Glistening canals flowed through the centre of Strasbourg, past crooked timbered houses and bushes dripping with vibrant flowers. Low-slung bridges stretched over the river and, on sunny days, street musicians leaned against their iron-wrought bannisters, playing dreamy melodies, their guitar cases wide open, awaiting coins.
La Petite France, an area of the historical centre of the city, featured a bridge quite unlike any of the others. Its bannister was painted a deep seaweed green. Every half hour, a boat would approach. The boats were blue or orange, their paint dim and peeling. A tinted plexiglass roof shielded travellers from the elements and painted the city a dreamlike turquoise. Upon passing the seaweed bridge, passengers would feel gelatinous wards sweep over their bodies and oscillate in their magical cores. Past the seaweed bridge, small and vivid, lay the magical centre of Strasbourg.
Unfortunately for Harry, Philomena's mission instructions neither mentioned boats nor bridges, and while he suspected Strasbourg had to have some kind of magical centre, he had no idea how to find it.
That, perhaps, would have been a question worth asking.
After meandering through soggy Muggle streets for three weeks, Harry finally gave in. Heavily glamoured, he poked his head into the entrance of the fake cellphone repair shop one late afternoon, then stepped swiftly towards a mottled red curtain in the back. Behind the curtain, the fishtank waited, brightly lit from within and bubbling merrily.
Harry eyed a fat snail chomping on a leaf. He shuddered. Steeling himself, he wrapped his arms tightly around his middle, then tipped his head forwards. A black curl fell into the water, floating on its surface, then another, and another, and Harry sucked in one last squeamish breath before submerging his head into the tank. At once, he felt a strand of magic wrap tightly around his core, stretch him thin and swallow him whole.
When he landed on the glossy blue tile of the Parisian Ministry foyer, it was with a piece of sludgy algae stuck to his bottom lip and choking on what he could only assume was an entire slippery fish he'd accidentally swallowed. Harry spluttered in indignation. He'd forgotten to Impervius his clothes before funnelling through the tank, and his sodden Weasley jumper dripped liberally onto the floor. Hastily, Harry stepped to the side, making space for other travellers. And not a second too early: Right beside him, a witch clad in all pink appeared in the foyer. With a smart tap of her wand to her chest, she was perfectly dry, her strawberry blonde hair coiffed to moistureless perfection. Flashing him a bright, sympathetic smile, she strode off towards the lifts.
Shooting the witch a disgruntled, if somewhat undue, glare, Harry shuffled towards the visitors' information desk. Sure, he wasn't supposed to leave Strasbourg for the duration of his mission – Mysteries was clear on that, if not much else. But Harry would be damned if he spent another day poking around Muggle Strasbourg, or, worse, following around likely looking suspects, waiting for them to inadvertently reveal the path to the magical centre.
Ten minutes after his arrival, Harry left the Ministry, Imperviused, clutching a bundle of pamphlets detailing the Strasbourg Wizarding district, featuring on its glossy cover the boat and the bridge of seaweed green.
***
Much like London's, Strasbourg's Wizarding district was concentrated to a small knot of narrow streets. Leaving the boat by a dock nestled between sycamore trees, Harry stepped into a winding street. Suspended above were vibrant umbrellas, pink and red, orange and yellow. Fat drops of rain splattered onto their colourful surfaces, slid down into the street and burst on the stone.
Harry's face had been stuck in a perpetual grimace since he'd dived into the fish tank and was beginning to feel quite taut around his brows. He forced them to relax, exhaling in a long sigh. Of course the umbrellas weren't charmed to actually keep out the rain. Why would they be? Whoever was in charge of such things probably thought rain was neutral, or lovely, or downright romantic, and that it was important to be one with nature. Embrace the elements and suchlike. Whoever they were, they hadn't counted on anyone having to relive this flooded day over and over. Harry's Impervius was beginning to wear off. He didn't bother refreshing it. He hated the feeling of it on his skin. It felt itchy and entirely wrong, like he was wrapped tightly in cellophane.
YOU ARE READING
Cut From the Sky
Fanfiction"I'm stuck in a time loop, reliving November 2nd. This is the 111th time I've lived through today." Draco stilled. His moody eyes, the tension in his hands where he gripped onto his umbrella, the careful mask of blankness flickering over his face...
