who was called Inès, she said: “Yes. He is sure. Perfectly sure. And we have to get going.”

“Well, in that case …”

In turning, Inès threw him a quick, conspiratorial wink.

“Do be careful in the restaurant; I recently heard of bags going missing while people were dining,” she called over her shoulder, already walking back up the gangway.

Next to Harry, Ana froze.

“Wait!”

Inès turned back around, her dark eyes sparkling mirthfully.

“Yes?”

“What … what did you just say?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Why, I believe I warned you about a thief that people were complaining about. Is something wrong?”

She pointed to Ana’s red handbag

Ana swallowed and then answered in a voice that all but dripped with disgust at herself. Her words sounded very much like she had chewed them, before spitting them out.

“Perhaps we do have time for a short visit, after all. Does the invitation still stand?”

Inès didn’t even bother to hide her triumphant smile.

“But of course. I’m glad you had a change of heart. It’s never too late to change opinions.”

Ana gritted her teeth but said nothing, moving onto the gangway with as much speed as she could muster without compromising her grace Harry was left behind standing thunderstruck, staring at Inès open-mouthed.

“O-okay …”

What the hell had just happened? Ana had just willingly accepted defeat. He couldn’t wrap his head around that. Knowing her, that would haunt her for weeks. What did Inès know that he didn’t? He was so completely missing something here.

“Don’t worry about it,” whispered Inès, apparently having guessed his thoughts. “Just enjoy tonight. It’ll be so much fun, I promise.”

In front of them, Ana harrumphed. Harry pondered telling Inès that yes, while tonight might indeed prove fun, at least as long as he wasn’t anywhere near Ana, tomorrow when they both were alone together would be not fun at all. But then he simply shook his head.

Inès flashed him another smile and offered him a hand to help him up the gangway, but accidentally forgot to let go after he was on the wooden plank. Ahead of them, Ana was fuming silently. She had to walk ahead, because the gangway was just made for two people to walk side by side, and next to Harry, Inès didn’t look like she wanted to make way anytime soon; her warm hand around his swinging lightly.

Now that they were directly next to another, he could see that she indeed just measured to his shoulder. But after that display, he wasn’t likely to underestimate her on the basis of her height. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she used that to her advantage more than once already.

When they reached the ship, Harry had regained enough composure to extract his hand from her grip, carefully but firmly. Teasing Ana and riling her up a bit was fine, but there was a certain limit of how far he would go. For all her faults, Ana was still his girlfriend. And the aftermath, when they were back at the bungalow, would be heated enough already as it was.

Inès grinned at him, and walked a few paces ahead, passing Ana, who didn’t move out of the way, so that she had to walk around her. Harry looked at her. They were standing in a corner of the crowded aftdeck. There was a bar, where many people gathered, talking and laughing, moving on to a seating area afterwards.

“Ana?”

Her jaw was clenched together tightly. She looked murderously at the retreating back of Inès.

“The nerve! The fucking nerve of that hussy!”

Al-right. If Ana was swearing, then something was definitely afoot. It confused Harry even more about her decision to come aboard. It wasn’t as if Inès hadn’t made her intentions crystal clear.

“Wha– ”

“She knew I couldn’t say no!” she spat, still not looking at him. “Not after –  not – and now she’s exploiting it. Oh, if I didn’t – I – I’d tear her to shreds! Think she can fling herself at you, does she? A good trashing, that’s what she needs. And then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

Harry didn’t doubt that at all. Ana was a force to be reckoned with when in possession of her wand – as long as she had it with her being the key. At the Quidditch Finals, she hadn’t; a fact that irked her still and which Harry reminded her of every now and then. But now, she rounded on him.

“We’ll talk later about your behaviour.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Harry protested.

Her index finger drilled into his chest.

“My point exactly. Now let’s get this damn party over with. I –”

“Hello!”

Harry looked up. The man who’d been sitting looking over the gangway had joined them, bowing gallantly. Upon the first impression, Harry thought he had robbed a goldsmith. Everywhere glinted gold. Each finger sported a ring, the one adorning his index finger crowned by a diamond. He wore a chain, and in smiling revealed a gold tooth.

He very much looked like a ridiculously overpriced Christmas tree.

“Yes?” Ana asked irritated. Harry nudged her, and she threw him a dark look, but refrained from saying more.

