Author's Notes: For nearly nine years, he has been running, keeping out of
sight of officials with his daughter whilst he does his job as best he can.
Now they are beginning to catch up, and they would like nothing more than
to take her away from him...
Warning: This is a HP/DM SLASH fanfiction. If you don't like that, I've warned you.
Disclaimer: Nathalie belongs to me, as do various unnamed people. Anyone you recognise as being the creation of JK Rowling belongs to her and whichever publishing companies the books are published with. Paris and the other places named in this story belong to themselves and their nations.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A sunny morning, and a small child, a little girl with black hair tied into plaits, was skipping on the grass in front of the graveyard with a length of rope. She wore a black cloak, that kept on getting caught up in her rope, but it didn't seem to occur to her to take it off. To every person passing by, she looked sweet and innocent.
To her father, standing in the graveyard and keeping an eye on her, she was behaving very well, thank you, and certainly doing her job.
Which was to keep anyone from seeing what he was doing.
He sighed, and dusted the dirt from his hands. More bad news. And he couldn't do anything about it. He rose, and lifted his cloak from its resting place on the top of the nearby grave. The heavy material, when he settled it over his shoulders, made him feel a little better. Shrouded once more in the black cloak, he pulled his hood up so his face was in shadow, and left the graveyard.
The little girl was now talking eagerly to an old lady who had stopped for her, tugging on one plait in an illusion at innocence that was clearly working, because the old lady was cooing over her, and digging in one of her shopping bags for something.
"Such a dear girl," the old lady smiled. "Would you like a sweetie?"
"Yes, please," the little girl said eagerly, the skipping rope forgotten as she watched the lady try to find her sweets.
"No, thank you," the man said firmly, coming up behind his daughter. "I'm afraid we must be going." The little girl glared petulantly up at him, but he shook his head once and she subsided, gathering her rope up, carefully tying it and giving it to him. It disappeared into a pocket of his cloak.
The old lady was looking at him suspiciously. "And who might you be?" she inquired cautiously.
The man smiled, although she couldn't see it. "I'm her father. I'm sorry to have stopped you, you must be very busy. Come along, Nathalie." He held out his had for his daughter to take, and she obediently did, sparing one last innocent smile at the old lady, who watched them leave worriedly.
They rounded a corner, and the girl's innocent act disappeared.
"Papa, she was going to give me a sweet," she whined. "Couldn't we have waited just a little while?" She was dragging her feet and kicking along a pebble. Her father spared her only a glance.
"No, Nathalie," he told her firmly. "She would have recognised you again if you'd talked to her for any longer. You know we can't risk that." She sniffed, and gave the pebble and extra-hard kick, sending it scuttling off the pavement and into the road. "Nathalie," he said warningly. "Try to act your age, for once."
"Yes, Papa," she murmured, and for a while walked alongside him in silence. When they had passed the row of houses and were coming up to the train station, she perked up. "Where are we going now, Papa?"
Her father glanced down again, a small smile quirking his lips, though he didn't let her see it. "Who says we're going at all?"
She rolled her eyes impatiently. "We're going to the station, Papa. What else would we be doing down here?"
He relented. "Alright, cherie, we're going back to France - Paris this time. If we have time, I'll take you up the Eiffel Tower. Would you like that?"
"Do we get to have croissants for breakfast again?" she demanded. He nodded. "Then yes, I want to go up the Eiffel Tower! Um, Papa?"
"Yes, Nathalie?"
"What *is* the Eiffel Tower?"
He laughed, and swung her up in his arms. 'Oh, Nathalie. Sometimes I forget how young you are." The hood of his cloak fell back, and she caught a glimpse of hair as black as her own and green eyes, before he put her back on the ground and pulled his hood back up carefully. He pulled her hood up, hiding her black hair, and took her hand again.
"Papa, what will we be doing in Paris?" she asked, stumbling over the strange pronunciation of the name. "Why do we have to leave here?"
"Because there is no news here at present," came the reply. "Because Paris is where I am needed, and because we are both beginning to be recognised."
Nathalie sighed. The reply was always the same, only the name of their destination changed. 'But Papa, of course we are recognised is we where the cloaks. Perhaps we could - "
"No, Nathalie," her father said firmly. "You know why we wear the cloaks. Be proud of it, and please don't complain about them again." He paused, and glanced at her upset face as they entered the station. "Be happy, cherie," he added softly. "You're getting a chance that few do; to learn languages and see how others live."
Nathalie didn't seem to think that this was a reasonable trade-off, because she sulkily fell behind him as he approached the ticket booth.
"Due biglietti a Parigi," he said quickly. "A che ora?"
"Fra venti minuti," the attendant said gruffly, typing into his computer. "Una bambina?"
"Si," her father agreed. "Classe primo, per favore."
"Bene," the attendant agreed. "Settantaquatro euro."
The man counted out some notes, and passed them over in exchange for two tickets, then took Nathalie's hand again. They walked to the platform, and twenty minutes later, Harry and Nathalie Potter were speeding towards France.
Italian Aurors walked into the station ten minutes after the train had left, but could get no details out of the muggle attendant who had served the man and girl dressed in black cloaks with silver fastenings in the shape of skulls.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
To be continued.
Due biglietti a Parigi. A che ora? Two tickets to Paris. At what time? Fra venti minute. Una bambina? In twenty minutes. One child? Si. Classe primo per favore. Yes. First class, please. Bene. Settantaquatro Euro. Good. Seventy-four Euros.
If I have any of the Italian wrong.well, it's summer holidays. And if I have the Euro pricing wrong.well, England doesn't have the Euro, and I've only been to Europe once since it was introduced. Anyone, feel free to correct either.
