Tainted Love

Paris, III

IRIS

It was cold but not enough to be beautiful. No frost, no snow, just heavy darkness and an abandoned mitten on the cobblestone.

Iris squeezed her hands into fists for warmth, eyes adjusting to the dark. She blinked, pulling a piece of parchment from her pocket.

She could only see into one building on the street, a restaurant where the chairs had already been turned upside down on their respective tables. A man slipped between them with a rag, his face stained a sickly yellow by the overhead lights.

A conversation drifted down to her, its origin a mystery. She listened to it for a while, two men speaking with textured voices, despite the fact that she couldn't understand anything they were saying.

Last time Iris was in Paris, her inability to speak French hadn't bothered her much. It was as if she had been freed from all social customs; no smalltalk or exchanging pleasantries, just Draco's shoulder against hers. Letting him do the talking for her.

Now she just felt naive. She unfolded the parchment, letting the moon spill over Draco's sharp cursive. He had given her simple directions; gotten a place to stay in a part of the city they hadn't been to last time.

Small mercies, she supposed. You don't have to come to me, I don't have to come to you, he had said, but the idea of Paris being neutral turf was laughable. The whole city belonged to her memory of him, even the parts he hadn't touched.

Last time they were here, it had been warm. The sun stayed out late at night; they ate by the water. He slung her through the streets and she hung off their balcony like a dress drying in the wind. Cigarettes for the taste instead of the warmth. His body a shield between her and the world, begging him to tell her what the people around them were talking about.

She had no shield now but the piece of parchment that was serving as her only map. The air was crisp. She turned a corner and the conversation faded from her hearing, until she was the only one left in the city.

It was a cloudless night, the moon about to be full. But not quite yet. She could almost see the craters in it, the footprints from the muggles and their rockets. Once again she found herself thinking of the magic they had created with none, wishing that she could see past her own limits.

Draco had sent her the Portkey. He had made everything easy for her, though in truth there was nothing easy about it. None of her friends knew where she was -- she'd only be here for one night, and it wasn't worth the looks she knew they'd give each other behind closed doors.

Especially not when she and James weren't officially broken up. They weren't officially together, either, so in technical terms she wasn't doing anything wrong. Unfortunately the world has never existed on technical terms, not for anybody, least of all Iris.

The place Draco's directions led her to was an unobtrusive building off a side street. There were no lights on; the chipped paint on the double doors cried out for better days. Iris tried to peer through the glass, but it was murky, transforming the room beyond into strange, shifting fragments.

Iris glanced down at the parchment again, wondering whether Draco might have given her any instructions for what to do once she reached the place. But the last thing he had written was third building on your left. She looked back up the street, mouthing numbers to herself, recounting the buildings. Yes, this was the third one.

The door handle was cold and rough. It groaned as she turned it, but the door itself was silent as it swung open. A line of yellow light snuck out onto the street, widening slightly before disappearing as Iris shut it behind her.