“May I –”

He looked behind him in mid-sentence, then back to the both of them.

“Welcome. I’m the ship-owner. I heard you talk – dinner. I invite you?”

Harry looked at him funnily. He certainly had had the most peculiar expression on his face. Now it was blank. Harry shrugged, turning to Ana.

“How about it?”

“Might as well,” she grumbled.

Harry extended his hand.

“Harry Potter. This is Anastasia Dupont. Nice to meet you.”

The man stared at Harry vacantly, then smiled happily; rubbing his hands and making the rings clang together.

“Fine, fine. You follow?”

Harry and Ana shared a dubious look.

He led them through the people inside the yacht. It was a spacious living-room area, with very comfy-looking armchairs and a couch on one side and a small table and a bookshelf on the other. In the corner stood a house-plant. Upon first glance, nothing seemed to indicate to Harry that he was aboard a ship. It could’ve been just as well a room in any luxury apartment, in any metropolis of the world.

They walked over the thick white carpet, towards a low credenza, that visually bordered the room. The man pointed past it, to the oval table behind it.

“Dinner there.”

Suddenly, his head snapped around, to the door where they just entered the ship. A man in a black suit passed by outside. The short man leading them stumbled and almost walked into the panelled wall next to the passageway to the dining area. Reflexively, Harry caught his fall and helped him to stand.

“Is everything alright?”

He looked up, confused, but then his face cleared.

“Yes … yes. It’s fine.”

Harry watched him doubtfully, but it wasn’t his place to say anything more. Searching for a harmless topic, he made a sweeping gesture over the luxurious interior.

“It’s a nice yacht.”

A strange look passed over his face for some reason, and he rubbed his forehead, but then smiled.

“Ah. I see. No, Mr. Potter, the ship is a ‘she’. A yacht like this always is. Her name is Sabuha. ‘Aurora’ or ‘Dawn’ in your language, I believe. The finer points of English still elude me. But I do like to think that she is nice.”

He winked at Harry.

“She has a length of 165 feet, a Feadship, built in –”

His expression turned vacant again.

“Dinner, yes, yes. We all have dinner together, yes? Here, go.”

He pushed the door fully open. Ana was already inside, and Harry took one last look at the man and his odd behaviour, before he shrugged mentally and pushed it out of his mind. It wasn’t his problem. He walked into the next room, and the temperature plummeted until it felt twenty degrees below zero. Ana was standing at his end of the room, arms crossed in front of her, glaring at a by now well-known form at the other end.

Together, Ana and Inès had somehow succeeded in introducing an ice-age into the subtropics. The man, who still hadn’t introduced himself, remained blissfully ignorant at the sudden climate change. He walked over to the teak table, pointing at the wine red chairs.

“Seat, seat.”

When Inès saw Harry, her whole demeanour changed. No trace of the previous icy stare could be found. Instead, the playful look was back. Ana, however, apparently saw no need to hide her feelings for the other woman; which made for a tense atmosphere and one of the strangest dinners Harry had ever had.

Ana didn’t utter a single word. The man who had invited them was only marginally more talkative. He was silent most of the time, eating absentmindedly, but Harry was able to learn at least a few things. Their host and the owner of the Sabuha was a Mister Abdul Nasser al-Khayat. Apparently he had just made a big deal somehow involving oil and now was celebrating his business.  He simply wanted many people on his ship to celebrate with.

“Many friends,” he said, smiling, before he resumed his soup. “Many friends on my ship, and we all have fun, yes?”

As though to compensate for that, Inès conversed freely – with the only person left, Harry. He was caught between all fronts, but tried to make the best of it.

“I shouldn’t tell you that, but we ordered dinner from the best restaurant on the spot.”

She laughed, a nice sound.

“Our cook was not pleased.”

Harry grinned, and Ana darted an irate look at him, finally unable to remain silent any longer.

“I fail to see what is funny there.”

Inès nodded amiably, completely ignoring the hostility.

“Yes, however you should have seen his face when I told him. He looked the most peculiar way. I fear, he took that as a personal affront to his culinary skills … of course, not everyone has a sense of humour.”

Ana gritted her teeth. Mr. al-Khayat hummed contentedly over his soup. But Inès continued already, having turned back towards Harry.

“There was nothing to do, however. We wanted the typical cuisine, and no one makes that better than Joseph. His soupe de poisson is fantastic.”