Warning: This is a HP/DM SLASH fanfiction. If you don't like that, I've warned you.
Disclaimer: Nathalie belongs to me, as do various unnamed people. Anyone you recognise as being the creation of JK Rowling belongs to her and whichever publishing companies the books are published with. Paris and the other places named in this story belong to themselves and their nations.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A sunny morning, and a small child, a little girl with black hair tied into plaits, was skipping on the grass in front of the graveyard with a length of rope. She wore a black cloak, that kept on getting caught up in her rope, but it didn't seem to occur to her to take it off. To every person passing by, she looked sweet and innocent.
To her father, standing in the graveyard and keeping an eye on her, she was behaving very well, thank you, and certainly doing her job.
Which was to keep anyone from seeing what he was doing.
He sighed, and dusted the dirt from his hands. More bad news. And he couldn't do anything about it. He rose, and lifted his cloak from its resting place on the top of the nearby grave. The heavy material, when he settled it over his shoulders, made him feel a little better. Shrouded once more in the black cloak, he pulled his hood up so his face was in shadow, and left the graveyard.
The little girl was now talking eagerly to an old lady who had stopped for her, tugging on one plait in an illusion at innocence that was clearly working, because the old lady was cooing over her, and digging in one of her shopping bags for something.
"Such a dear girl," the old lady smiled. "Would you like a sweetie?"
"Yes, please," the little girl said eagerly, the skipping rope forgotten as she watched the lady try to find her sweets.
"No, thank you," the man said firmly, coming up behind his daughter. "I'm afraid we must be going." The little girl glared petulantly up at him, but he shook his head once and she subsided, gathering her rope up, carefully tying it and giving it to him. It disappeared into a pocket of his cloak.
The old lady was looking at him suspiciously. "And who might you be?" she inquired cautiously.
The man smiled, although she couldn't see it. "I'm her father. I'm sorry to have stopped you, you must be very busy. Come along, Nathalie." He held out his had for his daughter to take, and she obediently did, sparing one last innocent smile at the old lady, who watched them leave worriedly.
They rounded a corner, and the girl's innocent act disappeared.
"Papa, she was going to give me a sweet," she whined. "Couldn't we have waited just a little while?" She was dragging her feet and kicking along a pebble. Her father spared her only a glance.
"No, Nathalie," he told her firmly. "She would have recognised you again if you'd talked to her for any longer. You know we can't risk that." She sniffed, and gave the pebble and extra-hard kick, sending it scuttling off the pavement and into the road. "Nathalie," he said warningly. "Try to act your age, for once."
"Yes, Papa," she murmured, and for a while walked alongside him in silence. When they had passed the row of houses and were coming up to the train station, she perked up. "Where are we going now, Papa?"
Her father glanced down again, a small smile quirking his lips, though he didn't let her see it. "Who says we're going at all?"
She rolled her eyes impatiently. "We're going to the station, Papa. What else would we be doing down here?"
He relented. "Alright, cherie, we're going back to France - Paris this time. If we have time, I'll take you up the Eiffel Tower. Would you like that?"
"Do we get to have croissants for breakfast again?" she demanded. He nodded. "Then yes, I want to go up the Eiffel Tower! Um, Papa?"
"Yes, Nathalie?"
"What *is* the Eiffel Tower?"
He laughed, and swung her up in his arms. 'Oh, Nathalie. Sometimes I forget how young you are." The hood of his cloak fell back, and she caught a glimpse of hair as black as her own and green eyes, before he put her back on the ground and pulled his hood back up carefully. He pulled her hood up, hiding her black hair, and took her hand again.
"Papa, what will we be doing in Paris?" she asked, stumbling over the strange pronunciation of the name. "Why do we have to leave here?"
"Because there is no news here at present," came the reply. "Because Paris is where I am needed, and because we are both beginning to be recognised."
Nathalie sighed. The reply was always the same, only the name of their destination changed. 'But Papa, of course we are recognised is we where the cloaks. Perhaps we could - "
"No, Nathalie," her father said firmly. "You know why we wear the cloaks. Be proud of it, and please don't complain about them again." He paused, and glanced at her upset face as they entered the station. "Be happy, cherie," he added softly. "You're getting a chance that few do; to learn languages and see how others live."
Nathalie didn't seem to think that this was a reasonable trade-off, because she sulkily fell behind him as he approached the ticket booth.
"Due biglietti a Parigi," he said quickly. "A che ora?"
"Fra venti minuti," the attendant said gruffly, typing into his computer. "Una bambina?"
"Si," her father agreed. "Classe primo, per favore."
"Bene," the attendant agreed. "Settantaquatro euro."
The man counted out some notes, and passed them over in exchange for two tickets, then took Nathalie's hand again. They walked to the platform, and twenty minutes later, Harry and Nathalie Potter were speeding towards France.
Italian Aurors walked into the station ten minutes after the train had left, but could get no details out of the muggle attendant who had served the man and girl dressed in black cloaks with silver fastenings in the shape of skulls.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
To be continued.
Due biglietti a Parigi. A che ora? Two tickets to Paris. At what time? Fra venti minute. Una bambina? In twenty minutes. One child? Si. Classe primo per favore. Yes. First class, please. Bene. Settantaquatro Euro. Good. Seventy-four Euros.
If I have any of the Italian wrong.well, it's summer holidays. And if I have the Euro pricing wrong.well, England doesn't have the Euro, and I've only been to Europe once since it was introduced. Anyone, feel free to correct either.