Harry nodded, taking another spoonful of the soup.

“It’s wonderful.”

Next to him, Ana threw her napkin on the table and looked at him disgustedly, rising.

“Since you are having such a wonderful conversation, you won’t miss me if I visit the bath. If you’ll excuse me.”

Harry paused and placed a hand on her arm.

“Ana …”

He caught a glimpse of something flickering across her face – regret, fear? – but she turned away.

“Save it, Harry.”

“Through the door, and then at the end of the vestibule, on the starboard side. Vis-à-vis the staircase,” supplied Inès helpfully, and Ana picked up her bag and marched away, drawing herself up high.

~*~

Dessert arrived, but Ana did not. Inès seemed to have noticed his frown, because when she’d finished her Tarte Tropézienne, she announced: “I’ll look for her.”

And before Harry could say anything, she had risen, taking her red hand-bag from the back of the chair behind her and walked through the doorway Ana had vanished behind earlier. He was left with the taciturn Mr. al-Khayat, and even he left shortly after, with a brief nod.

Harry slowly walked around the room, looking at the various paintings on the wall. There was a bark at high seas, affronting a storm that piled up white-capped waves. Next to it, in a stark contrast, was a very serene painting depicting the harbour of a small village. Tiny fishing boats were debouching in the soft golden glow of early dawn. Harry quite liked it.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? It’s my favourite picture here.”

He started at the voice that had spoken directly next to him and spun around. Inès had returned, walking as silently as a cat.

She stood there, admiring the clear aquamarine water in the bay. “I love the port and little fishing boats. It reminds me of the town I was born.”

“Yes, it’s nice,” he replied distractedly. “Where is –”

The brunette smiled at him reassuringly.

“Your friend will be here in a few minutes. Apparently, the fish didn’t agree with her. I shall have a word with the cook. There’s no excuse for something like this to happen.“

She frowned.

“I feel awful about it. I apologise, in mine as well as in Mr. al-Khayat’s name.”

Harry looked at her distressed form.

“It’s alright. It’s not as if you could’ve known.”

“It’s not alright,” she insisted. “Perhaps there is a way I can make up for it?”

Music and voices drifted inside, undistinguishable; blending together in a constant yet low, faraway hum. She slung her bag over her shoulder and took one step forwards. The light from the star-like lamps embedded in the ceiling made her dark eyes sparkle as she looked up to him. Harry stared at her, transfixed, her face, framed by loose strands of hair, just inches away; close enough to make out the single lashes of her eyes and the tiny, solitary mark on her left cheek. He felt her hands on his shoulders and neck, brushing over his skin so very lightly, closely …

The soft touch shook him out of his stupor. He stepped backwards, breaking the contact.

“Yeah. A drink would be nice.”

She smiled at him.

“Of course.”

She walked over to the storage cabinet and took out two crystal glasses.

“Cognac? Or rather something English – whisky?”

“Whisky will be fine, thanks.”

She poured three fingers of amber liquid into each glass and handed him his.

“Cheers.”

They drank in silence. Harry felt torn between being angry with her, because she flat-out ignored his relationship with Ana, and being angry with himself – and realised irritated that he couldn’t tell if it was because he’d come much too close to kissing her or because it hadn’t been nearly close enough.

~*~

An hour later, Harry was lying in a deck lounge and sipping Champagne.

Inès had led Harry through the ship onto the open sun deck, where the party was in full swing. People danced, and on the port side a few lounges had been arrayed, next to small tables, complete with ice buckets and Champagne. She had introduced him to her friend, Aimée. Aimée was cute, seventeen, from Bordeaux and very attentive. She had brought three glasses over, filled them with Champagne, and even offered a place in her lounge.

Of course, the lounge wasn’t really made for two, much less three, but she hadn’t seemed to mind. The champagne was superb, and the next hour blurred together in a flurry of Inès' laughter, pounding music and moving bodies. They’d danced together a few times, until Inès had excused herself and left him in Aimée’s care.

Now he was lounging lazily next to her, and starting to feel strange. Or no, he thought, he was feeling something strange. It took him awhile to realise the difference. The feel was alien, yet intimately familiar. Like something he felt everyday – but –

He jerked up, almost pushing Aimée out. He apologised absentmindedly, that was it! What he felt was the presence of magic. And now, that he was actively looking for it, it wasn’t possible to miss it; it stood out like a lighthouse in the dark, as it was the only source nearby. Harry felt it very acutely; it was one of the more handy talents he had developed during the war – not the most obscure of skills, but certainly not the most common, either.

The reason he hadn’t recognised it right away was because he was so very much accustomed to it; in everyday live, it surrounded him, and after all the time, it had faded to the back of  his consciousness. Here, however, it radiated from a single location. Harry jumped out of the lounge, ignoring Aimée’s questions, and turned his head, looking around. Someone here was magical, and performing magic at this very moment. He moved past two men who talked in rapid French. Where were they?

He strode over to the starboard side, eyeing a group of people huddled together in a corner; but they weren’t engaged in any kind of suspicious activity. The magic didn’t come from them. It was still as strong as before, however. Judging by the long span of time that had already elapsed, Harry thought it had to be some kind of ward. Perhaps originating from within the ship? It required a certain concentration, one unlikely to be found out here amid the volume of the partying folk and the music they danced to. He forged back through the dancing crowd towards the door; as quickly as he could.

When he was passing the lounges again, three things happened in a quick succession.

The oppressive feel of an Apparition-ward washed over Harry. Water splashed loudly, as someone fell overboard. And a man in a black suit seized Ana’s hand-bag, propped up against the leg of Aimée’s lounge, and sprinted away.

People flocked to the rail, staring down. Others started to shout angrily as the running man pushed a woman aside, causing her to fall to the ground. After a short moment of bewilderment, Harry became annoyed and whipped out his wand, pointing it at the escaping man. Just what does that guy think he’s doing?

Accio bag!

An almost invisible shield, with a faint purplish hue, flared to life around his back, and Harry’s nonverbal spell had no effect at all. Oh what the hell. A wizard? One in a shield-suit? Was there even something like that?

The man vaulted over the rail, sliding down the sloping stern of the yacht to the aftdeck below. Harry wasted no time and started to run as well, pushing through the people, uncaring about their protests, vocalized in French and other languages he didn’t understand anyway. He followed the route the man in black had taken, but when he slid down, the thief had already reached the wooden plank leading onto the quay. It vibrated under his rapid, heavy footfalls and that gave Harry an idea. In midair, he grinned and pointed the wand at it.

“Diruptio!”

A deafening bang reverberated over the ship. Glass shattered. A fountain of water shot ten feet into the air. Splinters of wood and stone and metal flew everywhere as the explosion ripped the gang-way to pieces.

And a part of the aftdeck.

And the nearest section of the quay.

Ehehe … oops?

Harry resisted the strangest urge to laugh.

People screamed, thrown to the ground as the shockwave struck them like a wall of bricks. Something connected with his head, hard, and he fought against the blackness creeping around the edges of his vision, but to no avail. The last thing he glimpsed was Aimée’s form bent over the rail above him, staring at him wide-eyed.

~*~

When he sat back up, everything was strangely muted. The noises sounded like they were coming from somewhere very distant. He groped around, seeing the dark brown planks of the aftdeck, but the texture of the wood did not register in his palms. People lay strewn all about him, some moving feebly, others motionless. Mouths shaped words but Harry felt strangely detached … until in a sudden rush, everything came crashing back down on him.

A cacophony of noises, people screaming at the quay, groaning on the ship. The sound of horns getting closer and closer. His touch returned as well – and Goddamn, his arse hurt. He winced as he tried to turn around. And his side looked like a pincushion, pinioned with slivers of wood ranging from the smallest of blisters to twigs. For good measure, he winced again. It looked even more painful than it felt.

He gazed upon at the mess he’d created, staggering under the sudden influx of sensory input. His head pounded from a fierce headache, and the noise amplified it at least a hundred times. He pressed his hands to his temples and suppressed a moan.

“Good fucking game,” he hissed angrily. He’d tried to stop one guy escaping, and for that wrecked a ship. The bottle of champagne was sending its regards.

“Note to self: Don’t use magic when drunk.”

Incidentally, where was the man in black? Harry rose to his knees, then to his feet, still wobbly, looking further around. The aft of the yacht was rent open, granting an intimate view into its interior, some cabins and the engine room.

But the thief was nowhere to be seen. The red bag, however, was drifting in the water, illumined by lamps on the yacht below the water surface that somehow still burned. It bobbed up and down in the midst of shards of concrete, beneath the destroyed quay bulkhead, that somehow looked like a hungry giant had built up quite an appetite and bitten a chunk out of it with no regard for manners.

Just as he began to summon it, he heard another voice.

“Accio bolso!”

His head snapped up and he watched disbelievingly as the bag zoomed out of the water, towards the lithe, dripping form of Inès on the quay. She had shed her Kaftan, and had obviously just emerged from the water. Her wet hair glistened in the light of many lamps in the harbour.

Huh, now where could she have been hiding that wand, if she was only wearing – Harry mentally slapped himself. What did that matter?

The real questions were why was she a witch, why was she here; and why hadn’t he noticed?

He pondered that, while he waited for Inès to bring back the bag. The last question was easy to answer. He hadn’t noticed because he was … distracted. Yes, distraction. She’d taken care of that, oh yes. That little wench.

And that much for not underestimating her, he thought sardonically. Otherwise, this revelation just moved his internal shit-O-meter from mildly annoyed to quite angry. No one got to play him like that for free – not if he didn’t get anything out of it. More and more little clues moved into a picture.

What were the odds of different groups of wizards and witches suddenly popping up at every corner, aboard a Muggle yacht? Something was going on here, behind the scenes of a harmless Muggle business transaction party, and he wanted to know what. Yeah, something was definitely fishy here, and that was not counting Ana’s spoilt Soupe de – wait. Harry’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. Where was Ana, actually?

Startled, he realised that he hadn’t seen her since … a long time. His memory wasn’t running at full capacity at the moment. What had happened? He used his fingers to keep track of the separate points. They had had dinner. Then Ana had excused herself. Then Inès had followed her. Then she had told him that Ana had had problems with the fish, and that – that she would return in a minute.

He cursed and kicked a piece of the debris into the water. Ana never came back. Harry rubbed his forehead and tried to piece the rest of the memory back together. Inès and Aimée. Whenever he had wanted to go look for her, either had diverted his attention.

That was it. The shit just went off the scale. He had had enough. Inès made no move to come on board; hence he would come to her. They would have a long talk, and then he would extract a few answers from her.

Harry wasn’t particularly concerned for Ana. She had her wand with her and could fend for herself. She didn’t need a babysitter; he couldn’t stand women that did, and needed him to constantly cling to their side. Ana knew that and wouldn’t wait for him. Most likely, she was already back at the bungalow. She would be alright by herself.

And he still wanted to get the bag back, after all. Ana had only bought it a week prior in Nice.

He didn’t hesitate any longer. When Inès started to walk away on the quay, he was already running towards the shredded stern of the yacht and jumped, using a precisely timed repelling charm on the planks to boost his take-off and heighten the apex of his leap. Twenty feet further, he landed on the quay in a crouch, using his momentum to carry him forwards in a roll.

The red light whizzed over his head, barely missing its target. His snapped a stunner in return-fire, towards the man in a black suite, whom he’d seen from the corner of his eye. He’d appeared out of nowhere, even though Harry still felt the Apparition-wards surrounding him. His spell went wide of the aggressor, and his thoughts raced. If the man didn’t apparate, he’d come with a portkey. That meant he was a French Ministry official or at least had connections to someone that was. The entire affair worsened by the second.

He swore as he saw Inès finally tear away after lingering a few moments to watch the short exchange. The man saw it as well, and set off in pursuit at once. Harry jumped to his feet and sprinted after the man. He had to be quick; he didn’t know how far the wards extended. For all he knew, she could apparate away at any moment and his chance for a enlightening talk would be gone.

People in all shapes and forms blurred together in one colourful mass as he streaked past, focused solely on the man in black, who in turn concentrated on Ana’s bag clutched in Inès hand, who was running for life, if the panicked looks over her shoulder were any indication.

They were running down the quay, close to the edge, headed towards the end of the harbour. The man had fired spells, but as a stray curse hit a passant, he snarled angrily and ceased fire. Harry hadn’t even tried; he had attracted enough attention already. There was no sense in further alerting Ministry authorities to his current whereabouts by casting more spells; and he was closing the distance swiftly enough without the involvement of magic.

Inès jumped over the hawsers mooring the yachts at the bollards and made a sudden turn to the right. She hurtled past some stationary motorbikes and plunged into the crowd; apparently having come to the conclusion that she would be safer there, if her pursuer hesitated to use his wand for fear of hitting Muggles.

She herself had obviously no problems with dealing a little collateral damage. She thrust her wand and blasted a little booth belonging to one of the many painters that tried to sell their wares out of her way. Splinters of wood filled the air, showering a small audience of tourists admiring the gallery. The painter screamed and cursed as his work was reduced to pieces before his very eyes, shaking his fist at the approaching woman until she banished him with a flick to the side. He was lifted high into the air and dashed to the ground some few yards away, not rising.

She tore through the remains of his displays, banishing the demolished mass, robbed of any artistic value, backwards into the path of the man Harry was chasing. He stumbled, and Harry took the chance to zip by him on the left.

Now it was him and Inès, although she hadn’t looked back and didn’t know that. The wards were somehow still surrounding them, making it more and more obvious that the whole situation had been organized and implemented in advance. They were a few hundred yards away from the yacht by now. It simply wasn’t possible for one man to raise a ward that stretched this far, it had to be a coordinated effort of many people, which of course meant that there were more here.

Great.

They weaved in and out of the crowd, dodging a few people that looked rich, famous, beautiful or all three; and many, many more pretenders that tried to convey any of those qualities, and failed miserably. Inès sent a young girl stumbling and made a desperate dash for one of the many bars. As Harry passed the girl, she was shouting on the ground, something that sounded like Russian.

He was less than ten feet behind Inès when she reached the open doors. Behind the glass front the bar was packed with people. It was one of those new, carefully styled bars where the form of the teaspoons allegedly fit the colour of the tables, with designer-furniture in glass and steel, choice pieces of modern art in the corners and coloured neon lights hidden in the wall and the ceiling. The old bar tabacs had long since retreated further into the village.

Inès passed swiftly through the crowd, towards the back, where a troupe of live-musicians performed. Harry made to follow her, but because he watched her and not his path, he stumbled into a tall man. He was wearing a black suit and Harry was fairly certain that he hadn’t been there moments before. Of course not. Harry was tiring of men in black suits popping up at every turn. The man regarded him with a cool, another-stupid-tourist look.

“Watch where you are walking.”

His English was heavily accented. Harry frowned. How had he known he was English?

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Harry turned to walk past. The man expertly kept abreast of him, stepping sideways and impeding his path further into the bar. In the back, Inès reached a separation and vanished around a corner.

“Could I pass?” Harry said slowly.

The man didn’t move a single muscle, just continued to look at him condescendingly.

Arse.

Harry’s hand involuntarily twitched towards his left arm, where his wand was hidden in its holster. For the tiniest instant, the eyes of his opponent narrowed, but that was enough. He knew that Harry was a wizard – and now he knew that Harry knew. Still, he made no movement, other than to block another attempt of Harry to pass. Around them, people pushed and shoved, in and out of the bar.

For a few seconds, it seemed like a stalemate. For whatever reason, the man wouldn’t attack him. Perhaps he simply wanted to prevent him from following Inès, Harry thought furious. Sadly, he felt no desire to attack, either. Defending was one thing, but attacking someone with at least semi-official standing in the Ministry of a foreign country was not really something he wanted to do.

On the other hand, observing how his knee would complement Mr. Condescending-Look’s stomach and simply shoving him aside sounded very tempting.

After a few more seconds, the tension had ceased to be a private affair, infecting the air around them. The milling crowd had begun to back away, leaving a clear space a few feet in any direction, watching them. The barkeeper eyed them warily and began to move over from his bar to Harry’s right. Everyone else began to show interest, their pace slowing in their hope for a show. Wealthy or not, people always loved excitement.

“You were on board the Sabuha, yes?” the man drawled finally. “I think that we should move outside.”

He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and that was the last thing Harry needed to convince himself to go ahead with his earlier plan. The man doubled over, wheezing and coughing as Harry’s knee drilled into him and he was pushed aside, into the bar counter.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry informed him, stepping around him.

At the last moment, the hand snapped forwards. The man, still sputtering on the ground, caught Harry by his trousers.

“Not … so fast.”

Before he could dislodge the grip, he was pulled down sharply; struggling and involuntarily pulling up the man. Harry crashed to the ground, hard. Obviously, the man had gotten annoyed. Well, welcome to the club, Harry thought angrily. Been there for a while already. 

He barely managed to roll away from the kick aimed at his side that would’ve hurt like hell, even without snapping a rip or two. Rising, he avoided another stroke, limiting himself to evasion temporarily. He didn’t want to fight, he wanted to get out of the back door, through which Inès presumably had left. He – something hit him like a freight train.

And before he could really grasp what was happening, he was airborne, at least until a table thoughtfully brought his flight to an abrupt end. The edge dug painfully into his body as he collided with it below his ribs, robbing him of his breath as he crashed heavily onto the plate. His weight unbalanced the table, lifting the far end of the table-legs off the ground and sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Above him loomed the imposing figure of the man.

“You think this is funny?”

Harry desperately tried to suck air into his lungs and glanced at the hateful face above him.

“You and all the other English scum, thinking you can do whatever you please. France is not another English County! What did you want with it? Eh?”

The long-stemmed wine glasses which had been on the table prior to Harry had spilled their contents over the couple sitting there. The woman was screaming, the man, short and quite fat, cursing in a language he didn’t recognise.

“I … don’t … know … what you mean,” Harry heaved out, still having problems getting enough oxygen. He was hauled back onto his feet roughly from behind by the man. His right arm put Harry into a headlock.

“We are leaving now,” he hissed into Harry’s ear.

Harry seized the arm clamped over his throat, ducked under the man and in turning right, twisted the arm backwards. Freed from the chokehold, he kept a firm grip on the twisted arm which forced the man to duck and move as Harry moved, to prevent dislocating his shoulder.

Harry used his advantage to push him through the onlooking crowd, banging the head of the man head against the opposing wall. The impact rattled a painting depicting three black circles (one big and two smaller ones) which obligingly fell from its place on wall. The blunt edge of the heavy metal frame knocked him out cold. With a soft gasp the man slumped to the ground with the painting around his neck, his head sticking through the torn paper-like canvas.

Harry rushed past him, past the fake-scandalised looking customers, but by now the fat man had risen. He was still swearing and his silk shirt looked very much ruined.

“Sorry,” Harry offered in a by-the-way sort of way, pointing at the stained shirt.

The man started to colour, fast.

“Sorry! I give you, sorry! You –”

He stopped speaking, snorting loudly, and charged towards Harry in an impressive imitation of a bull. Harry stood there, cursing. It had been some time since he’d been in a proper bar fight, but he had no time for it now, damnit! Already more than a minute had passed since Inès had vanished in the back; she was making headway, and fast. Well, the quick way, then.

Still snorting with rage, he was upon Harry, swinging his arms wildly.

“Yes! You show this ruffian, Karl-Dietrich!”

The shrill voice cut through the general racket. His female company was cheering for him. Harry repressed the urge to laugh at the ridiculous name and ducked below ‘Karl-Dietrich’’s haymaker. He seized the man’s shoulders and drilled his knee into his abdomen, the momentum of the approaching man adding to the force of the punch.

Karl-Dietrich coughed and sputtered as Harry wheeled him around, tottering feet on their heels as he used himself as a pivoting point and primarily the man’s own weight. He released him on the third revolution, flinging him into one of the glass cabinets that showed off the more pricey bottles of liqueur.

His mass shattered the glass in a shower of shards, destroying the shelves. The woman screamed. Hundreds of pounds’ worth of the best alcohol available spilled onto the ground as the bottles shattered. Harry winced at the violent clinking. That hadn’t been his intention. Damn shame about the drinks.

Harry looked around and saw the barkeeper pushing his way through the crowd, to the centre of destruction of splintered wood, shards of glass, spilled liquids and a ruined priceless painting. And he had secured the assistance of two gorillas that would give Crabbe and Goyle a run for their money – they were not only wide, but also huge.

Harry felt like he had begun to overstay his visit. It was definitely time to leave, but of course, it wasn’t that easy. He groaned in exasperation as he realised that once again, he’d neglected to plan ahead. He really wasn’t worth much when even just half-drunk. Why had he thrown fatty ahead of him instead behind him? Now he was blocking his path – again, armed with the last bottle of wine still remaining intact, and judging by his red face, still very much wanting to continue the fight.  

Directly behind Harry, the duo and the barkeeper advanced.

And the shrill urging from the fat man’s ladylove was nerve-shattering. 

Right. Harry lifted a nearby chair off the ground and started to run forwards. He had had enough. The Provençal Rosé came at his head from the side, but he intercepted it with the chair. The bottle merely slid sideways along the curve of the backrest’s rungs. It bounced off and out of its wielder’s grip, hurtling end over end – the bottle in one direction and its cork in the opposite. Its contents poured over a poodle, and the mouse-sized animal almost drowned.

Discarding the chair, Harry raised his foot and stomped, committing all his weight on a downward rush to the man’s foot. The man gave a pained cry and lifted the foot, holding it with his hands; which left him hopping on one leg.

Harry pushed.

He flailed, losing his balance, and his back thudded heavily onto the ground, clearing the path. Harry stepped over his expansive girth and, ignoring shouts from behind his back, sprinted towards the rear of the bar. Past guests, past the man seated at the piano, whose fingers had continued to play stoically, avoiding another person’s lunge, rounding the corner, and finally, there was the door.

~*~

Harry leant back against the simple wooden door, taking a deep breath. He’d blocked it with the wedge lying next to it, probably used to keep the door open. Now, it would keep the door shut.

But it also kept the light inside. In the dark, the red-tiled houses shining in bright pastel shades during the day where simply grey. Harry stared into the night. The back alley stretched to his left and right. Lamps were the exception, but he saw enough to know that there wasn’t anything to be seen. Only a few minutes had passed since Inès had left the bar, but that was time enough; the alley was deserted. A surprisingly cool breeze picked up, making him shiver. An empty cardboard crate scraped over the cobblestones somewhere down lane.

Which way would she have run? Left? Or right?

There was no one to ask. The wooden shutters on the few windows facing the little alleyway were all closed. Almost no sound drifted over from the harbour. Harry tried to recall the map of the village. It wasn’t as if this was a huge city. In fact, it was a very tiny village, so he couldn’t help but find her, eventually. She couldn’t have escaped, he was still within the boundaries of the wards, and he began to suspect that they covered the entire village.

Having come to a decision, he turned right. He jogged down the alley at a leisurely pace, then turned left at the next intersection, under a dark brick archway, roaming deeper and deeper into the narrow and winding alleyways of the Old Town.

The little shops he passed were closed, the displays all moved inside. Harry met no one on his run through the unlit streets, the life hidden away by walls, in cartilages; taking place inside the town houses. The only living things left on the many balconies were the exotic flowers drooping from the black, iron-wrought balustrades, exuding their sweet scents into the night.

Suddenly he emerged into the open, directly in front of the church whose name he’d forgotten.  The single light on one corner, above the portal, illumined the piazza with a dim yellow glow. The wind whispered in the leaves of the ivy clinging to the old wall and tugged on the lamp. It rocked back and forth in a continuous motion and sent the shadows scurrying over the ground, animating the wall.

Above the rustle, his ears discerned a different sound somewhere behind him.

Whirling around, he caught a fleeting sight of a shadow darting behind a corner, at the other end of the square. It expanded on the wall, strangely distorted by the solitary source of light. Harry lingered no longer and broke out into a full-out sprint.

Moments later, he entered the same street, delving once again into the maze of ochre and rose buildings, overgrown by wisteria and bougainvillea. In front of him, he saw two dark shapes running. He felt his heart beating fast from the exertion, the footsteps echoing harshly in his ears, unnaturally amplified by the walls, which moved together more and more, leaving a path no wider than three of four feet.

From ahead of him, he heard shouts. Light flickered, spell-light. He sped up, somehow fearing he was running out of time. Fifty yard left, perhaps, the uneven, narrow lane had taken a small turn. Inès and her pursuer were out of sight. More shouts carried through from around the wall, a feminine voice crying out in anger.

“No!”

The walls in front of Harry flashed bright green, a harsh, glaring light; blinding in its suddenness.

No!

He felt the subconscious pressure of the Apparition-ward lift. With a final burst of speed, he rounded the corner and skidded to a halt.

No one was here anymore. The bag was missing. Only Inès was lying prone on the ground; still, so very still.

He swallowed as he forced himself to walk closer, all thoughts about questioning her forgotten. The playful grin on her face was absent. In its place was a mask of fear. Harry remembered her warm hand in his as they’d walked aboard the yacht, less then two hours and an eternity ago; brimming with high spirits, with her dark eyes sparkling mirthfully. Now they were dull and lifeless, staring blindly in the night.

Inès was dead.

 

---

 

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